Little Red: An Everland Ever After Tale (2 page)

Instead, she glared at him. There was no other way to put it; she pinned him with a stare that made him feel like a little boy confronted by a
very
pretty aunt, and Hank decided that he didn’t mind at all. At least she wasn’t frightened of him any longer. Or looking at him like he was her savior.

She really was a tiny little thing, wasn’t she? Not much bigger than a girl, really, but the curves under that cloak told Hank that she was all grown up, and he was glad for it. She had this cute little dimple that appeared between her eyes as her scowl deepened, and Hank lifted one brow in response.

She finally gave in, and dropped her glare. “Do you mind?” She sighed in exasperation, and Hank raised the other brow in question, as if he didn’t understand what she was asking. “Get. Off. My cloak.”

Pretending to only just notice that he’d been kneeling on it, Hank shifted his weight, and watched her yank the offending material closer to herself as she sat up. There was a wince or two, and then she was gingerly probing at the back of her head. She must’ve hit it on the way down. It was a miracle she could move at all, really. That’s the sort of injury that could cause problems, immediate and long term.

Thinking about how nauseated he’d been the last time someone smacked him in the back of the head, Hank asked, “You going to be sick?”

And dangit if she didn’t roll her eyes, and drop her hands to her lap. “No, I’m not going to be sick.”

“You going to be okay?”

“Ye—” But she cut herself off shortly, and her eyes darted towards his. Just as quickly, they flashed around the frozen landscape, at the setting sun, at the little camp he’d made in the distance, back to him, and back to her own lap. “I don’t know. I don’t even know where I am.”

He nodded, although he figured she couldn’t see. “Well, why don’t you come on over and warm up, Red, and you can tell me where you’re trying to get to. Maybe I can help you figure out where you are.”

She didn’t say anything—didn’t even look at him—but warily accepted his offered arm and let him lift her to her feet. Then, matching his pace to hers, he led her towards the camp.

Funny, her back didn’t hurt nearly as much with the stranger’s big hand pressed against it. Rojita resisted the urge to lean into it, to borrow some of his strength, because she still had no idea who he was. When she’d woken the second time, and really seen him, she’d known that he wasn’t
El Lobo
after all. But not knowing who he was had been scary, too.

That little grin of his—teasing, not cruel—had eased her fears in an equally disturbing way.

His hands were gentle when he lowered her to sit on a saddle beside the fire he’d built. Until that moment, Rojita hadn’t realized how cold she was, but now she leaned gratefully towards the heat. Her clothing, while perfectly acceptable for train travel, wasn’t well-suited for riding cross-country through a Wyoming March. The sun had kept her from freezing during her little faint—
Dios Mio
, when was the last time she’d fainted? How embarrassing!—but now the cold was seeping into her bones.

He sunk to the ground on the other side of the fire, and started fiddling with some pots. After a moment, he passed her a cup that smelled deliciously of coffee, and she was glad to warm her hands around it. He went back to stirring something, but nodded towards the cup in her hands. “Hope you don’t mind I dug through your packs for that. You’re pretty well-outfitted for camping out on the range.”

She could hear the question in his voice—
So how come you don’t look like the type to be camping out here?
—but didn’t have any way to answer. Surely, admitting that you’ve just stolen a horse—and saddlebags—is a bad way to introduce yourself? And she didn’t know what kind of man he was. So Rojita pressed her lips together and bent over the coffee, grateful for the way the steam tickled her nostrils.

After a long moment, she heard him move, and gave an involuntary little gasp when he settled himself on his haunches in front of her. Even as he reached for her, she was leaning backwards, unsure of his intentions, and irritated that he was blocking the heat from the fire.

And then he touched her, and she knew what real warmth was.

He’d taken off his gloves, and both of his hands snaked around her head, pulling her closer to him. It was already too dark to see his expression, with the fire throwing him into shadow, and Rojita had no idea what he was thinking. But all she knew was that his bare fingers were pressed against the base of her neck, his breath was warm against her cheek, and he was still pulling her closer.

It was frightening, in that she really wasn’t frightened at all.

He stopped pulling when her nose was practically in her coffee mug, and began probing. Rojita winced. Not from pain, but because she’d been expecting—
something.
His fingers poked all around the back of her head, and he ducked a little to be able to look into her face. The smell of coffee mixed with the wood smoke, and she wondered why his touch made her feel so light-headed.

She let him continue touching her for a few heartbeats longer than she should’ve, just because she liked the way it felt. But finally, propriety and her own curiosity caused her to blurt, “What are you doing?”

“I’m checking for lumps.”

“On my head?” She was still talking into her cup, unable to try to meet the eyes that hovered so close.

“If you fell and hit your head, that might explain why you’re not talking to me.”

“Or maybe I just don’t want to answer your nosy questions.”

She heard the smirk in his voice when he agreed. “Maybe. So your head doesn’t hurt?”

“No, but my back is sore.” It was almost disappointing, the way he sat back at her words, and nodded thoughtfully.

“You were thrown?” When he moved back over to his side of the fire, to unenthusiastically stir the bubbling pot, she didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed.

She nodded carefully. “I think so. I’m not much of a rider.” She wasn’t any kind of a rider, but there was no need to admit that, nor where she’d gotten the horse. “I wasn’t going very fast, though.”

“You were lucky you didn’t land on your head.” That was the truth, wasn’t it? “You could’ve been killed.”

“But I wasn’t. I’m not even too beat up.”

“You should be. The hell were you thinking, to go running off across the hills without a single other person around? Who knows how long you’d been lying there before I found you, Red? You might’ve froze to death out here.”

She’d felt her shoulders straighten with each of his ridiculous claims, until the twinge in her back told her that he was speaking the truth. But she wasn’t going to let him know that. Sticking her chin out, she tried to keep her tone as calm and dignified as possible when she answered, “There’s no need to be so concerned, sir. I am alive and quite healthy.”

“You must have a fairy godmother looking out for you, then.” A
fairy godmother?
When was the last time she’d heard someone talk about one of them? What kind of man believed in tales like that?

“Who are you?” She couldn’t believe that she hadn’t asked yet. It just… it hadn’t seemed necessary.

“Hank Cutter.”

“How do you know my name, Mr. Cutter?” It was the reason she’d assumed he was Lobo.

“Your name? Honey, I’ve never met you.”

“You keep calling me…”

“’Honey’?”

She glared at his weak attempt at humor. “Red.”

“Your name is ‘Red’?”

Rojita peered across the fire at him, hearing the incredulous note in his question.
Oh shoot
, he hadn’t guessed her name. He’d just been calling her that, probably for the exact reason that
Abuela
had nicknamed her “Rojita”.

When she didn’t answer, he shrugged, and began to spoon what turned out to be beans onto a tin plate, which he handed across to her. She sniffed them, and managed not to wrinkle her nose at the lack of onions or pork or even salt tack to season the dish.

“You know, in all my years I’ve spent hunting men down, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a horse as ornery as yours.“ Rojita snorted a little—of
course
the beast was ornery—and saw one corner of his mouth curl up a little. “Had to chase her near to Denver before we caught up.”

It would be polite to respond, she knew. “I suppose I should thank you, then.”

“Yep,” he drawled, and she had to take a bite of the beans to cover the smile that threatened in response. They weren’t nearly as good as the beans she’d learned to cook up over the years—beans were surprisingly versatile and cheap, and often it was all they’d had—but they were here, and she was hungry. “Looks like she’s settled down, though. Gonna have to make friends with my mare, if they want to stay warm tonight.” He threw another log on the fire as Rojita shivered. “You spend much time sleeping out on the range, Red?”

“No. Do you?”

“Only when there’s no hotel nearby. Long years of good pay means I can finally afford it.”

“Doing what?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she winced, and lifted the spoon to shovel in another mouthful of the bland dinner. She didn’t want to ask him questions; didn’t want him to think that it was okay to ask
her
questions. But, from his little smirks to the way he’d touched her head to that creamy caramel voice, she admitted that she wanted to know more about him.

He didn’t answer for a long moment, and when she glanced up, he was staring at her across the fire. Finally he shrugged and lifted his coffee mug. “I’m a bounty hunter. I chase down the
desperados
and the
banditos
who make themselves a menace to decent, law-abiding folks like you.”

Like you
. His words immediately conjured images of
El Lobo
, towering over her on that street outside her apartment, explaining clearly and succinctly what horrible things he’d do to her if she didn’t sign over her half of
Abuelo
’s inheritance… or marry him. By marrying her, Lobo would gain control over the orphanage—although
Dios sabe
por qué
he’d want it—and he was apparently willing to hurt her and everyone she loved until she agreed.

She shivered again, the beans sitting heavy in her stomach. She put the plate down beside her, and pulled her cloak—
Abuelo’s
last gift—tighter. It didn’t help; she couldn’t get warm.

Mr. Hank Cutter was still watching her thoughtfully, and he pushed another log into the fire. “Everything alright, Red?”

No, nothing was alright, but she still tried to smile. He wasn’t buying it, judging from his snort. “You feel like explaining why you’re out here in the middle of nowhere, laying around where any lowlife could find you? You have any idea what kind of harm a man like the kind I track could do to a pretty woman?”

She did. She did, because Lobo had told her, in detail. She—
wait
. Pretty? He thought she was pretty? Why did that little realization matter more than
El Lobo
’s threats?

Hank sighed then, and shook his head. “Lucky for you I was the one who found you, huh?”

She looked up and met his eyes. The fire didn’t cast enough light to know what color they were, and his hat had shadowed them earlier. Still, his gaze made her shiver again, but not from cold. “Yes. I suppose it was.”

The fire popped then, and they both jumped. He said something under his breath that she didn’t catch, and then poured out the rest of his coffee and stood up. As she huddled there on the saddle, he stomped around the camp, checking on the horses and laying out his bed roll. And, remarkably, he kept up a one-sided dialogue the whole time, explaining what he was doing. Like a lecture from one of her professors, who’d remembered that she didn’t know the first thing about camping on the open range.

It wasn’t until he’d scraped off the dinner dishes and packed them away that she understood what he was doing; he was trying to put her at ease. And it wasn’t until he sunk down to his haunches beside her, and she turned towards his warmth unthinkingly, that she realized it had worked.