Page 91 of West Wind

A burst of air forced strands of hair away from her face, and she smiled.

“Oh my God,” Bart whispered. “You look just like Travis did when he was about to do something incredibly stupid.”

“Annabelle.” Isabel’s voice floated to them as she appeared in the garden, a frown marring her beauty as she studied the petals on the ground. “There’s another reporter here, and he’s as insistent as all the rest. Nicholas isn’t back yet and I…”

Bart stood quickly. “I’ll get rid of him.” He directed his promise to Isabel. “Why won’t they leave her alone? She’s turned them all away at least twice.”

Annabelle’s hand shot out and grabbed Bart’s. She squeezed tightly, holding him in place. “Wait.” She chewed her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes. “Can you keep that reporter occupied for a few minutes?”

He leaned over to place his face close to hers. “Don’t you want me to get rid of him?”

“No. His timing is perfect, but I need to change.”

“Annabelle St. Clair,” he whispered. “I don’t like his. What are you up to?”

“Trust me, Bart. Stall him. Tell him to be patient and he’ll get the interview of his life.”

He placed a stilling hand on her shoulder. “The last time someone said Trust me, Bart, I got the whipping of my life. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t think Travis would approve.”

She freed herself easily, standing and spinning around until his protective hand fell. “Well, he’s not here, is he?” She ran from him, muttering, “At least, not yet.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Shelley would’ve continued straight to Mexico, he told himself, if he hadn’t stumbled across information on the bank robber whose poster he carried in his pocket. Two hundred and fifty dollars, and easy pickin’s. Billy Withers was just an eighteen-year-old red-headed kid, runnin’ scared.

It was almost too easy to track the kid from the settlement where he’d been spotted along the trail to the Sierra Nevada. Almost too easy. Two hundred and fifty dollars would buy a hell of a lot of tequila.

The sun beat down, warming him superficially. Inside he was cold. He tried to convince himself that was good. If he could push his blasted feelings deep enough and bury them in that ice, he’d once again be content with nothing more than his roan, the rifle hung from his saddle, and the six-shooter resting against his thigh.

When he ran across the camp, he shook his head in disgust. Withers had camped in the open, as though he had nothing to fear.

“Howdy,” Withers called as Shelley rode down a gentle slope to the camp, kicking up dust as the roan’s hooves pounded against the dirt.

One quick look assured him that there were no weapons handy, no pistol at Withers’ side, no rifle in sight. A woman was also in the camp, her light brown hair plaited and hanging down to her waist. Her back was to Shelley as he rode toward them; she tended a small pot, squatting by the campfire.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” the redheaded kid said, turning his back on Shelley. “You’re welcome to join us. Where you headed?”

Shelley didn’t answer, and eventually the boy turned back around. One look at his stern face and that smile faded.

“You Billy Withers?” He asked as he dismounted. What kind of criminal was this? The boy welcomed a stranger into his camp as if he had nothing to hide.

“Yep,” Billy answered, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Do I know you?”

He pulled Withers’ folded wanted poster from his vest pocket and snapped it open. The boy’s already pale face whitened.

“You the law?” He seemed resigned to his fate.

Shelley shrugged. “I’m just interested in the two hundred and fifty dollars.”

Their voices remained low; the woman still bent over the fire seemed intent on her cooking.

Withers ran his fingers distractedly through thin red hair that hung to his shoulders. “I didn’t know about the reward. We was just… just… His pale blue eyes darted back and forth, as he avoided looking directly at Shelley.

“Can I have a minute to tell my wife?” He met Shelley’s eyes then. A sadness much too deep for his eighteen years spoke volumes.

Shelley watched the back of the woman by the fire. His hand remained on the grip of his Colt. If she came up with a weapon in her hand...

“Sarah Jane?”