by Caroline Lee
Eleven fifty-five. Rojita skid to a stop in front of the Van Winkle Inn, glanced at the clock on the big bell tower of the church, and smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. Despite her best efforts that morning, she was afraid she looked exactly the same way she had over the last few days. Same dull dress, same lovely cloak. Abuela had spent some time this morning brushing and braiding her hair in a lovely coronet around her head, but strands were already loosening and falling into their usual lack-of-style. No, Hank wouldn’t see anything special today, and she desperately wanted this to be special.
After all, today was the day he’d find out how badly she’d lied.
Knowing that she was early, she began to pace the boards of the sidewalk, wondering how to break the news to him. Straightforward—I can’t pay you a hundred dollars—seemed like the best bet, really. Of course, as soon as he saw the dilapidated house, he’d know.
It had been good to be home, though. Despite the cramped quarters, she’d stayed up late helping with the younger kids, and then curled up beside Abuela in the bed she used to share with Abuelo, and told her everything. Told her all about the cloak and the will and El Lobo and Hank. Especially about Hank; about how she’d lied to him, and how he thought that she was wild and impulsive, and how he’d kissed her so wonderfully. And after, Abuela had stroked her hair—just like she had when Rojita was a child—and told her that everything would be okay. There was more to the story, Rojita was sure of it… Abuela wasn’t telling her something. And as soon as she cleared her conscious with Hank, she’d figure out what it was.
Eleven fifty-nine. Her breath caught in her throat when he stepped through the grand door of the Inn, and out onto the porch. The silver threads at his temple sparkled in the bright sunlight before he shoved his hat on. It was a lovely, early spring day, and most of the snow had melted, so he’d forgone a coat, instead wearing a thick blue flannel over his undershirt. Watching him absent-mindedly roll down the flannel sleeves over those powerful forearms, remembering how it felt to have them pressed against her back, drawing her against him… Rojita swallowed, a little lightheaded. Heat pooled in her stomach, and lower, and she whimpered quietly.
Not so quietly that Hank didn’t hear, turn, and start towards her. She forced herself to suck in a gulp of air, but couldn’t stop her body from betraying her. As he approached, she leaned towards his warmth, her lips already parted to taste him.
Hank had this way of lifting one corner of his lips; not a smile, not a smirk, but definitely teasing. He was looking at her like he knew what she wanted, what she needed. And there, in front of the whole town—again—he gave it to her. And she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave it back to him, and when the clock finished striking twelve, they were both more than a little dazed.
Dropping his forehead to her, Hank exhaled. He still managed to smell of wood smoke, and Rojita wanted to burrow into his comforting presence. “Damn, woman. You make me…” He pulled back and swallowed, and she grinned up at him, pleased to know that she’d managed to affect him the same way he was affecting her.
It was a long moment of him staring down at her, before he shook his head slightly. “You said something about lunch?”
And just like that, her good feeling faded. It was time to confess her sins, but how? Just come out and say it: Hank, I can’t afford to pay you? Or hint? Or offer an exchange? She was still wracking her brain when he stepped off the porch onto the wooden sidewalk, and pulled her up against him. A gentleman would’ve offered her his arm, but then he wouldn’t’ve kissed her on the Van Winkle Inn’s porch, either. Besides, Rojita loved his strength and his presumption and his rightness. Why pretend that she didn’t?
As it was, his nearness had completely driven away her nervousness, and she decided to just be up front about her lie. “Hank, I—”
“This was waiting for me at the desk just now.” He spoke at the same time, and pulled a telegram from his pocket. Taking it, she read:
Hank Cutter, Van Winkle Inn, Everland
Prisoner released this morning. STOP Did not REPEAT did not get on 11am train to Everland but horse is gone from livery. STOP Good luck.
Signed Trey Knighton, Sheriff
“What does this mean?”
“Means El Lobo won’t be here by this evening.”
Rojita smiled, and snaked her arm around his back so that they walked, entwined. “That’s good news. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know my family, then.”
He snorted slightly. “Maybe. But it’s bad news ‘cause if he ain’t on the train, we don’t know when or where he’ll show up. I’d figured on settling you in at home, and then confronting him at the train station this afternoon. But if he’s coming in by horse, he could be here tomorrow—or any other time—and we’ll have to guess.” He cursed under his breath, and she pretended not to hear it.
Turning down Perrault Street, she finally said, “You were going to meet him yourself?”
“Well, I sure ain’t taking you with me.”
“Why not? This is my fight. He’s after me. I…I hired you to get me to Everland, and you did. Now that I’m here, you don’t need to protect me.”
He pulled her to a stop, and rested both hands on her hips, pinning her in place. “Honey, you honestly think I’d leave you? Just kiss you like that and leave you to fight off a gunslinger?”
She swallowed, and looked away. Would he do that, once he knew how she’d tricked him? He dropped a kiss to her forehead, and sighed. “Red, I ain’t leaving you. Understand?” There was something in his voice that drew her gaze back to his. A sincerity. A surety. “I’m set in my ways, and I’m ornery, and I sure don’t know what my plan for the future is anymore, but I’d be a fool to walk out on something as good as you.”
Something as good as you. Her eyes widened as realization dawned. He was saying… he was saying that he liked her? She had to blink a few times. Obviously he liked her, he’d kissed her enough times, but he liked her enough to stay in Everland? Why? To protect her? That wasn’t exactly a declaration of his feelings, but it made her breathless to consider.
And it was likely to change, as soon as he saw her home. So she twisted her fingers through his—how’d they manage to be so warm, even without gloves?—and brought the back of his hand to her lips. His café con leche eyes softened at the gesture, and he stroked their hands down her cheek. She had to close her eyes to the tenderness in his gaze, and sighed and pulled him towards the orphanage.
But by the time they reached the end of Perrault Street and turned out onto the path that led home, Rojita had worked herself into a panic again. And it hadn’t lessened when they crested the little rise, skirted the copse of fruit trees Abuelo had planted decades ago, and saw the house. Hank pulled her to a stop, and she couldn’t blame him.
The structure was… well, “dilapidated” wasn’t the right word, because Abuelo had done a good job of keeping everything upright, and Micah had taken up where he’d left off. But the roof leaked every spring, and enough of the porch boards were rotted through that the children we forbidden from playing on it. At least the “Zapato Orphanage” sign out front was cheery and freshly painted; Tom had been put in charge of keeping it that way years ago.
When she stopped in front of the building, Hank pulled his arm from around her waist, and she shivered from more than just the absence of his heat. Not bearing to look at his expression, she stared down at her clasped hands.
“You live in a shoe?” It hadn’t been what she’d expected to hear from him, and her attention snapped back up to her home, trying to understand what he meant.
“Did your grandfather build a house that was shaped like that because he made shoes or because ‘Zapato’ means ‘shoe’?”
Cocking her head, Rojita tried to see what he was talking about. She supposed that, if she squinted, the way the three-story structure with the flimsy roof and the line of cross-paned windows abutted the one-story, slopped shoe-making shop might look a little like a boot. One w
ithout a heel, maybe? Still, it hadn’t been what she’d expected to hear, and she turned an incredulous look his way.
Should’ve known he’d be smiling. Not his real smile—she still had the memory of that one, though. No, this was his faint, lips-curled-up-at-the-corner smirk that told her he was chuckling at her expense. So she pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes, and tried her hardest to glare. How dare he tease her like this! Especially after she’d worked up the gumption to bring him here, to confess!
He must not have been impressed with her pique, though, because he put his hands on her hips and turned her towards him, just like he’d done in the street earlier. She stared at the blue flannel of his chest, not willing to risk a peek at his expression, for fear of what she’d see. Was he still teasing her? Was he angry that she’d lied?
“Well, Red?” She could hear the smirk in his voice, and she finally lifted her eyes to his. He looked like he was enjoying her discomfort, but knew that was just his way of teasing. “Looks like you haven’t been completely honest with me, have you?”
Well, here it was. So much for agonizing over how she was going to confess her lie to him; he just outright asked her. All she had to do was acknowledge it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, unable to look away from those lovely eyes. And she was, too. Sorry that she’d lied and ruined his trust in her. Sorry that she’d put him in danger with her lie. But not at all sorry that he was standing here with her at this moment.
She couldn’t read anything in his expression any more, and was suddenly terrified that she’d lost him. Terrified that he was going to turn around and leave, disgusted with her for lying to him. She panicked. Didn’t want him to go, not yet, not after he’d said those wonderful things to her, not after he’d kissed her in front of everyone.
She put both of her hands on his chest, not to push him away, but to keep him with her. “I’m sorry!” She said it again, hoping that he’d see her desperation to make him understand. His brows lowered and he glanced down at her hands, and she was sure that he was about to scowl at her presumption.
“I can’t pay you one hundred dollars, Hank.” She could hear her own breath coming in short gasps, but pushed through. “I’m sorry that I lied, I really am.” Gulping, she bit the inside of her cheek, praying for some kind of sign from him. Nothing; his expression was impassive when he met her eyes again. “But I… I can pay you. I don’t want you to think that I don’t pay my debts, and you did get me home, like I asked. I can pay you.” She repeated it, more to reassure herself than him.
“How?” Was it her imagination, or was his voice colder, harder than usual?
She swallowed. “I can…” She had to take a deep breath, and stare at her fingers, where they were wrapping around the fabric of his shirt, kneading and pulling. “You kissed me. I… Surely there’s something I could… I could do for you.” She swallowed again and had to close her eyes and continue at a whisper. “Something I could do to you. Or you could do to me, I guess, or—“
He cursed, and crushed her to his chest, trapping her hands between them and pressing her head to his shoulder with one hand. She felt him take a shuddering breath, but didn’t know if that meant he planned to take her up on her offer. Something hard pressed against her belly, and her eyes widened as she realized what it was. The knowledge sent heat pooling between her legs, and that made her breath catch. She suddenly was quite hopeful that he’d take her up on her offer.
And then she wasn’t thinking at all, because he’d wrapped his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back to bare her lips to his. He was kissing her, and Dios mio was it hot! She clutched at his shirt and held on for dear life, desperately trying to show him her willingness to… to repay her debts.
“Why you standing out in the cold? Come in, come in!”
He broke away with a curse—one that she echoed silently—and stared down at her with unreadable eyes for a long moment. Then, Abuela called to them again, and he grabbed her hand and stalked towards the house, pulling her after him.
Hank stopped inside the front door, and Rojita—still trying to draw a full breath—tried to see everything from his point of view. Jack and Tom were struggling to carry in the jug of well water from the back, Mary and the twins were helping Abuela bring the meal to the table, and Micah was sitting at the head of the table, trying to comfort the youngest orphan on his lap. Little Blue—Rojita used to call him ‘Baby’—had been so tiny when she’d left, but judging from his scrapes and antics, he was growing into a little boy as wild as his brothers. Jack and Tom tried to set good examples, bless their hearts, but at ten and eight, there was only so much maturity they could manage. Mary Contrary was thirteen, and well on her way to running the household for Abuela, whereas the twins—at six—made up for with enthusiasm what they lacked in any real skill.
The front door opened into the main room, with the dining table set right in the front, the big fireplace—with the pot of beans still simmering—on the opposite wall, the tables and basins Abuela had always used as the kitchen on the far left, and Abuelo’s big chairs on the right. Rojita had always thought this room was cozy, with all of the children clamoring for attention or playing on the threadbare rug in front of the fire, but now that she stood beside Hank, she saw the sagging timbers and the scarred tabletop and the mismatched dining chairs and the patched aprons the girls wore. She glanced up at him, wondering if he saw the poorness of the family, like he’d seen in the house itself, or if he saw the love that had built it and kept it up?
He was frowning as his eyes flicked over the chaos, and that was a bad sign. She was about to apologize—again—when he darted away from her side, striding across the room to snatch the heavy jug of water from Tom just before he dropped it, trying to pour water into the cup Jack held. She couldn’t hear what he said, not over Blue’s wailing, but she watched him point to the cups. Both boys hurried to pick them up, and then Hank poured water into each of them.
Rojita felt her jaw hanging open, and snapped it shut before anyone noticed. He was helping? He’d stepped into chaos, and begun to help, and maybe it was just the onions Abuela was sautéing that were making her eyes water like this?
Sniffing, she stepped over to the table to help the girls lay out the simple luncheon that they were used to; brown bread and beans, with roasted pumpkin from the root cellar. Another few minutes of yelling and disorder, and then Abuela sat down and the children immediately followed. Hank took the chair across from Rojita, which had been John’s before he’d left last year to find work in Denver. Micah put Blue in his tall chair, and the boy immediately quieted when Hank handed him a piece of bread. As they all bowed their heads to pray over the food, Rojita reflected on how well her protector fit in here, with her family.
Too bad she’d ruined his opinion of her with that lie.
The meal was… fun. Abuela didn’t let anyone pester Hank, but the children all accepted him as if he’d been part of their family for ages. For his part, he’d offered a few teasing comments with a straight face that had even Micah chuckling. She’d seen Hank’s grimace when he’d been handed the bowl of beans, but then his brows had gone up when he’d tasted them, and she met his gaze across the table a little triumphantly. Yes, she was used to eating beans, but Abuela could cook them well enough that she didn’t mind one bit. Judging from the second helping Hank took, he didn’t mind either.
By the end of the meal, he’d charmed Abuela, broken up two fights between the children with just a stare, and had even carried on a begrudging conversation with Micah, whom she knew didn’t like Hank very much. Yes, her protector was fitting in quite well.
After lunch, Abuela directed the children on cleaning up, while the adults sat at the table. When Tom and Jack took their hats down from the pegs and headed out to their afternoon jobs—at the livery and blacksmith’s, respectively—Micah shooed the littlest ones out of the way and helped Mary with the dishes while he brewed the coffee. Hank didn’t say anything, but watched it all
, and occasionally her, with an unreadable expression.
The air thickened in the silence, like they were all waiting on something.
Finally, Mary took the three youngest back to school, and the coffee was poured, and the adults breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Abuela took her mug with a smile, and turned to Hank. “You are a good man, Señor Cutter. Stay. You will hear what I say.”
Micah passed Rojita a cup of the thick black drink, and she sipped it, wishing that they could afford the milk that would turn it the same color as Hank’s eyes. She wondered what Abuela had to tell them.
“You think we are poor. Maybe. But not here.” She thumped her chest. “Not here.” She tapped her temple. “But your grandfather, he is not poor, not always.” Rojita exchanged a glance with Micah. She’d talked to him about the will yesterday, and found out that he knew the details of the inheritance, from Abuelo himself. But as far as they both knew, that “inheritance” was just this crumbling building, and the desire to do right by the children.
“Many years ago, we leave Mexico, no? My Ernesto, he is chased, you know this? But why, you ask. Ernesto’s father, he is a wealthy man. El Rey, almost, very powerful. He has two sons. Ernesto is oldest, and inherits the money when El Rey dies; he wants to use su padre’s money to do something good. Something worthwhile. But his brother, he says no. He says ‘you give me your money, or I will kill you and take it.’ He is a bad man.”
Hank’s forearms were resting on the table, his hands wrapped around the mug. He was staring at Abuela like she was revealing the answer to a mystery, but Rojita didn’t understand. From Micah’s expression, he didn’t either.
“So Ernesto gives him half of the money. And then Ernesto and I, we come to Texas. But his hermano, he wants more, and he follows us, no? He tries to kill us both there. So we go to Oklahoma, to Kansas. We find children who need us, and Ernesto, he knows what to do with his father’s money, finally. But his brother, he still finds us. Ernesto is scared for us, for me, for you.”
The old woman reached out a hand, blindly groping along the table, and Rojita grasped it, squeezing. She remembered, although vaguely, the first home she’d lived in with Abuela and Abuelo, before they’d left Kansas, and never wondered why they’d abandoned it. There’d been six of them at that time—the other three Marys, and John and Sam who were working on a ranch outside of Cheyenne now. Micah joined them in Denver on their way to Wyoming, and Mary Contrary was soon after. The other children found their way to Everland once they’d settled.
“So we run. We run north, to Wyoming Territory, where no one knows us, no one to tell his brother where we are. Ernesto know that we cannot be wealthy here. We must be poor, so that his brother will not find us. So he learns a trade, he is good at it, no?” Rojita nodded through her tears, squeezing the old woman’s hand. She’d always known that they’d loved her, this couple who raised so many children as their own… but to hear what they’d gone through, for her and the others, was just amazing.
“Ernesto, he uses the money, sometimes, when we have no other choice. He uses it for the Marys’ weddings, a bit, and for the boys to travel to find work. And he uses it to send his favorite little girl to school,” she squeezed Rojita’s hand again, “So that she will return and keep my dream of the orphanage alive.”
“Yes.” It was all Rojita could to do to choke out the agreement, past her tears. “Oh, Abuela, of course. I’d do anything…”
Abuela’s six teeth gleamed when she smiled. “I know this, and so did Ernesto. And he knows this about you too, Micah.” She nodded to the young man. “He knows that you will work hard to support your sister’s efforts with the children.” Rojita watched as Micah just nodded once, quickly, as if unable to speak.
“But there is still money.” This time, she pinned Hank with a stare, and Rojita wondered what she was trying to say. “Much money. Last year, Ernesto discovered that his brother was dead, many years, but his brother’s son was a bad man too. He wants his grandfather’s money.”
Hank twisted the coffee mug between his hands, but didn’t drop the old woman’s gaze. “El Lobo.”
Abuela nodded. “Ernesto is afraid, then. He is afraid that, since we are old, and since this man is his blood, the money will go to him. He knows this is a bad man, who will not support the children. So he changed his will. When I am gone, the orphanage and the shop will go to Rojita and Micah.”
Hank looked down into his mug, as if the coffee would give him answers. “So Lobo figures all he has to do is wait ‘til you’re dead—or help you along—and then he’s only got to deal with y’all.” He lifted his eyes to Rojita’s, and she couldn’t look away. “He’ll kill Micah, marry you, and have control of the whole damn place.”
“I wondered why he’d want an orphanage…” Rojita didn’t have to speak above a whisper. Hank nodded.
“He’s not after the orphanage. He’s after the other inheritance.”
“We didn’t know.” She glanced at Micah, who was looking as shocked as she felt. “We didn’t know that there was more than just the building.” Squeezing Abuela’s hand, she turned a teary gaze to the old woman. “We didn’t know.”
“Ernesto, he did not want you to know. Money will tear a family apart, he saw this. You, the other children, you were already from torn families, trying to build another. He knew it would not help, to know about the money. So he keeps it a secret, and it worked, no?”
“Yeah, Abuela.” Micah’s voice was thick with an emotion Rojita didn’t have to name to know, because her chest was full of it too. “It worked. You gave us a family when we didn’t have one. You showed us love, and gave us a future. Abuelo knew that I’d work hard to repay him for that, and same for Rojita.” She glanced at this man who’d once been her little brother, and he met her gaze fiercely. “That hasn’t changed. We don’t need the money. We’ll still work hard.”
“Don’t be stupid, Micah.” Her brother scowled at Hank. “Whether you want it or not, it’s still yours, and Lobo is still coming after it, and you. Not today—“ he pulled out the telegram, and passed it to Micah, “But soon. And when he does, I’m going to make sure that he doesn’t have a chance to get it.”
Abuela seemed unimpressed by his impassioned speech, but Rojita couldn’t look away. “And why will you do this, Señor bounty-hunter? Because he is worth money, to you, dead?”
“Because I’ll keep Red safe.”
It was a growled promise, and Rojita was glad that she was sitting down, when he turned that fierce gaze on her. She swallowed, wondering what he was thinking when he stood up and planted both fists on the table. Leaning towards her, he narrowed his eyes. “All of this doesn’t change what was said earlier, honey.” Oh Heavens, her lie, her promise, that kiss! “You understand?” She might have nodded, but wasn’t sure. “I’m gonna go think on this, and we’ll figure out a way to end that bastard. And then you and me, Red, we’re gonna have another talk.”
He stalked for the door, grabbing his hat from the peg beside it, the same as the boys, and slammed it behind him on the way out. Micah looked from her to the door and back again, one brown raised questioningly, and Rojita knew that she couldn’t answer.
Instead, she burst into tears.
Abuela clucked sympathetically and patted their entwined hands. “Shush, mi hija. He will help us fix this. He is a good man.”
That just made her cry harder. Hank Cutter was a good man, and she didn’t come close to deserving a protector like him.