Page 22 of West Wind

She felt so small for not telling him the truth.

“Sometimes.”

“You’ve got a prettier voice than any of them stuffy old opera singers. I thought one of ’em was gonna split my damn eardrums.”

She was glad Shelley was talking to her again, but she longed for another subject of conversation. Any other subject.

“I brought you a present.” She reached for her saddlebags that lay away from the fire.

He grimaced when she withdrew the bottle and held it in the air. “Annie, no. I still remember how bad I felt the morning after we killed off that last bottle of tequila. I also remember that I forgot damn near everything else.”

“Just a swallow or two.” She opened the bottle and took the first swig. “For courage.”

He took the bottle she offered and lifted it to his lips. “What do you need courage for?”

She took the tequila from him and drank deeply before she answered. “There’s something I need to tell you.” She passed the bottle back to him then moved onto her knees, facing him.

His face took on a pained expression that made her want to hit him. “Darlin’, don’t.”

“I don’t love you.” She interrupted his protest. “I wanted you to know before… before you let me go.”

“You make it sound like I’m throwing you to a pack of wolves.”

She wouldn’t admit that it felt that way. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You saved me, you brought me this far. That’s more than any other man would’ve done. I guess that’s why, for a while, I thought I loved you.” She discussed her feelings for him as if he were a disinterested third party. “I mistook gratitude for love. It was easy to do. You took care of me when I needed it most, but I don’t love you. I just wanted you to know.”

Shelley took another drink. It was one more than he’d intended to take. Annie said exactly what he wanted to hear, so why did he feel as if she’d just punched him in the gut?

“You’ll probably meet some great fella in San Francisco and fall madly in love. He can put you in a mansion and shower you with jewels and silk dresses—no black, please—and you’ll live like a queen. No beans and tequila for Annie. You’ll dine on roast suckling pig and champagne instead. Yep, you’ll be some pumpkin. The biggest toad in the puddle.”

She smiled and took another sip. “Sounds wonderful,” she said without enthusiasm. “What about you? Don’t you want anyone to love you?”

He took the bottle from her hand. “Nope. I’d make a lousy husband. I never can seem to stay in one place for very long, and I’m too old to change my ways.”

“How old?” she pressed.

“Thirty-three.”

She laughed.

“It’s so easy to entertain you when you have a few drinks of tequila in you, darlin’.”

“I’m sorry. Thirty-three? That’s not old at all!” She made herself stop laughing, pursing her lips together, but her eyes still twinkled.

He shook his head. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Was it terribly painful?” She laughed again, but he was not amused. He stood and offered her his hand, then pulled her to her feet when she placed her hand in his.

He released her hand and planted both feet firmly as he faced her. “I want you to hit me.”

She didn’t move. “You want me to do what?”

“You heard me. Hit me, as hard as you can. In the stomach.”

Annie pulled back her clenched hand and tapped him lightly in the midsection. “Like that?”

He shook his head in disgust. “Pretend you’re defending yourself.”

“From what?”