Little Red: An Everland Ever After Tale (13 page)

It hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear; hadn’t been what he’d
wanted
to hear, judging from the way his hopeful expression crumbled with a curse and he jammed his hat back on his head. He turned towards the porch—probably to pick up his rifle—but she stopped him when she stepped closer and gently touched his forearm. “I figure if I pay you the money, you don’t have to worry about me being ‘obligated’ to you.”

She peered up into his
café con leche
eyes, watched them slowly blink. She’d have to remember to confuse him more often; it was kind of fun. “So now, whatever offer I make…”

He gripped her upper arms with a fierceness that surprised a gasp out of her, but didn’t diminish her smile. “Think about that offer before you make it, Red. No going back on it.” The intensity in his eyes told her that her answer meant the world to him.

“Never.” Her smile grew, and she snaked her arms around his waist, pulling his hard body against her. “I’m offering myself to you now, Hank. Forever.”

And he smiled. The real smile she’d been struck by in Haskell. The smile that he rarely let people see. The smile that told her everything would be okay. “I guess it’s a good thing I telegraphed Knighton in Haskell to tell him I was taking that Sheriff job.”

He was staying in Everland? He’d made that decision before she even offered herself to him? “You mean it, Hank? You’re willing to stay?”

“For an offer like that, I figure I’m willing to put up with Wyoming winters.”

She squeezed him, and he dropped his lips to hers. The kiss was full of promise, and Rojita couldn’t have been more thrilled. He tasted of wood smoke and protection and a future.

Yes, she loved this man, and knew from the way that he held her that it was mutual.
Abuela
had been right all those years ago; Rojita had found her One. Hank’s hands snaked around the back of her head, digging his fingers into her curls there and massaging her neck, just like he’d done in front of the campfire the night she’d met him. It felt heavenly, and she sighed against his lips.

He kissed her once more, and then rested his forehead against hers, still cradling her gently. “Well, honey. Looks like I’m going to have to get used to you leaping before you look, and being rash and bold and brave and foolish at times. I mean, since I’m going to be looking after you for the rest of our lives.”

“Why, Mr. Cutter!” She smiled and stared into the creamy brown eyes that she loved so much. “Is that a proposal?”

“Yeah, Red,” he drawled, “I guess it is.”

“In that case, I accept.”

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next
two
Everland Ever After tales!

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From
Beauty
:

Vincenzo sat in darkness.

He always sat in darkness. Or stood in darkness, or walked in darkness. Or occasionally—he grimaced and rubbed his shin—stumbled in darkness. He and Gordy had only been in the house for a few days, though, so he had to give himself a little credit; he was still getting used to the layout. True, he
had
designed the place, down to the placement of the furniture, and his agent
had
done a decent job of arranging it all. After they’d arrived, Gordy only had to do a little rearranging to make the place match the diagram Vincenzo had been memorizing for weeks now.

Sighing, he leaned back in the comfortable leather chair, and let his left hand feel around the table for the glass of brandy he’d had Gordy pour after dinner. Even if he didn’t attend services, there was no reason not to celebrate the traditional big Sunday dinner, and Gordy had outdone himself. Vincenzo was pleasantly full, sipping a brandy, in his new retirement home. If not for the vague ache in his shin from that damn ottoman, things would be pleasant.

Of course it wasn’t going to last. Knowing the voices were coming from the front hall, he felt safe grimacing into his glass. This was the third time Gordy had had to turn away curious townsfolk. Honestly, he’d expected to be bothered more, but hopefully the stories he’d told the younger man to tell on his behalf would help. Rumor and mystery and fear, those were the tickets to being left alone. And always, always be as different as possible from the gawkers.

He’d spent nine years cultivating those differences, playing to an audience that came half to listen to his music, and half to stare at him in front of the harsh gas lights. He knew how to play to a crowd, to appear suave or beastly by turns, depending on what they needed or wanted to see. And here in Everland, he was fine letting his new neighbors—the ones with whom he wanted nothing to do—see him as a rude, reclusive monster.

At least that way he could be alone. Alone with Gordy and Rajah and his music and his memories.

But to his surprise, the muted conversation didn’t end with the
click
of the front door. Instead, the voices—Gordy and another man—grew closer, until the door to the parlor opened and they both stepped through. Vincenzo scowled, knowing his manservant wouldn’t care, but hoping to intimidate the newcomer.

His efforts were in vain. “Sorry about this, Doctor.” Gordy’s brogue was cheerful as he crossed to the side table. Vincenzo heard the sound of the gas lamps flaring. “If we’da known you were stopping by, we’d’ve spruced things up a bit.”

“If we had known you’d be stopping by,” Vincenzo growled, “I would have had Gordy tie the window shades down so you could sit here in darkness.”

The younger man clicked his tongue in that annoying manner. “Don’ pay him any mind, Doctor. He’s tetchy after a big meal.”

“I’m always tetchy. What did I tell you about visitors?”

“That they were a breath o’ fresh spring air, coming to share Christian charity and kindness?”

“I think my exact words were ‘I don’t want visitors, Gordy’.”

“Oh aye, that’s right.” Vincenzo could hear the grin in the rascal’s voice, damn him.

“And do you recall what I said about having you whipped if you disobeyed me again?”

“No, that must’ve slipped my mind. Also the bit about whoever’d be doing the whipping, I suppose, seein’ as how yer sitting way over there and more’n a decade older’n me.”

“Hmmm,” was all Vincenzo said, because really
hmmmmm
was all that he
could
say in the face of Gordy’s grating cheerfulness. The young man had been with him for years—since he’d tried to pick Vincenzo’s pocket in Edinburgh and yelped in surprise when the “easy mark” lifted him by his own collar—and they’d settled into an easy routine. Gordy’s perpetual good spirits were mostly cultivate to irritate his master, Vincenzo knew. He also knew that he’d long since ceased to be anything resembling a master to Gordy, and now thought of him as a sort of begrudging friend who knew all of his peculiarities and went along with them, because he was paid handsomely.

“Go on ahead, Doctor, an’ sit down. I promise m’lord won’t bite much.” Vincenzo heard the third man cross to the leather chair on the other side of the damned ottoman, and hesitate before he lowered his weight. From the creaking, he sounded of an average size. Gordy took up position beside the table, shifting his feet a few times, and Vincenzo hid his smile in his beard at the younger man’s bored tone when he began to speak.

“
Signore
Bellini, this is Dr. Jack Carpenter. He’s probably a few years older’n you, judging from the gray hairs at his temples.” Vincenzo heard his guest suck in a surprised breath, and knew it was in response to their deliberate rudeness. “Otherwise, his hair is dark, an’ he’s got one of those mustaches that were popular in France, ye remember? No distinguishing features, although I’m guessin’ the ladies think he’s handsome, am I right?” This last bit was directed toward their guest, who spluttered as he tried to come up with an answer. Gordy ignored him, continuing to play the game the two of them had played for years. “He’s about your size, an’ dressed nicely. Good boots, but worn.”

“What in the hell—“

Gordy continued, as if their guest hadn’t interrupted. “An’ he’s just put down one of those little black bags the doctors carry. Maybe he thought you were sick. Well,” he paused thoughtfully, “Sicker’n you already are, I mean, for doing this to the puir man. He’s glaring at me quite harshly right now, ye should know. Oops, no, now he’s glarin’ at yer lordship. …An’ now back to me.”

Vincenzo turned his chuckle into a cough at the last minute, and took another sip of the brandy. Licking the taste of the spirt off of his lips, he said noncommittedly “Then pour the ‘puir man’ a drink to apologize for your bad manners.”

“
My
bad manners?” Gordy’s outrage was false, but well-founded. This ridiculous tradition had started five years before, in Berlin, when Vincenzo had young Gordy start describing everyone who sought an audience with him. It helped him get an idea of who he was speaking to, and it helped alienate the gawkers.

He was about to say something dismissive when the doctor spoke up. “No thank you. I avoid spirits.”

“Do they avoid you too?”

“What?” Dr. Carpenter had a deep voice with an eastern accent; New York, if Vincenzo wasn’t mistaken. He didn’t sound like most of the doctors he’d met on his travels—and
il buon Dio
knew that he’d met plenty of doctors over the last decade—but he
did
sound irritated.