Page 71 of West Wind

He lowered himself slowly, her sharp words stabbing at his fortressed heart. “Sure, darlin’,” he said casually. “Now that you’ve got that off your chest, let’s get some sleep.”

He stayed where he was, positioned so he could see her across the fire. She watched him, unsmiling, for a moment and then turned away, the firelight dancing across her white cotton shirt and her silky hair.

“Let’s go,” he called out as he started breaking camp. Annie hadn’t moved since she’d turned her back on him hours earlier. “Coffee’s boiling, and it’s time to…”

He crossed the camp, stepping over her legs and staring down at her with fists on his hips. His impatience faded when he saw her face. She was as white as her shirt. There were dark circles under her eyes. Even in sleep her mouth twitched. He dropped to his knees and touched her forehead. She was burning up.

“Jesus, Annie.” He smoothed back the strands of hair that had fallen over her face; her eyes fluttered then opened.

“No.” She weakly slapped his hand away.

“I know you don’t want me to touch you, but you don’t have any choice.”

He left her, dampened a rag in the river, and then bathed her face, cursing under his breath the entire time.

He didn’t know what to do. Only one other time in his life had he been so helpless. It was a feeling he detested. He had no medicine, no inkling what kind of fever had claimed the little girl and her father and now attacked Annie. Even if he’d known what ailed her, he still wouldn’t know what to do. Should he keep her by the river, cool her fevered skin, and hope for the best? Or should he risk traveling to San Francisco where a doctor could care for her properly?

There was no choice at all. If he stayed by the river she’d die, just like Pearl and her father.

When Annie was a bit cooler he wrapped her in a blanket and set her on his roan, against her weak objections. Their provisions were packed on her mare. She faced him, her cheek resting against his chest while one arm held her securely. His other hand controlled the reins.

“I’m cold,” she said so softly he barely heard her.

He held her tighter, making certain the blanket covered her well. She was burning up, shivering against him.

She lifted her hair and weakly pushed it over her shoulder, pressing her ear against his chest. She even smiled, a faint, barely perceptible smile as she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

They stayed in the saddle for most of the next thirty-six hours. He forced her to take sips of cool water from his canteen, forced her even as she turned her head away from the offered water. He tried to feed her bites of dried apple, but she wouldn’t eat.

At last they arrived at the ferry to San Francisco. He’d planned to put her on board and ride away, but that had changed. It had been five years since he’d been to the city, had sworn as he left that he’d never return.

“Annie.” He shook her gently. She’d become too still, and he needed the assurance of looking into her eyes. “We’re here, darlin’.” His voice was little more than a whisper.

She opened her eyes slightly. “San Francisco? We made it?” Every word seemed to be an effort.

“We made it.”

“Take me to Nicky’s house,” she said softly as she closed her eyes again.

He tensed. “Nicky’s house?” Icky, no doubt. “I don’t know where Nicky lives.”

“Big white house. My room is yellow,” she said as she drifted to sleep in his arms.

“Damnation,” he muttered as they left the ferry at Market Street. “A big white house with a yellow room. I guess I could go to every damn white house in the city and ask if someone named Nicky lives there, and if they have a yellow room. Goddammit.” She didn’t like him to curse, but it wasn’t like she was listening at the moment. His voice was low, and she slept. He’d already decided on his destination, and hurried toward it. “Wouldn’t take more than two or three years.”

The real reason for his agitation was her easy request to be taken to Icky, to her yellow room in Icky’s big white house. Who the hell was he to her, anyway?

Brat.

Shelley sprinted up the steps to the familiar wide front door, Annie’s head lolling against his shoulder as he carried her securely in his arms. He kicked at the heavy door several times, lowered his booted foot for no more than a second, then kicked again. It seemed like a lifetime before the door was slowly opened.

An old man grimaced as he studied a feverish Annie, then lifted his gaze to Shelley. In a flash, the light of recognition came into Andrew’s eyes.

“Master Travis,” he said formally, opening the door wide as though it were a common occurrence to find Shelley at the entrance with an unconscious woman in his arms.

Shelley strode through the front door and straight for the wide stairway. “Bart here?” he called over his shoulder as if it had been a few days since he’d last been here, not five years.

“Master Bartholomew is out for the evening,” the elderly butler said slowly, tottering behind.