Page 19 of West Wind

He stiffened and released her, rolling away abruptly. “Dammit, Annie. You had to go and ruin everything.”

He rose to his feet with his back to her, and stalked toward the creek and the hanging blanket that shielded a portion of the bank.

At that moment, she decided the best thing to do was to ignore what had just happened between them. One minute he wanted her, the next he didn’t. One minute she was pushing him away, the next…

“Why don’t you wait until morning?” She didn’t relish the idea of being left alone by the campfire after dark. “The water’s bound to be freezing by now.”

There was a muffled response from behind the blanket, but she couldn’t understand a word. “What?”

“I said that’s good, goddammit!” he shouted too loudly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wendell was late. He hated being late almost as much as he hated the failure of a well-laid plan or, in fact, any occurrence that brought disorder to his life. He scowled as he took the Denver hotel’s plushly carpeted stairs, the thought of the most recent source of irritation in his life intruding unpleasantly. A bounty hunter! He massaged his jaw and remembered the big man who’d knocked him out. Knocked him out! No one had ever dared to…

That was beside the point. Annabelle St. Clair was in the hands of a bounty hunter who might decide at any moment to dispose of her and collect his reward. If he knew who she was. If Ann Brown really was Annabelle St. Clair.

The hotel room door opened moments after he knocked. Perhaps he worried needlessly. One of his colleagues might’ve already found her.

“You’re late, Yates,” Dawson snapped before the door was properly closed.

Wendell never had much patience with Dawson Walsh or his brother Eugene. They drank too much and complained too freely. Their lives were, in general, much too unprincipled for Wendell’s tastes.

A quick glance around the room confirmed that the other three agents had been waiting for some time. Dawson and his little brother Eugene had killed almost half a bottle of bourbon between them. Their coats were a crumpled heap on the single bed, their hats and vests had been tossed away unceremoniously. Wendell removed his hat but held it in his hand. Eugene nodded halfheartedly. Neither of the Walsh brothers liked him much, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t care for them, either.

The third waiting man sat in a chair by the window. Sunlight shone on the open book in his hands. He might’ve been alone, for all the attention he paid his fellow agents. Wendell often wondered how Mordecai Butterfield had come to work for Pinkerton’s.

As if sensing that Wendell was thinking of him, Mordecai lowered the Bible which was always in his possession and raised questioning eyes.

Wendell dreaded opening his mouth. His jaw still ached, and he would prefer that the others not know exactly what had transpired. The three of them looked at him expectantly, almost hopeful, which told him they’d found nothing.

“I think I’ve located her,” he said with as little movement of his jaw as possible, and therefore as little pain.

“What?” Eugene leaned forward.

“I said, I think I’ve found her,” he said slowly, his mouth almost motionless.

Eugene smiled. “What happened? She punch you in the jaw?”

“No, dammit.” He cut his eyes to Mordecai and received the scathing glare he’d expected.

“Well? Where is she?” Dawson snapped. “I hate this assignment. Even if we find the woman we can’t shoot her, even though she’s a killer. We take her to her uncle and…”

“I lost her.” Wendell finally gave in and used the jaw that continued to pain him. “I think she’s taken up with a bounty hunter named Shelley.” He drew her wanted poster from his vest pocket and crumpled it before he tossed it to the floor. “This is useless. She doesn’t look like the sketch on that poster anymore.” He had the full attention of the other three men. “I’d say she’s lost twenty, thirty pounds. When I saw her she was dressed like a poverty-stricken widow, and she was singing in a saloon.”

After a few stunned moments, Dawson regained his voice. “You lost her?”

He didn’t like being admonished by men he considered far inferior. Eugene and Dawson were both big men but they had no class, no finesse.

“I wasn’t positive it was her, you moron. Did you get those photographs?” he snapped.

Dawson retrieved a small stack, three photographs and several newspaper clippings. Wendell rifled through them quickly. His eyes fell on what he was looking for, and he smiled. It hurt, but what the hell. “This is what she looks like. Look at the face.” It was a three-year-old photograph of her torso and face only. She’d been a little plump at the time, but the face… “She’s disguised herself. Quite well, I might add.” His voice held a note of respect. She’d fooled him, after all. “Made her face pale, added shadows to make herself look tired and gaunt. She’s passing herself off as a widow from St. Louis, and to tell you the truth, I wasn’t certain it was her until I saw this photograph.”

“What about the bounty hunter? Is she in any danger?” It was Mordecai who finally asked a worthwhile question.

“Can’t be sure. He seemed to know her well, but he could’ve been lying. Might’ve been a trick to get her away from me.”

The other agents had to be thinking the same thing he was. If she died, if this bounty hunter shot her and turned her in for the private bounty posted by her surviving victim, there would be no money. The enormous bonus promised to each of them for the successful completion of this job was unheard of.