Page 83 of West Wind

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Bart sat at the head of the table grinning like a naughty little boy, which he readily admitted he was, at heart. Travis sat to his left, Annabelle to his right. Dorothea was next to Travis, while an obviously adoring Dr. John Smith sat at Annabelle’s right. The doctor’s attention rarely drifted from his patient all evening. Every time she opened her mouth he was enrapt.

If looks could kill poor Annabelle would’ve been done in by a frosty glare the moment Dorothea had entered the room. The statuesque blonde was faultlessly dressed, as always, having chosen a dark blue gown that accentuated her eyes. She was elegant, and sparkled almost as much as her sapphire and diamond necklace and matching earrings. Travis barely gave her a second look.

“Miss St. Clair.” John leaned closer to her, transparently grateful for the excuse to move nearer the object of his affections. “Do you plan to, perhaps, write about your adventures of the past several months?” His complete attention remained on the beautiful singer as he awaited her answer.

Annabelle’s eyes met Travis’s across the table, and they both began to laugh. Bart laughed too, without knowing why. Dorothea looked on furiously, her eyes narrowed. The doctor just appeared confused.

“Many journals have been published, tales of pioneers making their way west. Women, primarily,’’ John continued. “Surely someone as well known as yourself, falsely accused of murder, fleeing alone across the country…” He stopped speaking when he realized Travis was no longer laughing, but glared across the table in the doctor’s direction.

Bart wondered for a moment if he should interfere, but he remained silent, awaiting the outcome of his little dinner party.

“What do you say?” Travis looked at Annabelle again. “A book?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Shelley.”

The look that passed between them said it all. They didn’t need words. Bart was suddenly jealous, not playfully so, but genuinely. Travis had something special, and he was willing to toss it aside for his blasted independence. Those two had eyes only for one another, unaware and uncaring that he, John, and a fuming Dorothea watched intently.

“Hell, darlin’, Red Wolf alone would make a book.”

“Yes,” Annabelle said. “But if I write about Red Wolf, I’d also have to tell the tale of Swift Eagle and He-Who-Follows.”

“Forget that,” Travis said sharply.

“Red Wolf? Indians?” John leaned forward anxiously. “You had a run-in with Indians? How fascinating. What happened?”

“Leave the child alone, John,” Dorothea said with mock sympathy. “Can’t you see she doesn’t wish to talk about it? It was certainly a trying time for the poor girl.”

Annabelle gazed at her plate as if a bit of food had become fascinating. More likely, she simply couldn’t bear to look elsewhere. “I’m just lucky that Albert decided to tell the truth about what really happened. If not⁠—’’

“Oh!” John nearly jumped out of his chair. “I can’t believe I almost forgot to tell you. Luck had nothing to do with it.”

Annabelle turned to him. The doctor practically preened at having her complete attention for the first time that evening. “I have a patient”—he lowered his voice—“who works for the Chronicle. His sister is married to a policeman who was there when Albert Gibson turned himself in. But that’s not exactly what happened.” Now the center of attention, he paused dramatically.

“Annie’s not interested in rumors…” Travis began, but John ignored him.

“Apparently a wild ruffian had Gibson by the collar, smashed his head on the sergeant’s desk, and said, and I quote, ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to see your lying tongue cut out and tossed in the sergeant’s drawer as evidence?’ After that Albert Gibson spilled his guts, so to speak.”

Dorothea pursed her lips. “How barbaric.” Annabelle looked at Travis, who stared at his plate as he toyed with a potato slice.

“I would certainly be interested to know who forced Albert to tell the truth,” she said, her voice as calm and serene as her face. “I should like to thank him.”

Bart watched as Travis raised his eyes to meet hers. Annabelle gave him a subtle smile. An uncustomary sheepish expression was on Travis’s face.

“Whatever would you want to thank him for?” Dorothea snapped. “Threatening to... to... I can’t even repeat it. It’s positively savage.”

Annabelle fixed a cold stare on the icy blonde. “You don’t find it barbaric that Albert stabbed and killed an innocent man, then turned the knife on himself and tried to lay the blame on me? He is the true savage, not the man who forced him to confess, whoever he was.”

Dorothea set her napkin aside. “I find this conversation is ruining a fine meal. Can’t we find another subject to discuss? Something more civilized?”

The room was silent for a few awkward moments, and it was Dorothea herself who broached a new subject. “I hear the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia is quite amazing. Do you plan to return East in time to see it?” She looked pointedly at Annabelle.

Annabelle shrugged. “I haven’t planned that far ahead, I’m afraid. The past several months have taught me to take one day at a time.” She smiled warmly at the blonde’s rigid countenance. “I’m sorry. It appears I’m ruining your appetite again.”

Chuckling to himself, Bart began a rousing conversation with John and Dorothea about Custer’s defeat at Little Big Horn, a subject hardly more civilized or appetizing than Annabelle’s journey across the country. He glanced every so often at the couple who remained quiet while exchanging private glances.

At the end of the meal, Bart rose from the table and ushered his dinner companions into the parlor. Andrew poured bourbon for the gentlemen and wine for the ladies. As he watched the evening progress, he decided he was the only one enjoying himself without reservation. Annabelle was winning the contest he’d most cleverly arranged, and Dorothea was livid. She wasn’t accustomed to coming in second to anyone, especially where Travis was concerned.