Page 69 of West Wind

He drove the shovel into the hard ground. “Dammit, Annie. I don’t suppose you’d agree to wait here and let me see to the kid?”

“No.”

“Goddammit!” He didn’t look at her, and she didn’t chide him for his language. Not here, not now. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t eat or drink anything in the house. Could be something’s tainted. Keep your hands off the kid.”

She didn’t answer. When she was a few feet away cursing resumed in earnest.

Annabelle pushed open the door to the cabin. The young girl’s home consisted of one small room, unglazed windows, a dirt floor. There was a single bed in one corner, a wood stove in another. The room was not particularly clean or well kept, but Annabelle had no way of knowing how long the girl’s father had been sick.

The child rested on the bed atop a faded quilt, her eyes closed.

“Hello.” Annabelle’s call was a whisper as she moved to stand beside the bed. “What’s your name?”

“Pearl.” The sick child’s eyes drifted slowly open. Pearl’s face was so thin her eyes looked enormous, lost.

“What a beautiful name.” Annabelle placed her hand on the child’s forehead. Pearl was burning up with fever.

She found a pitcher of water and a few clean cloths, and began to bathe the feverish child. Pearl barely moved. How long had she been ill? Had there been anyone to care for her at all?

“Are you an angel?” Pearl whispered, looking up through fevered eyes. “My ma’s an angel, and Pa said she watches over us.”

Annabelle shook her head, keeping tears from her eyes with great effort. “I’m not an angel.”

“Oh.” The answer seemed to be a disappointment to her. “I hope there really are angels, like Pa said. Do you think I’ll go to heaven?”

Annabelle’s hands shook slightly at the unexpected question. “You needn’t worry about that. You’re young. You have a long time to think about heaven.”

“But I’m sick like Pa, and he died. He said if I was bad I wouldn’t go to heaven, and I tried to be good all the time. But sometimes, when I was supposed to be doing my chores, I’d run to the mountains. It’s cool there, and I love the trees and the wildflowers.”

“I love those things, too. I don’t believe God will hold it against us that we took a little time to enjoy the beauty He gave us.”

The child smiled weakly, satisfied with that answer. Within seconds she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The door opened and closed, but she didn’t turn around to look at Shelley. He’d be furious with her for disobeying his instructions, but she continued to hold Pearl’s hand as she sang a soft lullaby through the tears that streamed down her face.

“It’s done,” he said simply, his voice tired and free of anger.

It was almost dark, so he lit the single lamp in the cabin and set it near the end of the bed.

Pearl opened her eyes. “Thanks, mister,” she said weakly. “That ground was so hard.” The girl turned her eyes to Annabelle. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Annie,” she said as clearly as she could, fighting to keep the tears out of her eyes and her voice.

Pearl closed her eyes again. “Sing to me some more, Annie.”

Annabelle sang more lullabies. She sang all night. Her voice was hoarse and whispery as she watched the child slip away. She’d never felt so helpless. Occasionally Pearl would open her eyes and laugh weakly, or speak to someone who wasn’t there. Once she called Annabelle “Ma.”

Near dawn the child took her last breath. Annabelle had been holding Pearl’s hand for hours. When it went limp she dropped her forehead to the bed and cried, long, wracking sobs that tore painfully from her heart. Shelley touched her shoulder lightly; she jumped from her chair and spun around, burying her head against his chest, forgetting for a moment that she hated him.

He must have forgotten, too, because he wrapped his arms around her and comforted her with soothing hands and a low, reassuring voice.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered huskily, her voice strained and rough.

“I know, darlin’,” he said gently. “I know.”

He’d watched Annie and little Pearl all night, not dozing in the chair as he might have, but studying the accused murderess closely.

His Annie, a killer. He’d learned long ago not to expect too much from people, not to take anything at face value. And still, it was unbelievable. He’d begun the long evening cursing his stupidity, fretting over every clue he’d missed.