Page 68 of West Wind

The man’s eyes widened. “Wolves?”

Shelley flashed a grin. “As long as you’re alive they probably won’t bother you, unless they’re really hungry. You’re lucky it’s not winter.”

Annie had saddled her mare and was starting to saddle his roan. She moved quickly, wasting no movements. He stopped for a moment to watch her. Just a few weeks ago she’d been unable to ride, and now she lifted the heavy saddle if not effortlessly, at least steadily.

It stunned him to realize that he didn’t care what she’d done. The truth wasn’t going to make it any easier to let her go. He had to make certain she never realized that.

She mounted her sable brown mare and gave the Pinkerton agent a cutting glance. “You bounty hunters are a ruthless lot.”

The bound man was too far away to hear her, but Shelley was not.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

They didn’t rest until they’d left the agent far behind. Even after they’d settled in a new campsite, neither of them could sleep. The wind in the trees, the small animals in the forest that surrounded them; these noises of nature were intrusive. In every whisper of sound Annabelle heard an intruder.

A restless Shelley tossed and turned all night. He muttered words she couldn’t quite make out, then rose with a curse while it was still pitch black. Without a word he saddled the horses, his anger evident in every tense movement. He expected her to follow his lead without instruction, and she did. He was eager to be rid of her. How could she blame him?

They traveled at a brisk pace, which suited her. She was as anxious as he to reach San Francisco and be done with this nightmare, one way or another. The Sierra Nevada Mountain range loomed before them. How would they ever manage to cross that barrier? A few days ago she would’ve simply asked, and Shelley would have explained to her, in an easy drawl, exactly what they’d be doing. Today she didn’t dare ask. His silence was absolute, controlled. She didn’t want to know what he might say to her if he was forced to speak.

After miles and miles of untended plain, they almost rode past the shack that sat in the distance, surrounded by tall grass bending in the breeze. The place looked abandoned, except for the child who struggled with a shovel that was too large for her to manage.

Annabelle brought her mare to a complete stop and watched the odd scene, her brows knit in a frown. The little girl was small and very thin, wearing a brown dress that was miles too large for her. The skirt of the dress whipped in the wind, as did the child’s long, unbound hair. As she watched the child stopped her chore and leaned against the shovel, resting her head upon the hands that grasped the handle.

She turned her mare and headed toward the shack and the child.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Shelley was beside her before she had a chance to go very far. “We don’t need anything from this place. There’s a comfortable site up ahead. Plenty of water for the horses, good shade⁠—”

“That little girl’s in trouble.” She didn’t look at Shelley or attempt to turn the mare from its path. “Something’s not right.”

He looked toward the shack. “Working in the garden, most likely. Children on these small farms work hard from the time they learn to walk.”

She didn’t listen to him. Something about the child drew her onward—the way she stood, slumped and tired; the desolateness of the tiny cabin itself; the effort the girl put into forcing the shovel into the ground.

There were no more words of protest as Shelley followed her.

“Wait here,” he instructed flatly as they neared the shack, but she ignored him.

The girl’s eyes were huge in a white, drawn face. Hair flew about her head in sweat-dampened tendrils. When she lifted her head, Annabelle thought her heart would break.

Near the child lay a body wrapped in sheets, just a few feet from the small plot of broken ground. The body rested at the end of a furrowed trail, marks obviously made when the little girl had dragged it from the cabin.

The girl shielded her eyes as she looked up at her visitors. If she was alarmed, she didn’t let it show. She didn’t appear to be more than ten years old.

“If you came to see my pa, he’s dead.” Her voice was weak and watery, as she once more drove the shovel into the ground, dislodging a tiny bit of dirt.

Shelley slid from his horse, took the shovel from the child’s hands, and took over. “Get on in the house, darlin’,” he said, the first hint of kindness Annabelle had heard in days in his voice. “I’ll handle this.”

The girl turned away tiredly without a word and disappeared into the shack.

Annabelle jumped from her mare and started to follow, but Shelley grabbed her arm.

“Leave her be.”

She shook off his grip. “No. Can’t you see she’s ill?”

He reached out and grabbed her again. “Can’t you see she’s got the same fever that killed her pa? You wanna catch it? I’ll bury her pa, and then we’re out of here. Got it?”

“No.” She shook him off again and stepped back. “I won’t leave her like that. I can’t believe you would either.”