Page 76 of West Wind

He nodded. “Yep. He’s in jail, as we speak.”

“Why?” She seemed to have a hard time keeping her eyes open; she was lucid, but barely. “Why now, after all this time?”

He took her hand in his and caressed it absently. “Guilty conscience?” He watched her fall asleep, her hand resting comfortably in his.

Albert Gibson was lucky to be alive. When he’d looked at the little man’s smug face he’d wanted to kill him then and there, but that wouldn’t have helped Annie.

Guilty conscience? As far as he could see, the man didn’t have a conscience at all. The little man who’d accused Annie of murder and attempted murder also had no guts, no class, and no common sense.

He’d grabbed Gibson by the collar and dragged him to the police station, the weaselly man protesting the entire time. Gibson had never stopped complaining, not until Shelley presented him to the San Francisco Police and told him, in a clear and calm voice, that if he used his tongue for anything other than telling the truth he’d find himself without it.

Gibson then told the police how he’d killed Annie’s fiancé when the unfortunate man discovered that he’d been syphoning her fortune and earnings for years. As he told the story with Shelley’s hand on his neck, he’d admitted that the safety of a jail cell now seemed inviting.

Shelley had mixed emotions about the outcome. Annie was free. Free to return to the stage, to return to Icky. She didn’t need him anymore. Didn’t want him. Reminded him often enough that she didn’t love him.

It was her worst night thus far. She was restless and her fever remained high. He cooled her as best he could, and forced tea and Dr. Smith’s medicine down her throat. He talked to her, recited poems and bawdy limericks to her half the night.

Near dawn her fever broke, and she began to sweat. When she opened her eyes he smiled down at her.

She frowned and jerked her hand away. “What are you doing here?” she snapped.

He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Takin’ care of your ungrateful ass.”

It appeared she would survive after all. He began to think about leaving. Back across the Sierra Nevada, maybe south to Mexico. He hadn’t been to Mexico in years.

As he silently made his plans, Annie’s face softened. She smiled weakly but her eyes sparkled, clear for the first time in days.

“I’m not ungrateful,” she said. “I don’t want you to get this sickness. I don’t want you to die.”

He leaned forward and took her hand, the hand he’d held for days. “I’m too mean to get sick, and nobody’s going to die.” He almost wished he could’ve left believing she hated him. If only he could convince himself that she was as cold-hearted as he’d believed for a short time. Knowing that she cared for him, even a little, made it hard to turn his back on her. But he would.

She glanced around the room. “I remember bits and pieces. This is your room? Your name is Travis?” She gave him another small smile. “You took care of me.” A new sparkle lit her eyes. “Was it a dream? Did you tell me that Albert confessed?”

“Yes I did.”

She laughed and threw her arms around his neck in a burst of energy he wouldn’t have thought her capable of. “Thank heavens. It’s over. Oh, Shelley, I never would’ve made it without you.”

“Sure you would have.” He held her head against his shoulder. “You’re brave, remember? A real white warrior woman.”

He was glad she couldn’t see his face as she nestled against his chest. Yes, it really was over. She didn’t need him anymore.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

When Annabelle woke later that morning, after a few restful hours of sleep, she found three different San Francisco newspapers spread across the foot of the bed. The headlines were basically the same. ‘Diva Innocent!,’ ‘Annabelle St. Clair Vindicated,’ ‘Alleged Victim Confesses.’ As she stared at the newspapers, a smile bloomed slowly.

“Good morning, Miss St. Clair,” Bartholomew Shelton said cheerily. He sat in a nearby chair, a relaxed grin on his face.

She pulled the covers up to her chin. “Good morning, Mr. Shelton. Where’s Shelley?”

He shook his head. “Please, call me Bart. As for my brother I finally convinced him he could take a bath and sleep in a bed for a couple of hours and you wouldn’t waste away. You’re looking much better, by the way.”

“Thank you.” He looked at her so piercingly it made her nervous. “It’s not necessary for you to sit with me. I’m fine, really. A little tired…”

“I don’t dare depart this room,” he said seriously. “Travis made me swear that I wouldn’t leave you alone even for a moment.”

“Travis.” Annabelle smiled. “That sounds so strange.”

They stared at one another silently for a moment, and then Bart lifted the newspaper he’d been reading. “You’re quite a celebrity. All the papers are speculating on where you’re hiding and when you’ll reappear.”