Page 9 of West Wind

He’d stepped from the pond that afternoon to find her drying her hair in the sun. Dark and lustrous, it hung to her waist. How did she manage to get it all in that tiny bun? It seemed impossible, but she’d done it again as soon as he let it be known that he was out of the water. He wasn’t an overly curious man. He lived a solitary life of his own choosing, and had no desire to be caught in the complicated workings of someone else’s troubles. Still, he couldn’t help wondering what had brought Annie to the Silver Palace.

“So,” he said, unable to stand the silence any longer. “How did you happen to end up singing for Oscar?”

Annie studied his face for a few moments, judging him, it seemed. She folded her hands in her lap and lifted her chin. “After I saw those men in Denver I headed north. Brayton seemed like a nice little town, and I simply went to Mr. Beddingfield looking for a job.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m afraid it’s all I know how to do. Singing. When I found myself in a position where I needed to earn money... well...”

“How many saloons have you worked?”

Annie counted on her fingers. “Nine,” she finally said. “I was at the Silver Palace the longest. Some places I stayed no more than one night. Once I didn’t even get paid.” She grimaced. “The proprietor seemed so friendly, so harmless when he hired me. After my first performance he made an improper advance.” She blushed. “I... I pushed him away, and I ran. I didn’t look back.”

“What’s in San Francisco?” He gave her a crooked grin, even though the thought of some dirty old man accosting her didn’t sit well with him. He wanted to change the subject, to make her look forward instead of back. “A career as a famous singer?”

For a moment she looked as if she were going to laugh and cry at the same time. “Family,” she finally answered.

He scratched his beard, feeling even more troubled than before. “Can’t they help you out? We could send a telegram⁠—”

“No!” she said sharply. “No telegrams and no more railroads.” Her voice softened. “I can’t explain. I’m sorry.”

A new tension filled the air. Annie watched him across the fire, a hot tin of coffee cradled in her hands. He stared at her, frowning when her attention was diverted, then flashing his most charming smile when she looked squarely at him.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked in a small voice. He didn’t have any idea what she was talking about and that must have shown on his face, because she clarified.

“Your bath,” she said, and then she blushed as if she regretted the entire question.

Firelight flickered on her face. It was too much, somehow, too tempting. Shelley looked down, breaking eye contact. He fidgeted, his long fingers drumming the sides of his cup, his feet beating a fast cadence in the dirt. “Listen, I’ve been thinking...”

Annie bowed her head. Surely she knew as well as he did that this wasn’t going to work.

“Maybe it’s not a good idea for me to take you all the way to San Francisco,” he said.

She gazed into the fire, unable to hide her disappointment. “I said you could back out at any time.”

“I’m not deserting you, dammit,” he said angrily, even though she’d accused him of nothing. It was her innocent face, those big eyes that looked at him with no hopes or expectations that got to him. “We’ll take that thirty-six dollars and buy you a horse and some supplies. We’re headed north to a pass over the Rockies. Somewhere along the trail I can hook you up with a wagon train or a family traveling to California.”

She nodded.

He felt a wave of relief. That had been easy. She’d probably never expected that he would take her all the way to California. Still, she looked too damn good as the sky turned black and her face was lit by the dying fire. If he could lure her into a safe conversation, something to take his mind off her… something...

“When did your husband die?”

She looked at him oddly for a moment. “Three months ago.”

He nodded. Yes, he would have to remember that she was a recent widow. “How did he die?”

“Pneumonia,” she answered in an emotionless voice.

“What did he do for a living?”

“Boot maker.”

He tossed what remained of his coffee on the fire. She was proving to be damned difficult, with her one-word answers and blank stares. “Get some sleep. We’ll head out long before light, get in some easy traveling before it gets too hot.”

She didn’t protest or agree, but he felt her censure. Somehow she’d come to trust him, he saw that much in her eyes. In the very short time since he’d first seen her and heard her sing, he’d come to feel protective of her. He felt somehow obligated to see her safely to her destination, and that just wouldn’t do. He didn’t do obligation.

Again he laid out the bedroll for her, and settled down with his head against his saddle and his ankles crossed. Suddenly his eyes flew open and he looked at her.

“Part of the deal was you’d sing to me. I’ll forgo the thirty dollars, since I won’t be taking you all the way, but I think the least you can do...”

“What do you want to hear?” She sat cross-legged on top of the bedroll, firelight flickering on her beautiful face. She was enchanting when she smiled, as she did now as she stared at him across the fire.