by Caroline Lee
He’d been right. Hank woke up before dawn—sat right up in bed, actually—and knew what he could do with the stranger’s advice. The cloak was made to conceal, huh? Well then, he could use it to set a trap.
Impressed that he didn’t have any sort of headache this morning, he pulled his jeans and flannel on over his long johns, and shoved his feet into his boots, stamping a little to warm up. No time for breakfast; he had to see Red immediately.
But it wasn’t until he was standing in front of the orphanage that he realized how early it was. What if none of them were up? Or worse, what if the old woman was the only one up, and he had to explain why he was here so early? But there was a single, flickering light coming from the side of the house that had been designated the “kitchen”, and Hank forced himself to knock on the door.
But when it was opened by Red—still in her nightgown and bare feet, a colorful shawl around her shoulders and hair spilling down her back like she’d just tumbled out of bed—he couldn’t silence his surge of protectiveness. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He knew from her confusion that she didn’t understand the danger, and he pushed her back into the house and slammed the door before he answered. “You look like you just came from someone’s bed, and you’re gonna open the door? It’s still dark out! I could’ve been anybody!” During his tirade he’d backed her into the table, and now she clutched at her shawl with one hand and used the other to support herself on the table top. He knew that he should feel guilty about the alarm he saw in her eyes, but he couldn’t contain his anger at her vulnerability. “You can’t just open the door without finding out who it is. You could get… hurt.”
He realized that he’d shown his hand right about the time her eyes softened, and he cursed. He hadn’t come here to tell her he cared, but that’s just what he was doing. One of her small hands came up to rest on his chest, and even through his thick coat he felt her warmth. Dammit. What was the use of trying to fight it? He pulled her to him, and lowered his lips to hers.
He could probably keep his head, if she didn’t make those sexy little kitten noises in the back of her throat; if she didn’t press up against him so that he could feel everything through that thin nightgown she wore. He wanted nothing more than to pick her up and sit her on that table and bury himself in her warmth… and judging from her enthusiastic response, she wasn’t disagreeing either.
But was it because of what she’d said yesterday? Did she think she was paying a debt, somehow? With a growl, he wrapped his fingers through her hair, and pulled away from her sweet lips. She was breathing heavily, and her eyes were glazed, and he wondered why the hell he was being so noble. “Listen, honey.” He was breathing as hard as she was. “When I make you mine, it’s not going to be because of some debt. You’re going to want it, you understand? You don’t owe me squat, and you’re going to remember that.” Her eyes had widened during his promise. “You got that, Red? You don’t owe me anything. And I ain’t gonna take what’s offered if it’s only offered as payment.”
Her lips made a little “oh” of surprise—or maybe understanding—and he had to step away before he started something he couldn’t finish. Not right now, at least. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from touching her, and took another step back.
“Did you come to lecture me, then?” She’d turned away from him, but he could see her hands clutching her elbows, and worried that she was cold. Why wasn’t there a fire going? She put one small, bare foot on top of the other to keep it warm, and he cursed again. Moving towards the large hearth along the back wall, he began to lay out a fire, muttering under his breath about fools.
“I came here to tell you about a plan, but I found you being rash and foolish again. Opening the door to danger, running around barefoot in winter. What happens if you get sick, huh? You’re going to add to your grandmother’s burden, that’s what. Don’t you think?” He knew he was being cruel, but figured it was better than the alternative: kissing her senseless again.
“I’m not reckless, you know.”
He snorted, setting a match to the kindling. “Could’ve fooled me.”
So quietly, he almost didn’t hear it, she said, “Only around you.” And he had to close his eyes on a groan. She’d offered herself to him; didn’t get any more reckless than that.
There was a long moment of silence that was broken only by the crackling of the kindling catching, and then the kettle began to boil and she moved towards the stove. “I just came down to start the coffee for Abuela and Micah. They work hard, and deserve a few extra minutes of rest. I wasn’t going to be down here long enough for my feet to get cold.” He glanced her way, but her back was to him, and her shoulders seemed stiff. “And you were the one who knocked on my door at this God-awful hour. I got worried. I’m not used to… to being hunted.”
He should apologize. He should tell her that he was only snapping because he was worried about her… but couldn’t. Wasn’t used to having to apologize. Wasn’t used to caring.
“So what’s your plan?” She’d poured coffee into two mugs, and put one at the chair he’d sat in during yesterday’s meal. When he joined her at the table, he was struck by how right it felt. Like this was his place. He sipped the coffee; dark and strong, the way he liked it.
“I wanna borrow your cloak.”
Maybe he should’ve eased her into the idea; springing it on her all sudden-like caused her to choke on her drink, and put the mug down carefully. But all she asked was “Why?”
“Because…” He had to look away from the way her eyes were picking up the light from the fire and the rising sun through the back window. “Because that thing’s good at concealing. Lobo knows you wear it, and he knows that he wants the woman who wears it. But… what if you weren’t the one wearing it?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m going to set a trap for him, and that cloak is the bait.”
“It is a good idea, mi hijo.” Hank scowled at the way the old woman snuck up on him, coming down the back stairs quieter than she had any right to, considering she carried the same cane as yesterday. “Anyone in that cloak will look like my Rojita, no?”
“That’s what I’m hoping, yeah.”
Red got up and poured coffee for her grandmother, and brought it to her place. Moments later, Micah came stomping down the stairs and out the back door, throwing Hank a surprised look as he passed. Hank knew that there was reason to be surprised, and toasted Red’s brother with his coffee.
“But not you, I think.”
He bristled. “Why not me?”
“You are too big to pass as my Rojita. Same with Micah.”
Hank frowned. He had to admit that the old woman was right—both of them were too big to fool anyone who wasn’t half-blind. Eying Red’s slim shoulders under that pretty shawl—eying everything under that shawl, honestly—he knew that he couldn’t pass as her. Which was a dang shame, because that’d been pretty much his entire plan; to put on that cloak, wait for Lobo to get close enough, and then nail the bastard. If he’d had the law with him, they could’ve conned a confession out of the gunslinger, and arrested him. As it was, Hank was counting on the other man going for his gun when he realized he’d been duped; he’d end El Lobo then, for daring to threaten Red.
She was staring at him now, from across the table, her coffee untouched. “You mean that you were going to… to put on my cloak and pretend to be me? Why? So that El Lobo would come after you? That’s dangerous!”
“I’d rather me be the one in danger than you.”
“He’s after me, though.” Her palms were flat against the table, and she was leaning forward, and Hank had a hard time not smiling at the flash of emotion in her eyes. She sure was pretty when she was riled. “There’s no need to put yourself in danger.”
He snorted. “Honey, I’m doing this, alright? You and me can argue about needs and debts after Lobo’s dead.”
She sucked in a breath, but he did
n’t know if it was in response to his jab about debts or the fact that he fully intended to kill the gunslinger.
“What’s going on?” Micah came in through the back, carrying a basket of eggs that he put on the counter beside the stove, and poured himself a cup of coffee. Red answered him without dropping Hank’s gaze. “Mr. Cutter here thinks that he’s going to put himself in danger, to solve our little problem.”
“Good.” When everyone turned incredulous eyes on him, Micah shrugged. “He’s obviously better-equipped than we are to handle this guy, Rojita. If he’s willing to help, why argue?”
“Why argue? Because… Because…” She spluttered to a stop, and looked helpless at Hank, who shrugged too.
“Your brother’s right, Red. I’m handling this because I can, and because I’m not going to see you get hurt. Only problem is, your grandmother’s right. I’m too big for the cloak.”
“I am not.”
Everyone turned towards the old woman, who made the announcement with a nonchalance Hank wouldn’t’ve expected. She calmly sipped at her coffee, while he considered her suggestion from every angle.
“Absolutely not, Abuela. I won’t have you put in harm’s way—”
“She’s small enough to pass as you.”
Red rounded on him when Hank made that observation, her mouth already open in anger. “I won’t have it, Hank. Do you understand? This isn’t her fight, either.”
“Why not? I figure it’s her fight as much as yours.”
“I’m not allowing it. I’ll happily be the decoy—wear my own darn cloak—before I let my grandmother—“
“Se decide.” The old woman put her mug down sharply, and pushed herself to her feet. “There is no more arguing. I will be the one in the cloak.” Her fierce gaze softened, and she patted Red’s hand. “Do no worry so, mi hija. I will be safe. The cloak will keep me so. And your protector—” she shuffled behind Hank, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Will make sure of it. You three make the plan, and then you tell me.” Then she hobbled out the back door, and Hank couldn’t help but feeling that he’d received some sort of strange benediction.
Red was still glaring at him, and Micah shrugged as he sipped his coffee, but Hank knew they’d respect the old woman’s wishes. “Well.” He twisted the mug between his hands. “Looks like we’ve got some planning to do.”
CHAPTER NINE