Page 54 of West Wind

“A fresh peach,” he repeated. “Canned peaches won’t do? I might be able to manage that.”

She licked her lips. “No. In exchange for my soul it would have to be a fresh peach.”

He was entranced by the simple act of Annie unbraiding her hair. She held her head to one side and slowly loosened each strand, sending that dark hair free to fall over her shoulder and down her back.

“What could I get for a can of peaches?”

She smiled at him across the fire. “Anything else.”

The air between them was charged with their newfound sexual energy, but they didn’t move. He rested his chin in his hands; she brushed her hair as he watched. For now that was enough. It was more than enough.

“Sing to me,” he demanded moments later, after she set her hairbrush aside.

“Your wish is my command, master.” She mocked his authoritative tone. “What do you want to hear?”

He shrugged. “You choose.”

Annie looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “Something new,” she suggested. “Something I haven’t sung for you before.”

She began to sing a tender ballad, but she didn’t get far before he stopped her. “Not that,” he said gruffly. “Anything else.”

She looked at him oddly, but she didn’t ask for explanations. She just began anew, with ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.’ This time he didn’t stop her. Eventually his frown eased, and he smiled at the woman across the fire.

Though he didn’t show it, the moment of remembrance that had begun when she’d started that first song hadn’t disappeared, but he hid his pain, as he always had.

‘Home, Sweet Home,’ that damn song, had haunted him for four years, as he’d served with the Union Army. It was a ballad much requested of entertainers and military bands, and usually left not a dry eye in the camp. The song had resounded in his head a thousand times as he’d finally gone home, weary, tired of the stink of death, wanting only to resume something resembling a normal life.

He hadn’t allowed himself to remember his homecoming in a very long time. The memories that assaulted him here and now were freshly painful. He almost didn’t hear Annie when she leaned closer to the fire and said, almost seductively, “Your turn.”

“I don’t sing.”

“No, silly. My poem. You’re supposed to recite me a new poem. Our new treaty, remember?” She grinned, not realizing how old memories had shaken him.

He didn’t want her to know.

“Every night?” he asked casually.

“Whenever I ask.”

He pondered, his hand massaging his bearded chin, his eyes on the vision that was Annie. Then he said:

“The Widow Brown twittered and fussed,

When I called what I felt for her lust.

She called me her passion,

After a fashion,

And left my poor heart in the dust.”

“I thought you didn’t have a heart,” she answered.

“Poetic license.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Your turn.”

Annabelle leaned closer to the fire, unafraid of the heat that threatened to burn her. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, but she didn’t back away.

She began to quote the Percy Shelley poem ‘Love’s Philosophy’ as she watched her own Shelley. She spoke from her heart; she did believe that her soul and his were mingling, as surely as the rivers and the ocean, as surely as the winds of heaven. But as the words flowed from her mouth, unwanted doubts assailed her.