by Caroline Lee
This wasn’t right. Abuela shouldn’t be out there, in danger, while she huddled here beside Hank. Rojita knew that she could be bold, knew that she sometimes rushed headlong into things without thinking everything through… but it was taking every bit of control she possessed to sit quietly on the bench outside of the Gingerbread House, wearing her grandfather’s old coat, while the two figures shuffled up and down Andersen Avenue.
Glancing up at Hank, she was a little comforted to see that he wasn’t watching Abuela and Micah, instead scanning the rest of the street from under the brim of his hat. He was leaning against one of the posts, his rifle cradled nonchalantly in his arms, but she could see the coiled tension in his shoulders, his jaw. He would protect her family. He would protect her family. If she told herself that, over and over, she’d be able to believe it.
The trouble was that this was the third day of waiting. Three days of worry, of watching Micah escort Abuela in her red cloak around town. Three days of knowing that the woman out there holding Micah’s arm while they paced was almost eighty years old and walked with a hunch…but seeing a woman who looked like Rojita herself did in that cloak. Three days of frustration, of feeling Hank’s increasing tension as he waited for Lobo to show himself. And three days of Hank escorting her home each night, of joining them for meals, of leaving her with her family, of not kissing her.
She missed his touch. Even now, she wanted to reach across the space dividing them and brush her gloved hand against his. She wanted the closeness, the companionship they’d had only a few days ago. Before… before she screwed up everything by throwing herself at him. Things hadn’t been the same since then, and she cursed her impulsive nature.
The only thing that kept her from despair was the memory of the look in his eyes the morning after, when he’d come to her house and confronted her. He’d been… worried about her. For her. That, and the way that he was protecting her by refusing to allow her to be the bait, told Rojita that despite his cold attitude, he still cared on some level.
She was looking at him instead of her grandmother and brother, so that’s why her first indication something was happening was the way he slowly straightened. Trying not to be obvious, she flicked her eyes around Everland’s main street, trying to see what had put Hank on high alert. There. A man, his hat pulled down low and his form concealed by a long, fancy coat, was striding from the livery. She held her breath—wanted to hold Hank’s hand, but knew it wasn’t wise—as the man moved towards the red-cloaked figure. There was something about the way he walked…
But then Rojita exhaled. The man had passed by her grandmother and Micah, without even a glance. He wasn’t the one they were waiting for. She must’ve made a noise—not quite a sigh of disappointment, because she didn’t want Lobo to show up, but this tension was killing her—because Hank shot her a glance from under the brim of his hat. Was it her imagination, or did his lips curl up just slightly? Was he making fun of her again, or agreeing? She sighed again, louder, remembering what he’d looked like when he’d really smiled, all those days ago in Haskell.
Hank shifted, moving his hip to a more comfortable position against the rail. It was a lovely day at least; clear blue sky and air well above freezing. Despite the tension, she was glad that she could admire his backside, since he wasn’t wearing a coat. She also saw the handle of the small revolver he carried in the back of his belt. It was a sobering reminder of what they were hoping to do, and once again she wished that she was the one acting as bait, rather than her grandmother.
Abuela had convinced Micah to turn back around, and they were passing by the porch of the Gingerbread House again. Rojita briefly wondered what the rest of the town must think, to see “her” and her brother wandering so aimlessly. Amazing, how the simple act of putting on that cloak could make her grandmother look so much like Rojita. It was like the cloak was magic or something.
When Hank sucked in a breath, she whipped her attention back to the street. The man who’d come from the livery stable had doubled back, and stopped the strolling couple right there in front of the saloon. Right in front of Rojita. She slouched down as far as she could, and held her breath.
“Rojita, mi amada, you’ve been a naughty girl. I told you that you wouldn’t get away from me so easily.” Oh, Dios mio! She’d recognize that raspy voice anywhere. Barely daring to breathe, Rojita flicked her gaze from Hank to Micah, begging one of them to do something.
“And I told you, El Lobo, that I would not marry you.” Her grandmother affected a squeaky, high-pitched voice nothing at all like Rojita’s, and it was only a matter of time before Lobo saw through the disguise. Why wasn’t Hank doing something?
Micah stood stiffly beside Abuela, his hand on her arm, so very clearly not looking at her on the porch of the saloon that he might as well be pointing. This was never going to work.
But to her surprise, the gunslinger chuckled. “You can pretend to be brave, mi amada, but your protector is not here.” He made a show of looking left and right, then shrugging carelessly, as if Hank’s absence was of no matter. When he smiled wickedly, his pointed teeth made him look like a feral beast. “You will marry me, Rojita, whether you like it or not.”
The old woman—her face carefully shadowed by the cloak’s deep hood—spit out a “Ha!” that didn’t impress El Lobo. “You are only a bully and a coward.” She cocked her head slightly, as if really looking at him for the first time. “And my… what big ears you have.”
Rojita saw the skin of Lobo’s neck redden, but didn’t know if it was from embarrassment or anger. She glanced at Hank again; he was holding his rifle ready, the knuckles of his left hand white against the barrel, and he looked poised to jump. They’d been over the plan many times, and she knew that he was waiting for El Lobo to threaten “Rojita”, in front of witnesses. Until he did that, Hank couldn’t be sure that he’d have the law on his side when he called out the gunslinger. The trouble with that plan, though, was that they had to wait for Lobo to threaten. Rojita gripped the inside of the jacket’s sleeves, and prayed that her grandmother wouldn’t anger the gunslinger any more than was necessary.
“My appearance doesn’t matter, girl. You will marry me, and I will gain control of Tío Ernesto’s inheritance.”
“No!” Abuela launched into a tirade of Spanish, insulting the gunslinger and his father, telling him that there was no way she’d turn Ernesto’s money over to him. She did it all in the high-pitched voice, waving her arms around. Lobo was unimpressed, but against all odds, was still calling the red-cloaked figure by Rojita’s name. And they’d gathered an audience… all of whom were whispering and pointing. She heard the name “Rojita” several times, and that’s when she began to wonder about the cloak. Maybe it was made to conceal; to fool onlookers’ eyes and minds?
Maybe it was magic.
“Enough!” El Lobo’s roar stopped her grandmother mid-sentence, and Rojita’s heart along with it. “No one here will stop me, Rojita! None of these people can. You think your brother will? Ha!” In one, fluid motion, he pushed aside his long dark coat, whipped out the huge pearl-inlaid revolver, and shot Micah.
There was a moment of stillness as her brother slowly crumpled, and then the world came rushing back in. Rojita screamed. And then she screamed again, launching herself off the bench towards Micah. Hank stopped her, slipping in front of her to block her from Lobo. But it didn’t matter anymore if the gunslinger saw her. All that mattered was getting to her brother, who was bleeding in Abuela’s arms.
“Put down the gun, Lobo.” Hank’s voice was hard, and from where she stood behind him, trying desperately to see over his shoulder, he sounded cold. He had his rifle trained on El Lobo, his legs braced, and looked every inch the protector. But Hank hadn’t been able to protect Micah, and Rojita needed to touch him, to hold her brother before he was gone. They’d known that Lobo would try to kill Micah after he’d married Rojita, but none of them had guessed he’d do it in public like this.
Lobo’s attentio
n turned from the wailing woman in the red cloak to the couple on the porch of the Gingerbread House, and Rojita sucked in a sharp breath when their eyes met. One of his thick, evil brows rose imperiously, and his gaze darted between her and the woman at his feet. She saw the exact moment that he understood what had happened, and swallowed thickly.
“Put it down. Put down your gun.” Hank’s patience was gone, but Lobo wasn’t impressed.
“Or what?” His revolver still dangled nonchalantly from his right hand, as if it was just waiting to spring up and belch fire once more.
And suddenly, Rojita could see it happen; could see the gunslinger carelessly lift his weapon and point it at Hank and shoot him down, just like Micah. As frantic with worry as she was over her brother, the thought of something like that happening to Hank made her blood freeze in her chest. She pressed her body full-length against his back, as if to remind herself of his warmth, his vitality. As if to remind him that she was here, loving him.
Loving him. Dear God, she loved him, and no matter what had passed between them in the last days, she wasn’t going to stand by and watch El Lobo do to him what he’d done to Micah. Hank’s backside pressed against her belly, which meant that the small revolver he carried tucked into his waistband was digging under her ribs. Thank goodness it was a sunny day, and he’d left off his coat. With two fingers, careful to keep the rest of her pressed against him, Rojita slowly pulled the gun free and shoved it into her coat’s pocket.
Maybe he felt her, or maybe he was just expecting something rash from her. Whatever the reason, Hank spoke to her over his shoulder, without looking away from Lobo. “Don’t you move, Red. Promise me.” When she didn’t respond fast enough, he growled and nudged her with his hip, still keeping his gaze locked on the threat. “Promise me, honey. You stay here.”
Her whispered “I promise” was drowned out by El Lobo’s call. “I’m waiting, Señor Cutter, for you to finish what you have started. We are both armed. Will you be killing me now?” He sounded bored. He sounded like he didn’t care one way or another.
Hank took a step off the porch, keeping the rifle trained on the gunslinger. “I ain’t a killer, Lobo. Not like you.”
Rojita felt her knees go weak as he stepped onto the street in front of El Lobo. Part of it was because she felt like her support had been ripped away, and part of it was the intense fear that swept over her, to see the two men staring each other down. But without Hank in front of her, she was able to see Abuela on the ground, clutching… clutching Micah.
Maybe she would’ve kept her promise to Hank, maybe she would’ve stayed there on the porch in relative safety, had her grandmother not chosen, at that moment, to lift teary eyes towards Rojita. That’s how she was sure that her brother was dying, bleeding to death because of some dumb scheme. Abuelo wanted them to have that money, but it wasn’t worth dying over. It wasn’t worth Micah’s death.
With a muffled sob, Rojita began to edge sideways, hoping that El Lobo’s would continue to talk to Hank, and ignore her. After the longest few seconds of her life, she reached the end of the porch, and stepped down. The men still hadn’t noticed, so she turned her attention to her family, and threw herself forward.