Page 95 of West Wind

He pointed his roan to the south. Mexico. Señoritas. Tequila. He rode all night, not pushing the roan but letting the animal set its own slow pace. He was in no hurry, but the night was so damn quiet.

He tried reciting limericks to his horse, but his heart wasn’t in it. They were old and stale and not very funny at the moment. Once, in another lifetime, he’d known every line Percy Bysshe Shelley had ever written. Bits and pieces came back to him, now and again. Sarah had loved ‘To a Skylark,’ and at one time he’d been able to recite the entire poem to her. She claimed to love the sound of his voice as she went to sleep so at night, before he left to fight in the war, he’d read to her at bedtime.

He started to recite it again, in the still of the black night. Every word, buried deep in his mind, came back to him. He remembered lying with his head against a wobbly round table, drunk senseless, repeating the long poem over and over again. Some old-timer had called him Shelley after that and it had stuck. That had been ten years ago.

South, he reminded himself as he watched the sunrise. Still, he was far from tired. Annie deserved a chance to get on with her life, and she couldn’t do that with him around. If he was close by he wouldn’t be able to stay away from her. Mexico. Maybe that would be far enough.

After a while he stopped to water his horse and let the poor roan rest. He opened the saddlebag intending to withdraw a bit of dried meat, but his fingers closed around the newspaper, and out it came.

Alone he could trace the drawing with his finger, study her face as long as he wished. He read over the entire article twice, frowning often. Bawdy limericks? Unorthodox? What the hell kinda trouble was she getting herself into?

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Annabelle was onstage performing the final scene of La Favorita with that obnoxious tenor from New Orleans. Her hair was unbound, falling past her waist and swinging as she turned. The skirt of her white gown was full and long; the hem brushed against the stage floor as she moved to stand in front of the beady-eyed tenor.

The reviews had all been fabulous. Critics declared that miraculously she’d survived her ordeal and returned to the stage with her voice stronger, more passionate, more emotive. Every night the audience died with her as she sang her final aria.

The first few nights the audience had been full of curiosity seekers, bored, nosy people with nothing better to do than try to get a good look at San Francisco’s celebrity of the moment. Throughout those earlier performances her eyes had searched the audience, looking for Shelley’s tawny head. Eventually she’d stopped looking.

What would she have to do to make him come back for her? It was a shameless thought, but she’d set her pride aside to ask it many times. Didn’t he read the newspaper? Had he really turned so completely away from her that he wasn’t even reading about her? She did everything she could to get her name in the papers, even going so far as to stand on the mayor’s table at his favorite restaurant and sing ‘Buffalo Gals.’ Nicky had decided that she was quite insane, and poor Isabel was mortified.

What did she have to do, get herself framed for murder again? If the tenor laid his chubby little hand on her backside again, she should favor him with the same move that had brought Swift Eagle down. Maybe if she was lucky that would get her arrested and Shelley would ride back into town to break her out of jail.

She had her doubts, but most of the time she was certain he’d return for her someday. But when? Thinking about him hurt. The agony was as sharp as the pain she’d felt deep in her heart the moment she’d turned around to introduce him to her uncle and faced an empty room.

Backstage, outside her dressing room, suitors waited, better than half a dozen of them. In the two weeks she’d been performing they’d been there every night with flowers and candy and jewelry she felt obligated to return. A few of them were actually fairly good-looking, but none compared to Shelley. Not one of them warmed her heart, or made her want to laugh or scream or throw herself into waiting arms. Only Shelley awakened her passion.

He watched from the wings with his heart in his throat. Annie moved, her back to him so he couldn’t see her face. Satiny hair danced. The white skirt of her filmy gown followed her like a vaporous cloud. How could he have ever thought to leave her? She was his. Damned if he would let her touch another man, even his brother.

“Excuse me.” A sharp whisper drew Shelley’s eyes away from the vision on stage. The little man was a full head shorter than he, but glared up with irritation. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

He grinned. “I’m waiting for Annie… Miss St. Clair.”

The little man closed his eyes and shook his head as if he were dealing with a simpleton. “You’ll have to join the others.”

“The others?” His grin disappeared.

The man raised a long, bony finger and pointed to his right. Ahh, those others. He practically growled; the man who’d ordered him to move stepped back warily.

He spotted a familiar figure among the suitors. “What the hell are you doing here?” Shelley asked, a bit too loudly.

Bart twisted around, a grin blooming on his face. “Travis. I could ask you the same question.” His eyes traveled curiously over Shelley’s cleanly shaven face, black frock coat and vest, shiny black boots, and new black hat pushed back on his head.

“What are all these people doing here?” Shelley spoke in a low voice as he studied each of the men who waited outside Annie’s dressing room. Tall, short. Dark, fair. Pale, soft faces. Impeccably dressed, to a man. In their hands they carried roses in every shade, a tin of candy, a velvet box.

“Our Annabelle has become quite popular since you left so abruptly. Most of these gentlemen are here every night,” Bart whispered.

He raised his eyebrow and studied his brother with a piercing glare. “Including you, constant companion?” He looked pointedly at the yellow roses in his brother’s hand.

Bart nodded. “Somebody had to keep an eye on her until you came to your senses.”

“Hell, I left the last bit of sense I had somewhere in Utah Territory.” He snorted as he again turned his attention to Annie’s admirers. “What is this, some sort of suitor buffet?”

Dr. John Smith recognized Shelley and gave him an inane smile.

“Doc,” Shelley said as though he didn’t want to club the man senseless. He wore a half smile as he moved to stand directly in front of the cowardly man. “Did you bring those for Annie?” He brushed a finger over a budding pink rose. “She’ll like that.” His grin never wavered as he crushed a single rose between his fingers. Dr. Smith didn’t protest, didn’t move even as Shelley hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers, pushing aside the frock coat so that his Colt was visible, as well as the silver star pinned to his vest.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Shelton,” Dr. Smith said insincerely, his eyes riveted on the six-shooter.