by Caroline Lee
“Come on, I’ll show you around.” Hank raised his brow when Max DeVille elbowed him, but at least he was no longer staring after Red like some kinda lost puppy. He rolled his shoulders, and tried to focus on the man beside him.
“This town got anything to drink?”
“Sure do. But the Gingerbread House is closed for another few hours. All the girls are here for the social. Plenty of food there, though.” Max jerked his head towards the open doors to the church, and Hank managed to swallow his groan as he hitched his bags up on his shoulder. He had no desire to make small talk with a bunch of society folks. Max didn’t seem that bad, but a church social? He wasn’t a kid anymore.
Still, he let himself be led inside and over to one of the long tables to collect some chicken and a big glass of lemonade. Lemonade, when what he wanted was a beer! But Max must’ve seen his expression, because he winked and nodded towards one of the windows. When they were both settled there, their hips propped against the sill and his rifle standing upright between them, the other man pulled out a flask and poured a generous helping into each cup of lemonade. Hank felt the corner of his lips curl up as he toasted the darker man.
It wasn’t half bad, whatever it was.
“So, you’ve known Rojita long?”
Should’ve guessed he was going to be interrogated, especially after that caress he’d been unable to stop himself from giving her before she left. “Nope. She got in a spot of trouble, and I’m helping her out.” He could still taste her sugar-cookie lips.
“Trouble?”
Old friend or not, Hank wasn’t about to go spilling Red’s secrets to just anybody, so he shrugged again and looked out over the crowd. “It’s her business to tell.”
“Is she okay?” The other man was persistent, Hank’d give him that.
“She says she’ll be safe, once she’s back home. Guess that means she’d okay now.”
“Safe in Everland, huh?”
Hank changed the subject. “You a big man in town, Mr. DeVille?”
Max laughed, and Hank noticed the other man’s even white teeth against skin a few shades darker than his own. Maybe Max spent more time in the sun than he did. “Yeah, I guess so. I know everyone, and they know me. But don’t call me ‘Mister DeVille’. My father wouldn’t like it.” He was smiling when he made the joke, but Hank could practically smell the bitterness coming off him. He shrugged, not letting himself care.
“Alright, big man. Tell me about Everland.”
Max stared at him for a moment longer than was comfortable, but Hank had experience facing off against bandits, gunslingers and rustlers, so this cowboy didn’t bother him. Finally, the other man shrugged, and turned back to the people crowded inside the church to escape the March chill.
Hank heard all about how the town had been founded years ago by his father and another rancher, and how it seemed to attract decent, hard-working people who just couldn’t fit in other towns. There was a hint of something different in the air here, but Max was obviously proud of it. Seemed just a little bit strange to Hank, but it was hard to pin down. The people were odder than usual; Yacob and Martha Spratt—she looked three times his size and was scowling as hard as he was smiling—were chatting with the Pedlars, owners of the town’s largest mercantile. Mr. Grimm, the mortician, looked as jolly as an elf, and the three Gruff brothers—Merrell, Jerrell and Terrell--kept nodding in unison like they were pigeons or something. The longer Max talked, the harder it was to keep everything straight. Finally, he interrupted.
“Let me get this straight. That—“ Hank pointed to a well-dressed rotund man, “Is your mayor, Mr. Smith.” He remembered what Red had said about him being the guy who’d helped her grandfather write his will. “But your blacksmith—“ The man with the thick mustache and the passel of kids running around him and his plump wife—“Is Herr Doktor. Your doctor is named Doc Carpenter—“ This was a dark-haired man standing protectively near his good-looking blonde daughter, “And your carpenter is named Mr. Booker?”
“He’s the one over there talking to Arabella Mayor, the bookseller.”
Hank didn’t bother to find the couple Max was gesturing to; instead, he turned his incredulous stare on his companion. “That don’t seem… odd to you?”
He could tell from the other man’s slight frown as he glanced over the gathered townspeople that he really didn’t see Hank’s point. But then his expression cleared back to the good-natured grin Hank was coming to see was typical for him, and shrugged. “You’ll get used to it, once you’ve lived here a while.”
Hank snorted, and took another swig of the lemonade concoction. “Don’t think so. I ain’t planning on staying here.”
“Really?” The other man’s brows shot up. “This is Rojita’s home. You think she’d be happy someplace else?”
“No.” Hank’s knuckles—the ones he’d torn that morning on El Lobo’s face—ached when he tightened his grip on the cup. “I know she wouldn’t. I just met the girl a few days ago, and she hired me to bring her home.” No use explaining that he hadn’t planned on taking her money, or even the job, ‘til that morning. No use explaining that a hired killer was fixing to follow them into Everland soon. No use explaining why he’d caressed her there in front of God and her family.
“She’s not exactly a girl, Cutter. Or have you not noticed?”
Another gulp of the drink didn’t help cool the heat that’d been pounding in his temples since he’d tasted her that morning. “Yeah. I noticed.”
The people around him were laughing and calling to each other, gossiping and chatting with one another while the children ran between adult legs and in and out of the open doors. It seemed idyllic, somehow. Like how he’d imagined Haskell, when Gunn had originally described it. Like he’d imagined home would be like, once he got around to picking a town in Arizona. But this wasn’t Arizona, and he wasn’t happy this far north. He missed his desert.
Didn’t he?
Scowling, Hank realized he’d finished the drink. He didn’t need to be here anyhow. He needed to be out there, scouting the way Everland lay, to figure out how El Lobo would be coming after them.
“This town got a sheriff?”
“Nope.” Max sounded too cheerful. “The position’s been open for almost a year. You want it?”
“I told you that I ain’t staying.”
“Yeah, but Rojita is, so I figure you don’t have too long to change your mind.”
Problem was, Hank knew he was protesting too much. He’d already vowed to keep Red safe, or die trying. He was already thinking about giving up the dream of a lonely little cabin in Arizona, if it meant being around her longer. Maybe forever. And when he started thinking about ‘forever’, he knew he was in serious trouble.
There was a slight disturbance by the door, and the people shifting out of the way kicked Hank’s senses back into high alert. But it was just that kid, the young man who’d hugged Red in the church yard and triggered that uncomfortably intense feeling of jealousy. He was heading straight for them.
“Hey, Micah.” Max’s smile was welcoming, as always. Hank didn’t know how the man could stand to be so friendly all the time. “How’s your sister settling in?”
“Fine.” He was the one she’d said inherited her grandfather’s business, and didn’t look a thing like Red or like a Mexican; Micah was pretty much light brown all over, and he was glaring at Hank like he’d personally offended the kid. “She sent a note for Mr. Cutter, here.”
Hank took the offered note without thanks, and angled the paper towards the window to catch the light. While the other two men made small-talk, he read.
Hank—Thank you for getting me home again. It’s so wonderful to be with my family again, but I am tired. Tomorrow’s train arrives after 4. Can I meet you at the Inn at noon, and invite you to lunch with my family? Yours, R
Lunch? Hank resisted the urge to crush the paper. The gunslinger could be here as early as tomorrow at four in the afternoon, and
she wanted to invite him to lunch? He stared down at the loopy handwriting, remembering what she’d said about wanting to be a teacher.
Yours, R.
Was she really his? For how long? Until he left? She probably expected him to dump her and run once he got his money, but he couldn’t. There was something inside of him, some visceral need, that insisted he couldn’t leave until he knew she was safe.
He snorted and folded the message to shove into his pocket. Red was always getting into trouble with her recklessness; she might not ever be really safe. Did that mean he was going to have to stay with her always?
“She said I should help get you a room at the Inn, if you want.” Micah was back to looking surly, and Hank wasn’t known for his patience.
“What’d I do to you, kid? What crawled up your pants and bit you?”
“Don’t call me kid.” He was probably in his early twenties, just about Red’s age.
“Fair enough. But you going to tell me why you’re so tetchy with me?”
“Rojita’s… not herself.”
“How would you know that?” Hank meant since she hadn’t been home in so long, but Micah misunderstood, and bristled.
“Because she’s my sister.”
“No, she ain’t.” At this point, Hank was just riling the younger man because it was so easy. Like he’d done with Red.
“She might as well be. I met her when I was five, and she watched out for me. She’s nervous for some reason, and I figure you’ve got something to do with that.”
Hank shrugged, and flicked a glance at Max. “You’re right.” He knew both of them were sizing him up, trying to protect Red from danger and heartache. Same as him, only he wasn’t doing so hot so far. “But I ain’t the cause.” He reached down to pick up his saddlebags and rifle. “Fact is, I’ve been trying to keep her safe.”
The other two shared a glance, and then Max shrugged. “Well, I trust him. He’s considering taking the Sheriff position, you know.”
Hank scowled when Micah’s brows rose in admiration, but he didn’t want to waste time explaining that he wasn’t planning on being in this crazy town too long. “How about one of you point me towards this Inn?”
“I’ll do better than that.” Max was grinning—of course—when he slapped Hank on the back. “I’ll escort you there myself, friend.”
And as Hank followed Max out of the church, he figured the trouble was that the other man actually meant it. He was almost sure that he didn’t want to be friends with this cheerful, sociable fellow… right? He wasn’t planning on staying in Everland; wasn’t planning on making friends. Wasn’t planning on listening to anymore of Max’s bragging about the town, or his stories about Rojita and the other kids at the orphanage.
But he still found himself sitting beside Max at the bar of the Gingerbread House—what a dumb name for a whorehouse!—thinking about the town. He had to admit that there was an odd kind of… charm to the place. He could see how, if someone was the kind of man who could be swayed by pretty women and clean living and friendliness, he might be willing to put up with Wyoming winters. But that wasn’t him. He wasn’t the kind to live in Everland. He wasn’t the kind to make a home here, no matter how hard he was falling for Red.
No matter how hard he was falling for Red.
Cursing, Hank threw back another whiskey. Falling for her? Hell, he’d fallen hard already, and there was nothing he could do about it except enjoy the ride.