Page 87 of West Wind

Nicky was more like a brother to her than an uncle. After her paternal grandfather’s death he’d come to live with her and her parents. Annabelle had been a newborn; he’d just turned ten. Her grandfather, a man she’d never known, had been harsh in many ways. The results had often shown in Nicky’s stern demeanor.

But when Annabelle began to talk and called him Icky, unable to pronounce his name properly, he’d retaliated with a rare smile and called her Brat. They’d been Brat and Icky ever since.

When Nicky reached manhood and left her behind, Annabelle had felt deserted for a while. But when her parents died it had been her protective uncle who placed her in a musical conservatory in Paris. He’d recognized her gift before anyone else had seen it in her. He’d hand-picked Lisette and Pierre to care for her when she was away from him, which was most of the time. Still, he visited her often, and at least once every two years sailed her to San Francisco and this yellow room.

Once she’d become an adult the visits grew farther and farther apart, but she cherished his letters, and poured her heart into her own long messages to him.

Last night she’d barely been able to speak to him, she’d been so distraught. Nicky had done all the talking, mostly about his wife of less than a year, a woman who couldn’t possibly be as beautiful and sweet as he claimed. Annabelle hadn’t yet met Isabel St. Clair, and was grateful that her uncle’s bride was sleeping when they’d arrived.

She threw back the white and yellow quilt and forced herself from the bed. The first order of business would be to seek out her uncle and explain everything to him. Well, almost everything. He deserved an apology from her for not letting him know her whereabouts and that she was safe. She’d been so worried that if she contacted him the wrong people would find her, but still…

Since arriving in San Francisco she’d been so concerned with making sure Shelley didn’t leave or send her away that she’d been thoughtless where her only living relative was concerned.

A plain pale blue dress hung neatly over the back of a yellow padded chair near the end of the bed. Nicky always thought of everything. No detail would be overlooked when he placed himself in charge of a situation.

Dressed, her hair pulled back in a sloppy bun, Annabelle crept slowly down the stairs. She did her best to stay quiet, hoping not to meet any of the servants, or Nicky’s wife. Not yet. She wasn’t ready.

She paused at the foot of the stairs and turned toward Nicky’s study. If he hadn’t changed his rigid schedule, that’s where he’d be. She heard his voice and slipped quietly down the hall. Who was he talking to? If he was busy, she’d creep back up the stairs and wait.

Viewing his broad back through the open doorway, she smiled. More than once she’d compared her stoic and determined uncle to a knight of old. Unbendable, undefeated, inflexible. He spoke to someone out of her range of vision. She didn’t want to disturb him while he was working, so she backed away a step, preparing to return to her room. Just as she turned away, she heard another familiar voice.

“I too wish I’d found her sooner, sir. She must’ve had lots of help hiding from us. Pinkerton’s is a most efficient agency.”

Her head swam; her vision narrowed until she thought she might drop to the floor. It was the man who’d tried to kill her and Shelley.

“If only I’d known sooner that the bounty hunter’s real name was Travis Shelton…’’ The speaker stopped in mid sentence when Annabelle appeared in the doorway. His face paled, and he had the good grace to look away. He refused to meet her eyes, the coward. Nicky must be paying him a fortune to make this man bold enough to risk running into her.

“Nicky,” she breathed his name. “What is this man doing here?”

“This is the Pinkerton agent who located you for me. Wendell Yates.” Nicky turned to her with a half smile. “I offered a handsome reward to the man who found you, and he’s here to collect.”

“You’re going to give this man money?” She turned to her uncle and presented her coldest face. “He tried to kill me. Shelley, too. He was going to shoot us⁠—”

“You have it all wrong, Miss St. Clair,” Yates attempted to defend himself. “If you will remember...” He made the mistake of dropping his hand to his side.

She was certain he intended to draw his gun and shoot her, and Nicky, too. She ran toward him, grabbing a book from the corner of the desk. As she descended upon the stunned Yates, she swung the heavy book forward with all her might, slamming the tome into his face.

Blood flowed from his nose; he howled in pain. Yates brought both hands to his face to stop the river of blood, and to shield himself from further attack.

Nicky grabbed her from behind and stripped the book from her hands. Her eyes remained fixed on the writhing man in front of her.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Yates,” Nicky offered, pinning her in his strong arms. “Obviously my niece has been through a trying experience. I hadn’t expected delusions, but I shouldn’t be surprised⁠—“

“Delusions?” She tried to free herself but could not. “This man tried to murder me!” She calmed herself with great effort. Nicky wouldn’t be swayed by emotional outbursts. “I can prove it,” she said calmly.

“How?” Her uncle didn’t release her, even as she quieted.

“Let go of me and I’ll explain.”

Nicky’s arms loosened, and after a moment he released her. Yates’s bleeding had slowed, but blood continued to drip from his face onto his immaculate suit. He pressed his hands against his face, trying to stop the blood.

Her eyes delved into the agent’s, and he turned away. Coward. “Do you deny that you attacked me and my escort while we camped, and attempted to kill us?”

Yates nodded.

“Then why did Shelley stab you—” She made a fist the way Shelley had taught her and punched Yates right where Swift Eagle’s knife had pierced his flesh— “here?”

Yates forgot the pain in his face and grabbed his shoulder, wincing as he dropped to his knees. Nicky jerked her back from the agent and turned accusing eyes on the man who knelt before him.