Page 90 of West Wind

He escorted her to her bedroom door. “I saw another friend of yours today. She raved about you. I didn’t even know you were acquainted with Dorothea Cole.”

Annabelle made a decidedly unfeminine noise of disgust.

“You don’t like her?” Nicky seemed somewhat amused by her strong response.

“That woman is a damned tramp,” she said without thinking.

Her uncle flinched. “Annabelle St. Clair,” he snapped. “What kind of language is that for a lady?”

She turned away from him, the precious volume of poetry clutched in her hands. “It’s the truth, Nicky. Just the truth.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The gardens of the St. Clair house were much more well-ordered than Annabelle remembered, thanks to Isabel’s influence, no doubt. A gardener tended it lovingly; not a single yellow or withered leaf was allowed to remain. Roses bloomed in every color, blood red and snow white, palest yellow and just slightly pink. Only perfect blooms were allowed to remain in the St. Clair garden, and to grace the tables of the house.

She’d convinced Bart to spend the afternoon wandering in the garden, rather than strolling through the park or sharing a picnic by the bay. Every single San Franciscan seemed to know who she was, and stared unabashedly as she attempted to carry on a conversation. The subject was always the same; Shelley. Bit by bit she revealed to Bart some of what had happened as she’d been escorted to San Francisco.

No matter how hard she tried to push Shelley from her mind, he was always there. She’d tried to hate him, but couldn’t. She really should refuse to see Bart. He was so much like his brother! They had one thing in common that made it impossible for her to turn him away. They both loved Shelley.

“Did I ever tell you about Red Wolf and Swift Eagle?” She sat on a wrought iron bench which had been placed at the juncture of four neatly ordered rows.

Bart sat beside her. “Yes. But you can tell me again, if you like.”

“No. Surely you get tired of hearing the same old stories.” She sighed and picked at a nearby red rose, its velvet petals crushed between her fingers. “I swear, I’ve tried to make myself believe that he’s not coming back, but I don’t. Not really.”

Bart sighed a bit too dramatically, as he sometimes did. Annabelle didn’t understand why he spent so much time in her company. He watched over her, in a way, as his brother had done for so long.

“Maybe you’re right. He does love you, I’m certain of it.”

She smiled slowly, sadly. “For a brief time I thought that was true. In a way, I still do. But if he loved me he never would’ve left. He would be here now, or I would be…” She hesitated, unable to finish the thought. “Sometimes I expect to see him riding up the hill. We were only together a short time, but it seems like it was forever. Does that make sense?” She looked at Bart expectantly.

“I’ve never been in love.” He made himself more comfortable, stretching out his long legs. “I must confess I don’t understand it at all. Travis practically deserted you, and yet I’ve watched your righteous anger die. You truly miss him. It’s a mystery to me.”

She slapped him on the knee. “Never been in love? I’ll have to see what I can do about that. Isabel has a lovely friend...”

“No,” he answered sharply. “Please promise me you won’t play matchmaker.”

She smiled wickedly. “Promise?”

“Swear on your very soul.”

“I can’t do that.”

He grimaced. “Love seems awfully messy to me. I don’t think either you or Travis has made a rational decision since the moment he carried you through the front door.”

She returned her attention to the red rose that shedded its petals into her hand as she plucked mercilessly. “Whenever I was in trouble, Shelley was there. From the first moment I saw him, when that horrid Pinkerton agent had me cornered, it was as if he was watching over me. Then there was the fiasco with Swift Eagle. I thought Shelley had abandoned me, but when I needed him there he was.” She narrowed her eyes and dropped the petals to the ground.

“When I was drowning, he pulled me to the surface.” A thoughtful frown formed on her face. “I guess that doesn’t count, because if it hadn’t been for him I wouldn’t have been drowning in the first place.”

“You never told me about a drowning incident. Annabelle St. Clair, I don’t like that particular expression on your face.”

She ignored him. “When I was sick, he took care of me. When I was in trouble, he saved me.” She looked at Bart. “Tell me. Was Shelley always…” She licked her lips and searched for the proper words, her mind spinning. “Was he always at his best in a crisis?”

“I suppose. He always knew what to do while everyone else panicked.” Bart leaned forward, maybe so he could get a better look at her face. “I do not like the direction of this conversation.”

She leaned back and selected another innocent rose for destruction, slowly plucking the soft petals and rubbing them between her fingers.

A cool breeze made this summer afternoon bearable. Maybe that’s why she loved spending time in the garden. Being outdoors reminded her of the man who’d deserted her. What would it take to…