Page 88 of West Wind

“You threatened my niece?”

There was nothing more frightening than Nicky’s calm anger.

“I... I was tired. My partner deserted me, and I hadn’t slept for more than two days.” Yates lost any control he might’ve once had. “I wasn’t thinking straight. At that time I didn’t know she was innocent! No harm was done⁠—”

“You goddamn liar,” she spat.

“Annabelle St. Clair!” her uncle shouted. “Language!”

She wasn’t finished. “You knew exactly what you were doing, you sonofabitch. If Shelley hadn’t stabbed you in the shoulder you would’ve shot us both and left us for dead. Or did you plan on turning my body in for that thousand-dollar reward?”

Yates slowly pulled himself to his feet. “I’m terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. I’m not a bad person,” he said defensively.

“I think you’d better leave, Mr. Yates,” Nicky growled. “Mr. Pinkerton will be receiving a letter informing him of my great dissatisfaction with your service.”

Yates stumbled to the door of the study, almost colliding with a lovely young woman who wandered into the room.

Annabelle turned away from the woman and looked up at her uncle’s puzzled face. What had she done? Why hadn’t she tried to convince Nicky calmly of her certainty that Yates had intended to kill her?

“Isabel.” Nicky offered his hand, and the woman stepped further into the room. Her uncle’s wife was petite, pretty. A pale pink dress floated around her like a pastel cloud. Her hair was the palest blonde and gathered gently at her nape, her face framed by a few errant tendrils at her cheeks. Annabelle thought that if she wore a circlet of gold on her head she’d make the perfect medieval maiden to Nicky’s Black Knight. Even the hand she offered to her husband was decidedly feminine, her fingers long and slender, her skin milky white.

She should stay to explain her actions to Nicky and properly meet his bride, but instead she ran past the puzzled pair and up the stairs to her yellow room.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Shelley tossed his saddle to the ground and started a small fire. This was true freedom. He settled by the fire with a handful of wanted posters in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. A man and his horse. No responsibilities, no plans beyond next week, the freedom to travel where and when he desired.

He’d almost convinced himself of all this until he reached into his saddlebag and came out with not a can of beans, but a can of peaches. It was the last of the dozen cans he’d bought in Salt Lake City. He studied it for a moment, the frown on his scruffily bearded face deepening as the seconds ticked by. Without a word to express his frustration he turned and threw the unopened can as far as he could, listening as it fell through a canopy of leaves far from his campsite and thudded to the ground.

He hadn’t been able to get more than fifty miles from San Francisco in the two weeks since he’d walked out of the house, leaving Brat and Icky embracing in the doorway. He’d zigzagged from east to west, from north to south and back again, unable to cross the mountains. Somehow he knew if he crossed the Sierra Nevada he’d never return.

He retrieved the San Francisco Bulletin he’d stashed in his saddlebag three days earlier. There was an article about Annie on page seven. He hadn’t read it yet, couldn’t bring himself to. Every time he thought about her he remembered how she’d run to the dark-haired man she called Icky, how she’d wrapped her arms around his neck. He hadn’t stayed to see what else went on. Were all women so fickle, or only the ones he was attracted to? How could a woman look you in the eyes and tell you she loves you, and then run to another man in a heartbeat?

Maybe what he needed was to read about her, no matter how difficult it was. Maybe if he read all about how wonderfully she was surviving back in the civilized city of his birth, he could move on. Perhaps he could forget her if he read about her dazzling return to her career, social events, the life of a diva. Perhaps.

A great deal of the article dealt with her background, a thorough coverage of her career and personal life, as well as the story of her disappearance. He read every word, reading more slowly when he came to the next paragraph.

Miss St. Clair has refused to grant interviews about her harrowing experience, but stories abound. As it is impossible to tell which, if any, of these stories hold even a grain of truth, this newspaper will refrain from publishing any of the accounts until they can be confirmed by Miss St. Clair herself. However, we can report that Miss St. Clair is considering making San Francisco her permanent home. The opera loving citizens of the city can only hope her decision will be favorable. Perhaps her constant companion, Bartholomew Shelton, can persuade her to remain in our fair city.

After that he skimmed the rest of the article. Constant companion! He noted the dates given for her scheduled performances, his eyes darting rapidly over the paper until he came to the final sentence.

As always when Miss St. Clair is in San Francisco, she resides with her uncle, Nicholas St. Clair, and his bride Isabel.

Uncle Icky? Shelley tossed the paper into the fire and watched until it had been consumed by the flames. It made no difference. She still belonged there, and he didn’t. She would have a better life with Bart or that ass Dr. Smith or any other man of their ilk.

He rested his head against the saddle and crossed his ankles. Sleep should come easily. It always had. Sleep eluded him, as it had on so many other nights of late, as night fell and the stars twinkled overhead.

What if she’d really meant the words she’d spoken to him before his hasty departure? Would she leave behind everything she knew for a man like him? She used the word love, but he knew what she meant. Her passion. She’d get over that and so would he, eventually. She obviously wasn’t pining over him if Bart was her constant companion.

He closed his eyes and willed sleep to come.

Like a bug in a bedroll.

Like an itch in the middle of his back, one he couldn’t quite reach.

“Dammit!” He rolled up and kicked dirt over the fire. “Hell, I haven’t been to Mexico in years,” he mumbled to himself as he saddled his roan. “Tequila. Señoritas. Long siestas.” He jumped into the saddle, wide awake though he’d barely slept for the past two weeks, and turned his horse to the south.

Annabelle ran her fingers over the many leather-bound volumes on the shelves. Nicky’s library was her favorite room in the house, except of course her own bedroom.