by Caroline Lee
The little minx had broken her promise! Hank shouldn’t have been surprised; he knew her rash nature. But shoot. His heart had stopped when, from the corner of his eye, he saw her throw herself over Micah, frantically patting him. He wanted the younger man to be okay, but he also wanted Red as far away as possible. This had been his stupid plan, and it was all going wrong.
“You are still upset that I shot you, aren’t you?” Lobo sneered, the revolver still pointing at the ground.
“I’m done talking, is what I am. Drop your gun.” It took everything in him not to look at her, not to draw the gunslinger’s attention to the vulnerable women behind him. Dammit, where the hell was everyone? The townspeople who’d been watching the confrontation had scattered as soon as Lobo had drawn his gun, screaming and scuttling for safety. Why didn’t this town have a sheriff? Hank needed some kind of backup; he couldn’t gun a man down in cold blood, but until Lobo dropped his revolver, he couldn’t do anything either. “Drop it.”
The two men stared at each other for what felt like several lifetimes. Hank knew better than to watch the man’s hands; the first sign he was planning on shooting would be in the way the muscles of his jaw moved, the look in his eyes. Lobo’s thick mustache twitched, and Hank almost shot him then and there. The only thing that stayed his finger was the knowledge that Red was back there, trying to keep her brother alive.
It was almost torture, to keep his attention on Lobo, when all he wanted was to go to her, to gather her up in his arms, to help her with Micah. But he saw her take off that thick coat that’d hidden her curves from him over the last three days, and was using it to wipe at her brother’s face. That was a good sign, at least; she wouldn’t bother if he was dead already.
Maybe the gunslinger guessed his worry, or maybe he was just good at messing with opponents. Either way, El Lobo smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile; it was the sort Hank could imagine on a wild animal right before it struck. He pulled the stock of his Winchester tighter against his shoulder, and gritted his teeth. “Running out of patience, here.”
“Fine, fine.” Lobo’s smile turned placating. “I’ll put away the gun, Señor.”
The other man pushed back his coat, but turned and stooped in the same moment. By the time Hank realized Lobo wasn’t just holstering his revolver, the gunslinger had Abuela by the arm and was dragging her upright. Hank didn’t have time to curse, didn’t have time to even fire, before Lobo’s gun was pressed firmly under the old woman’s jaw.
A moment of stillness, and Hank met Abuela’s eyes. He saw courage, and forgiveness, and a trust so humbling his knees went weak. I’m sorry, he wanted to shout. To apologize for suggesting this scheme. For thinking that the cloak she still wore would protect her. For not planning for Lobo’s ruthlessness. Hank had known the gunslinger needed Ernesto’s widow and heir dead, so that Red would inherit everything by the terms of the new will… He’d known, and he’d underestimated the man’s heartlessness.
Abuela was ready to die; Hank could see it in her face. But he knew that Red was watching, and no matter what danger it put the rest of them in, he just couldn’t condemn her grandmother to death without trying.
“I think now, Señor Cutter, you will drop your gun.” El Lobo was sneering again, but it wasn’t as bad as that wolfish grin he’d worn earlier. “You and your puta have played a big trick on me, yes? So use this—“ he jabbed the barrel of his revolver deeper into the flesh at the base of Abuela’s jaw, and Hank saw the old woman flinch, “as bait. You fooled me, but I will win. I always do.”
Hank’s arm began to ache from holding the Winchester steady for so long. It must be because of the tension, the anguish he was feeling. He knew that as soon as his arm sagged, as soon as his finger twitched, Abuela would be dead. The only consolation was that she wouldn’t feel a thing, and that was crummy, as consolations went.
“Again, bounty hunter. Drop your gun, or I will kill the old woman.”
He had no choice. Slowly, Hank lowered the rifle, almost relieved to be rid of the weight, but knowing he could very well be signing his own death sentence.
“Good.” It seemed to Hank that everyone there—maybe even the hidden Everland people watching—was holding their breaths. Lobo looked speculative, his head slowly cocking to one side. “But not good enough, I think. I told you that Rojita would be mine. I will kill the old woman the same as the brother, yes.” Was it Hank’s imagination, or did a muffled sob sound from behind the gunslinger at that announcement? Please, Red. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t draw his attention.
Lobo’s wolfish grin was back. “I told you that you would watch as I made her mine, but I think that was a lie.” With one smooth twist, El Lobo pulled the gun from Abuela’s jaw, keeping her locked by his side with his grip on her arm, and pointed the revolver at Hank.
It wasn’t the first time he’d stared down the barrel of a gun. Not even the first time he’d stared down one this close to him. But it was the first time he’d been so absolutely sure of what would happen. He’d seen how Lobo had shot Micah, without a second’s hesitation, and he knew that the same was about to happen to him. And all he could think about was her.
In that moment, absently wondering if he’d be able to see the .45 slug as it exited the barrel towards him, Hank knew that he loved her. Knew that he’d been willing—nope, anxious, even—to give up whatever vague future he had planned in Arizona, if it meant getting to be with her. Getting to taste her, hold her, save her from danger, love her for the rest of her life.
But now he was going to die, and there’d be no one to stand between Lobo and Red.
He had to do something. The seconds stretched into hours, as he stared at that barrel, and tried to think of a way out of this. A way to save her. If he could somehow distract Lobo, maybe Hank could go for the Smith and Wesson breaktop tucked into the waistband of his jeans. If he dropped at just the right time, maybe he could get a round off before Lobo was able to adjust his aim. It was a long shot, counting on being able to get the gun out in time, but it was Hank’s only chance. Red’s only chance.
As focused as he was on that revolver, he still saw the shape rising behind El Lobo, and he tried not to react. Get down, he wanted to shout. Stay hidden! Lobo hadn’t seen her yet, had to have assumed she’d hidden with the others. But if she drew his attention, there was nothing keeping the gunslinger from turning and shooting her. Hank needed a distraction, but not this one. Here he was, about to die, and his blood was running cold at the thought of Red in danger. Yeah, he loved her alright, and was going to go to his grave without telling her, and that was a dang shame.
“I still do not remember where I shot you, Señor Cutter. But obviously, you recovered. This time, you will not.” El Lobo took a breath, steadied his hand to fire the revolver, and tightened his finger around the trigger.
There was an explosion, and the world stopped. In the stillness, Hank waited for the bullet to come lazily spiraling out of the barrel of the Colt, to spend the eons between heartbeats saying goodbye to Red and the life they might have made together. But instead, a fountain of red erupted from El Lobo’s forehead, and Hank knew with a sudden, intense bolt of clarity that he’d somehow been saved.
Hank had a moment to wonder at how silent it all was, until the sound roared back and Lobo’s body slowly crumbled. Abuela jerked herself out of the lifeless grip, but Hank wasn’t watching her. No, he had eyes only for the absolutely stunning, incredibly brave, stupidly reckless little fool standing behind Lobo.
Red was holding his Smith & Wesson in both hands, still pointing at the spot where Lobo’s head had been a moment ago. Only now, with the gunslinger dead between them, the barrel was pointed right at Hank, and he could see the smoke curling from it. But this time, instead of the paralyzing fear that had gripped him a minute ago, he felt…
Relief. Confusion—how’d she gotten that gun? Intense anger that she’d put herself in danger like that, even after he’d gotten her promise to stay on the porch, safe.
Cold and hot all at once, now that the danger was past and she was safe.
She’d saved him. She’d saved him. He’d been about to die, and she’d stood up and killed El Lobo. At that moment, he wanted to shake her, and kiss her, and promise to love her forever, as long as she never did anything so dumb again.
He’d just opened his mouth to tell her that—all of that—when he heard a shout from across the street. He was still on edge, so his rifle was back in his hand and he was aiming at the man running towards them before he had the chance to think.
His brain dredged up a name from that church picnic all those days ago. Doc Carpenter was carrying a black medical bag under his arm, and Hank’s shoulders relaxed when he realized who it was. The doctor joined Abuela kneeling beside Micah, who Hank swore he heard groan—a good sign. Hopefully Red’s brother would be alright.
Still gripping the rifle, he stepped over Lobo’s body towards her shaking hands. One twitch now, and he’d be dead. Quick as a snake, he grabbed the break top revolver before she could fire it, wrenching it from her hands. She gasped at the move, but didn’t react otherwise.
Red just watched him, still shaking. Good! She should be shaking! She’d almost gotten killed. Every time he thought about her breaking her promise, and putting herself in danger, Hank’s stomach clenched. He figured she’d taken ten years off his life when he’d seen her stand up behind Lobo.
It was that anger—anger at how close he’d come to losing her—that drove him now. He shoved the revolver back into his waistband and, still clenching the Winchester, clutched both of her shoulders. She gasped, but he couldn’t make himself loosen his grip.
“Don’t you ever, ever—“ He punctuated each word with a little shake, “do something so dadgum stupid again, y’hear?” He could tell from the way her eyes rounded that she didn’t understand. “I told you to stay on that porch, and you deliberately ignored your promise.”
“Micah—”
“What were you gonna do for him?” He squeezed her shoulders, not even caring when she winced. How could she do that to him? How could she put herself in danger like that? Didn’t she know…? Something had lodged in his throat, and it was suddenly hard to talk. “Don’t you know what could’ve happened?” His voice sounded hoarse, even to his ears.
“Happen…?“ She had that dang confused look on her face again, like she hadn’t thought things through. Like she’d been bold and daring and completely without common sense, and didn’t understand why he’d been terrified.
Didn’t she know how much he loved her? Dear God, he loved her, and she was safe. She was safe, and he was still alive—thanks to her—and that meant that they had a future. And if he had anything to say about it, that future would be together. “Doc’s got your brother now.” His voice was rough, and he didn’t care. “I’ve gotta go…”
He’d already turned away when her pitiful question stopped him. “You’re leaving me?”
They were standing in a puddle of blood—less of it looked like Micah’s than Lobo’s, thank the Lord—and she was shaking, and he was shaking, and all he wanted to do was crush her to him, and she had to go and ask him that? Hell no, he wasn’t leaving her. He was staying. He was going to stay and make sure that she had a future, by God. With him.
“Gotta send a telegram. To Sheriff Knighton in Haskell…” He pulled off his hat and swiped his forearm across his brow, almost afraid to look at her. Afraid of what he might see if he looked into those deep blue eyes. Afraid that she wouldn’t accept his protection, his future.
A pause, to see if she’d respond. When she didn’t, he took another step, and another, until he was far enough away from her that he could suck in a breath. Far enough away that he could convince himself that she was safe. Far enough away to close his eyes on the memory of her standing up to a ruthless killer, for him.
Not far enough away, however, that he didn’t hear her when she started to cry.
CHAPTER TEN