Page 93 of West Wind

He gave the young man a formidable look. “If you ever tell anyone that I had you and let you go, or if I ever hear of you doing anything but farming, I’ll be after you in a heartbeat no matter where you are. No matter where I am. Believe it.”

Billy nodded his head. Clearly he believed the threat.

Sarah Jane smiled shyly. “Is Shelley your Christian name? I only ask because we haven’t decided on a name for the baby yet, and it would be fittin’ to name the baby after you. If not for you, it might not even have a pa around.”

“You don’t wanna name that kid after me.” He grinned. “Life is hard enough...”

“Please, Mister Shelley.”

He remembered a time when a tiny, white-faced woman had ridden in front of him, ignoring the fact that they sat thigh to thigh, calling him Mister Shelley.

“Travis,” he said with resignation.

Sarah Jane smiled as she sat down beside him. “Travis. I like that. Don’t you like that name, Billy?”

The young man nodded.

“Travis if it’s a boy.” Sarah Jane looked as if she should still be playing with dolls instead of choosing a name for her own baby. She had a young face, full of hope and plans for the future, plump-cheeked and wide-eyed. “If it’s a girl…” She cocked her head to one side. “Are you married, Mister Shelley?”

He stared into the cup of inky coffee instead of looking at the young girl beside him. “Nope.”

“Oh. I thought maybe...”

“Annabelle,” he said softly. “I’ve always been partial to the name Annabelle.”

“Like the opera singer?” Sarah Jane asked lightly.

He looked up. “You know her?”

“Well, of her.”

Sarah Jane rose and crossed the camp to rummage through their meager belongings. She returned with a newspaper in her hand. “I read all the articles about her fiancé’s murder while she was on the run,” she whispered with a touch of intrigue in her voice. “And then the real murderer confessed, and she appeared in San Francisco. It’s like a dime novel. There’s a different picture in this paper than the one they ran while she was missing.”

He tried not to appear too interested. “Really?”

“It’s much better. I didn’t realize how pretty she is.” Sarah Jane opened the paper to the page devoted to the story on Annabelle St. Clair, and there it was. A perfect drawing of his Annie, a sketch of her face. Her smile was restrained and a bit sad. The artist had captured her almost perfectly. His chest tightened.

“Listen to this.” Sarah Jane began to read in a melodious voice. “’Although Miss St. Clair still refuses to discuss the details of the months she was missing, she admitted to this reporter in a rare interview that she never would have survived her ordeal alone. When asked to elaborate the stunning diva, dressed in shocking Western wear which included trousers, crimson boots, a hat with a feather in the band, an Indian weapon at her hip and a medicine bag around her neck, flashed a wicked smile and asked if I read much poetry. After I admitted that I did not, Miss St. Clair launched into a recitation of the bawdiest limericks this reporter has ever heard, to the shock and dismay of her well-bred aunt, and San Francisco native Bartholomew Shelton, who were present during the interview.

“‘Though unorthodox, to say the least, Miss St. Clair remains one of the finest artists this reporter has ever had the pleasure to hear. She is somehow improved for her ordeal, her voice richer, more mature than before her disappearance. It’s as though she sings from her very heart. Three weeks of performances at the Opera House begin on the fourteenth. She is not to be missed.’”

Sarah Jane laid the newspaper aside and sighed. “She’s so beautiful and talented. I wonder what she meant…”

Shelley picked up the discarded paper and stared closely at the drawing at the top of the page. “What’s today?” he asked gruffly.

“The date?” Sarah Jane stared at him. “It’s the seventeenth, I think. Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “Are you going to San Francisco to hear Miss St. Clair sing?”

“No,” he snapped. “I’m going to Mexico. I just wanted to know what day it was, that’s all.”

The newspaper remained open on his lap; he couldn’t take his eyes off the drawing. Would he ever get away from this woman? Hell, he hadn’t even tried very hard. He’d be in Mexico right now if he’d really wanted to be.

“Do you know her?” Sarah Jane asked, her eyes narrowed.

“Know who?” he asked stupidly.

“Annabelle St. Clair.” Billy’s young wife leaned over so she could see his face more clearly. Daylight was almost gone, the sky gray and shot with pink that would be gone in a moment. “Oh my heavens,” she said softly. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“What was me?” He refused to look away from the picture in the newspaper.