Little Red: an Everland Ever After Tale
Page 15
He was out of ideas.
Hank had spent all afternoon prowling around Everland, trying to come up with a way to make sure Lobo didn’t get what he was coming for, and he couldn’t figure out a single way that kept Red and her family out of trouble. Sure would be easier if this place had a sheriff; having the law—especially law that recognized El Lobo was a wanted man—on his side would mean back-up. As it was, he didn’t want to get any of these people involved.
So now he was sitting at a table in the back of the Gingerbread House, nursing his whiskey and wracking his brain. He’d had a mediocre dinner at the Inn, and couldn’t stop thinking about the chaos and… and fun of the Zapato orphanage at mealtime. The way the youngest kid had shut up and listened to him, round-eyed, and the way those older kids had looked at him and Micah like they wanted to be just like them. It’d been disconcerting… and nice. Real nice, to be fussed over and contribute and enjoy a meal like that.
More than ever, Hank was willing to do whatever it took to keep Red and those kids and that old lady safe. He’d make sure that Lobo didn’t bother them. And then, when this was over, he’d go back to that orphanage, and have a talk with her.
He clutched his glass tighter when he thought of the way she’d looked up at him in the street this afternoon, offering… what? Offering herself? She’d offered to exchange her body for the debt she owed? Hank cursed and threw back the whiskey, pouring himself another glass. She’d been willing to sleep with him—let him sleep with her—to repay him for getting her home, just because she couldn’t afford the hundred bucks?
It was damned galling, that’s what it was. Oh, he wanted her. He wanted her bad, but he wasn’t going to take her because it was her duty, because she felt like she had to. He wanted her to want him, as a man. Not as some way to ease her conscience.
Of course—Hank snorted as he stared at the amber liquid in the glass—turns out that she had that hundred bucks after all. But he didn’t want her money, had never wanted her money. He hadn’t done it for her money—or her body. He’d gotten her home, and he’d keep her safe, because he cared about her, and wanted to know that she was okay.
He threw back another gulp of the burning liquor. So yeah, after Lobo was out of their lives, he was going to have a talk with Red. Only problem was, his body was telling him that he didn’t want to do much talking. But his heart told him that they had to get her silly notions all straightened out before they did anything besides talking. He’d tell her that she didn’t owe him squat, and…
Hank sighed. Then they’d see.
When the woman slid into the seat beside him, she startled Hank enough to make him whisper a curse. When was the last time someone had snuck up on him? Probably El Lobo, when Hank had been ambushed and shot. He glanced around the saloon, to see if anyone else saw her approach, but no one seemed to notice.
“Oh, they can’t see me right now, Hank.” He really looked at her then, startled at her strange declaration. She was an odd-looking whore, for sure; young and not unattractive, with the red hair he’d been fantasizing about lately. But whereas he was looking for burgundy silk, this woman’s hair was… unnaturally red, and cropped short. She was dressed in bloomers a couple decades past fashionable. Yeah, she wasn’t the sort he’d expect to find at a whorehouse.
“Who the hell are you?”
She frowned, her dark eyes narrowing. “Glenda, but it’s a dumb name. The others call me ‘Grumpy’, which is even dumber.”
He could see why someone would call her Grumpy. “Others?” His fingers tightened around the empty glass.
“Do you believe in fairy godmothers, Hank?”
He snorted, thinking about the way he’d teased Red—had it only been a few days ago they’d met?—about needing one. “Nope.” Maybe the whiskey had been stronger than he’d thought? The bottle suddenly looked kinda blurry, that was certain.
“Well then.” She shrugged moodily and, placing her forearms on the table between them, leaned forward. “I think it best that you absolutely, in no way, think of me as a fairy godmother. I’m just here to offer you some advice, if you’re smart enough to take it. Which I have my doubts about.”
He had to glance around once more, his brows drawn down. Who was this grumpy woman? How come no one seemed to be paying them any attention? “Oh yeah? What kinda advice?”
“Trust the cloak.”
Well, that hadn’t been what he was expecting. Hank carefully placed the glass on the table and sat forward. “What?”
He’d tried to sound menacing, but her dejected frown told him it hadn’t worked. “Really?” She sighed, like he’d disappointed her. “Rojita’s cloak can do more than just keep her warm, Hank. It kept her safe until you found her. It was made to… conceal.”
That pause had sounded ominous. “If you mean Ernesto Zapato’s will, we’re way ahead of you, lady.”
“I know. But who do you think gave Ernesto the cloak in the first place?”
This conversation was getting away from him. “Red told me he got it in barter from a customer.”
“Yeah.” The mystery lady sat back and looked fondly—more fondly than she’d look at him, at least—down at her high boots. “He did alright work, didn’t he?”
Hank sighed, and pushed the whiskey to one side. He was getting a headache. “Glenda, what are you trying to tell me?”
She stood up, and shrugged, as if she didn’t really care if he took her advice or no. “Trust the cloak, Hank.”
And then she was gone. He blinked, and looked around, seeing the back door swinging shut. The hell was that about? Trust the cloak? Concealing what?
Deciding that he’d had enough—enough liquor, enough wakefulness, enough being on edge—Hank swiped his hat from the seat beside him. He’d head back to his room at the Inn, and sleep. Tomorrow, things would make more sense.