Page 58 of West Wind

“It’s not your fault, but you should’ve shot the sonofabitch when you had the chance,” he said as she ripped away his sleeve. He allowed her to bind the deep furrow tightly, her horror over the events that had left three men dead in their camp forgotten for the moment.

They were on the trail before full morning. Annabelle couldn’t bear to remain in the camp, and Shelley had assured her they could be in Salt Lake City before dark. There a doctor could clean and bandage his arm properly, and they’d stock up on supplies for their trip across the desert.

He led her through a narrow pass. When they emerged she fixed her eyes upon the most marvelous sight she’d ever seen. The Great Salt Lake shimmered beneath them so majestically it took her breath away.

As Shelley led her toward Salt Lake City, she watched him closely. If his wound bothered him, he didn’t show it. Was he putting on a brave front for her benefit? She didn’t think so. The outlaws had fired several shots at him and only inflicted one scratch. He’d fired three shots, and left three dead men behind. How many men had he killed with that Colt?

The intruders had done more than injure Shelley and steal a night she should’ve spent in his arms. They’d stolen a bit of the magic that allowed her to stop time, to suspend a frightening reality.

She prodded her horse forward until she rode alongside him. Most of the day had passed in silence, but she needed answers. “How did you recognize that man? How did you know who he was?”

He grinned easily. “With a face like that? Who could forget⁠—”

“You’d met him before?”

Shelley shook his head. “Saw his picture on a wanted poster.”

His answer silenced her.

“Manfred Winston. Wanted for… hell, just about everything. A five hundred dollar bounty on his head. Think we should’ve trussed him up and taken him in to collect the reward?” He continued to keep his focus straight ahead, on the trail they followed.

“No,” she answered quickly. “Not even for five thousand dollars.” The thought of leading the dead man’s horse to town with a body strapped to its back was repulsive. She shuddered as Shelley turned to her, his face betraying no emotion.

His countenance remained impassive. “That’s what I thought.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A solicitous Salt Lake City doctor cleaned and bandaged Shelley’s arm, the gray-haired man clucking like an old woman over the nasty-looking wound.

Shelley never flinched, never made a sound. Annabelle observed silently. The wound had to be terribly painful. It hurt her just to watch. She grimaced when she judged the doctor to be too rough, winced when he cleaned the wound, and sighed with relief when he finished.

As they walked along the boardwalk she held onto Shelley’s arm and allowed her gaze to wander from building to building. Salt Lake City was a quaint and beautiful oasis, with adobe houses surrounded by well-tended gardens and the magnificent white houses of the Mormon leaders, veritable mansions compared to the poor housing she’d seen thus far in the West. Plain and poorly dressed women glared maliciously at her in her bitches and red boots. She would’ve been shocked herself a few months ago, but her attire seemed natural to her after all this time.

A small group of women of various ages, from eleven or twelve to about forty, passed close by, their scorching gazes riveted on her. Each and every one was clothed in black dresses which were high-necked and long-sleeved in spite of the heat. Annabelle couldn’t help but sympathize with their obvious discomfort.

She grimaced at their equally obvious dislike of her.

“Don’t you worry none, darlin’.” Shelley patted her hand reassuringly. “They’re probably just afraid their husband will get one look at you and decide to take another wife.”

“You don’t mean all those women are married to the same man?” She glanced over her shoulder to watch the retreating women.

“Could be,” he said casually.

She shook her head in disgust. “First Swift Eagle and now this. Why would any man need more than one wife?”

Shelley said nothing.

“Oh, I know what you think. A man doesn’t need a wife at all.” Her voice was lightly teasing.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you were thinking it,” she insisted, her voice remaining casual. “I suppose you’d rather we all go through life single, free as the west wind that blows sand across the desert.”

“That life’s not for everybody.” His voice had lost its humor. “Just for me.”

She kept her hand on his arm, her touch feathery as they walked through the town. He shortened his stride to accommodate her. Their booted steps thudded against the shaded boardwalk. What was she supposed to say to that? You don’t have to be alone. Love isn’t all bad.

Love me.