Page 23 of West Wind

He scowled at her. “Just do it, woman.”

She made a tight fist and punched him in the stomach again, but it was pathetic and he didn’t even flinch. He stood there shaking his head.

“Just what I figured. It’s a long way to California, and you’re a pretty woman, traveling alone. If anybody bothers you…”

“If you were with me, no one would dare to bother me.”

“Well, I won’t be,” he insisted, more harshly than he’d intended. “You make a fist like this.” He molded her hand with his own. “Don’t tuck your thumb inside your fingers like that, you’ll break it if you ever hit anybody right.”

He ran his fingers along her knuckles. “You hit with these, as hard as you can. If anybody grabs you from behind”—he swung her around and held her fast— “use your elbow and bring the heel of one of those boots down as hard as you can on top of the attacker’s foot.”

“Do you really think someone will attack me?” Her voice was small, and he didn’t dare admit, even to himself, how right it felt to hold her just as he was now, with her back against his chest and her dark hair under his chin.

“Remember that saloon owner you told me about, and that man in the alley behind Oscar’s place?” he reminded her with no kindness in his voice.

He released Annie and spun her around to face him again. “From the front, take aim and kick the bastard right where it hurts the most with the pointy toe of one of those red boots. That’ll stop ‘im for sure.”

Annie frowned and looked at him expectantly… and waited. “Well?” she finally asked. “Where does it hurt the most?”

He dropped his head in his hands. “Don’t tell me you really don’t know.”

She shook her head.

“Right between the legs, darlin’.” He saw her blush, even in the waning light. “That’ll drop a man in a heartbeat.”

She looked at the ground. “Thank you. I hope I never need to fight anyone, but if I do I’ll remember all that. I’ll remember everything.”

He frowned. Her words made him feel even guiltier than he already did. He picked up the discarded bottle of tequila, saw that they’d hardly made a dent, and capped it tightly.

“Might as well turn in early.” He lay on one side of the fire while Annie laid out her bedroll on the other. She hefted the saddle to the head of the makeshift bed and rested her head upon it. Then she stretched out, crossing her ankles and closing her eyes.

He’d ignored her, teased her, pushed her beyond her limits… and he was going to miss her. As hard as he’d tried to convince himself otherwise, it was an undeniable truth.

Amazingly, she fell asleep quickly. She’d had a hard day in the saddle, and just enough tequila to lull her to sleep. As soon as he was certain she was fast asleep, he made his way quietly to her hat, which was right beside her saddle. He snagged the hat and withdrew the folded piece of newsprint he’d seen her tuck away.

He read the personal ad again and again by the light of the fire, his frown growing deeper with every word. Was she Brat? Most likely. Who was Icky? Tempting as she was, he’d be well rid of this particular woman, with the wide eyes and innocent blushes. One dead husband, Pierre, and now Icky.

The last thing he needed was a woman like her to complicate his life.

CHAPTER NINE

He couldn’t sleep. That in itself should’ve told him that he’d grown much too attached to the mysterious Ann Brown. Twice during the night he’d fallen into an uneasy slumber that lasted a short while before he woke with a start. He felt as if he were falling into a chasm, only to be jerked up at the last moment. The third time that happened he heard her.

She was talking in her sleep. He didn’t even try to return to his own disturbing dreams. At first he was amused as he listened to the senseless mumblings, but something changed. Annie was frightened, tossing about in her sleep as if trying to escape from the same chasm that had threatened to swallow him.

“No,” she cried out. “Leave me alone!”

He passed by what remained of the campfire to look down at a tortured face, as Annie attempted to escape her nightmare. He debated whether or not to wake her, but when he saw moonlight reflecting on the tears that streamed down her cheeks, he dropped to his knees beside her.

“Annie,” he whispered. She didn’t respond to his voice, so he reached out and wiped her tears away with his fingers. “Wake up, Annie. It’s just a bad dream.”

She came awake swiftly, startling him as she bolted up and threw herself into his arms. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered hoarsely in his ear, clutching him as if to let go would mean death itself.

“You’re not gonna die,” he said. “It was just a dream.”

He allowed her to stay there, her face buried against his shoulder. He rubbed his hand up and down her back, removed the few hairpins that hadn’t already fallen out of her tangled hair, and held her head against his shoulder. This was the very dilemma he’d fought so hard to avoid. He felt her pain, a tightening in his own heart after so many years of avoiding messy entanglements.

When she stopped shaking he attempted to return her to her crude bed, but she held onto him tightly. “Not yet, please. I’m afraid.”