Page 12 of West Wind

He raised his eyebrows but said nothing as she lifted the bottle to her lips. She choked a little on the first swallow. Her eyes watered, but when she finished coughing, she laughed.

“What vile-tasting stuff,” she said, handing the bottle back to him. Her cheeks flushed; her eyes sparkled.

He took a long drink and offered the tequila to her again, expecting her to refuse. She didn’t. Passing her black sleeve several times over the rim his lips had touched, she raised the bottle. The second drink didn’t affect her as much as the first had, but her eyes still watered. Her face was flushed, her lips moist where she’d licked away the last drop of tequila. She relaxed, her shoulders slumping slightly, her face softening. He wished she’d stayed on her own side of the camp, her face set in that rigid mask she’d worn since he’d met her. This version of Annie was far too tempting.

When she took the bottle for the third time, she again wiped the rim with her sleeve before she raised it to her lips. “Shelley,” she said when she lowered the bottle of golden liquid and returned it to him. Her eyes were fixed on a point far to the east, beyond his shoulder.

“Yes?” He took another long drink and gave the bottle back to her.

She didn’t bother cleaning the rim this time, before she took a very small sip and then returned the liquor to him. “It wasn’t a question, I was just thinking about your name.” She looked squarely at him then, brazenly studying his face. That same stubborn lock of dark hair had fallen again and brushed against her rosy cheek, but she ignored it. “Is that your first or last name?”

He shrugged, took a long drink, and as he lowered the bottle he met her eyes. “I can’t remember.”

She laughed and reached for the tequila. “Actually, this isn’t vile at all.” She took another sip. “There’s a poet named Shelley, you know.”

“Of course I know,” he said. “I’m a poet myself.” A nagging voice in the back of his head warned him that he should cap the bottle, return Annie to her bedroll, and get to sleep, even though it was not yet dark. She was looking too damn good.

She laughed as if his claim were the most amusing tidbit of information she’d ever heard. “No, I mean a real poet. Ode to the West Wind. ‘O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being…’” Her voice was melodious and soft.

“No, no, no.” He shook his head. “I never use words like thou, thee, or thine.” He ignored the nagging voice, pushing it out of his mind with another long swig of tequila.

“All right,” the widow challenged him, her chin high, her eyes dancing in the firelight. “Let’s hear some of your poetry.”

He sat up straight. They were both cross-legged in the dirt, knee to knee. He looked her squarely in the eye.

“There once was a lady named Annie,

Who dressed like an old gray-haired granny.

She had chocolate brown eyes,

And milky white thighs,

That led all the way up to her fanny.”

Instead of being offended, as he’d expected her to be, Annie burst into laughter. He’d delivered the lines with a straight face and a deep voice that would’ve been fitting for a literary reading.

“That’s not poetry. That’s a limerick.”

“No, darlin’.” He grinned broadly. “That’s poetry.”

She refused the bottle he offered, lifting her palm and shaking her head. Maybe she was afraid her last vestige of self-control would disappear. “You didn’t just make that up,” she accused.

He nodded and turned the bottle up once again. Unlike the lady, he was not afraid of the effects of tequila. Tonight he would welcome oblivion. Tomorrow he’d pay for it.

“I can write poetry anytime, anywhere. I can write it in my sleep if I have to.”

Annie gave him a daunting look that very clearly said she didn’t believe him. Always relishing a challenge, he decided to take her on.

“I’ll prove it to you.” He leaned forward, slowly moving closer to her face. A face that was more beautiful than he ever would’ve imagined.

“The lady rode in from St. Louis.

With her sweet sounding voice she did woo us.

The men all came out,

Every cad, rake, and lout,