Page 72 of West Wind

Shelley took the steps two at a time with Annie in his arms, turning when he reached the top of the stairs. He looked down on the old man who followed up the stairway at a snail’s pace.

“What room can I put her in?” he asked sharply.

“Your room is always kept ready for your return, Master Travis.”

“I need a doctor, Andrew. A discreet one. And water. Bring me cool water, and some broth or something. Ask Rose what’s good to feed somebody with a fever.”

“Yes, Master Travis.” Andrew turned slowly, stopped, and craned his head around. A small grin cracked his face. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Thank you, Andrew.” He turned toward his room. “Hurry with that water.”

His room, the room he’d grown up in, was unchanged. The dark blue bedspread and draperies, the forest green rugs scattered across a polished floor. There was not a speck of dust or any other sign that the room had been unoccupied for the better part of fifteen years.

Rose was responsible for the impeccable condition of his room, he was certain. He couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been in this house. Cook, housekeeper, a stern woman with a loving hand and a warm heart. She’d lectured him on more than one occasion, and had cried over Sarah’s deathbed.

He threw back the bedspread and placed Annie in the center of the big mattress. She was listless and pale; her hands slid from his arms limply. He tried not to disturb her as he slipped off the red boots and tan pants, then her white cotton shirt. When he reached for the medicine bag she lifted her hand to stop him, laying her palm over the bag. He left it there, against her chest.

He met Andrew at the door and took an ewer of water and a fluffy white towel, along with Andrew’s assurances that a doctor was on his way and that Rose was preparing tea and broth.

Hoping to cool Annie’s fever, he bathed her. When that was done he patted her skin dry and dressed her in one of his old shirts. He’d found it in a dresser drawer, neatly folded and ready to wear, along with all the other clothes he’d left behind.

She limply allowed him to bathe and dress her, and to feed her a spoonful of broth when it was delivered. When he was finished and had tucked her snugly under the covers, she burrowed into the pillow and slept, seemingly peaceful. Exhausted, he sat in the plush chair by the window and relaxed for a moment.

Annie looked as fragile and vulnerable as little Pearl had, with her hair spread across the pillow and her long lashes resting against pale cheeks. Soon those eyelashes began to flutter. She turned her head from side to side several times, then opened her eyes suddenly and lucidly.

“Where am I?”

He grinned for the first time since she’d taken sick. “You’re in my room, in my bed.”

She half-heartedly studied the large, well-furnished room. “I’m so tired.”

He carried his chair to her bedside, keeping his voice and his stance casual. “You just got a little fever, that’s all.”

“The fever that killed Pearl and her father,” she said, already exhausted. “Don’t sit so close to me,” she snapped when he lowered himself into the chair that was almost touching the bed.

“Pardon me, Miss St. Clair,” he said sarcastically. “Should I wait in the hall?”

“Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes and drifting toward a deep sleep. “Wait in the hall.”

He settled back into his chair. “Damned if I will, Miss St. Clair.”

He’d been expecting an old gray-haired doctor, one with a store of knowledge and years and years of experience. What Andrew presented was a man obviously younger than Shelley himself, fresh-faced and anxious, well dressed and smiling thinly. Dr. John Smith. Shelley had no confidence in the man, none at all.

But Dr. Smith leaned over Annie and examined her professionally, asking questions about the disease she’d been exposed to. When he made a move to take the medicine bag she wore around her neck, Shelley stopped him with a quick hand over the doctor’s wrist.

“It stays,” he snapped.

Dr. Smith raised one eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because she wants it to stay.”

Their eyes met for an instant before Dr. Smith pulled his away. “I don’t suppose it will do any harm.”

The doc gave her a dose of foul-smelling medicine, left a bottle and instructions, and assured Shelley that with proper care the disease should not be fatal in a young, healthy woman. Some sort of bacterial infection, he speculated as he packed his black bag and prepared to leave.

“Doctor.” He stopped the man as he opened the door. “Annie’s had a little trouble. It would be best…”

The young doc smiled. “I know who she is, and you needn’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”