Ella: an Everland Ever After Tale (17 page)

She was lying on the frozen ground; the sharp rock or stick or something under her rear end told her that. And just as soon as the dull ache in her back faded, she’d get around to shifting off of it. In the meantime… why did her back hurt at all?

She’d been riding hard, and then—oh yes, the horse had stopped suddenly. Had she been thrown? Wiggling her toes in her boots, and flexing her fingertips, Rojita gave a little sigh of relief. Nothing hurt worse than her back, which meant that nothing was broken, and at least she could walk. The mean-spirited animal—not doubt a trait inherited from its master—must’ve tossed her off in such a way that she’d landed almost-safely.

Where was the blasted animal? How long had it been since the accident? Had it wandered off, leaving her here in the Wyoming wilderness with no hope of rescue? Was
El Lobo
even now picking along her trail—having gotten another horse, of course—creeping ever closer to doing her unspeakable harm? Had this delay cost
Abuela
the orphanage?

Rojita groaned, and then winced at the sound. She couldn’t be
that
weak, could she?
Abuela
and the children were counting on her getting to Everland before Lobo, even if they didn’t know it. She had to stand up, to find that darned horse, and to start riding before he caught up with her.

“It’s about time you woke up, Red. I was getting worried.”

Too late. He’d found her. He was here.

She kept her eyes closed, wondering if she could fool him into thinking that she was still unconscious. Everything that she knew about the man said that he was ruthless, but surely he’d wait until she was awake to do any harm that he had planned?

“I can see you wiggling over there. Anything broken?”

He had a deceptively nice voice. Warm and smooth; comforting like
café con leche
on a cold day. It was a shame, to waste such a voice on a gunslinger like
El Lobo
. He wasn’t warm or comforting or nice, but he sure sounded like it. That voice was probably his secret weapon; he could convince anyone that he was a kind-hearted, law-abiding citizen, and then he’d swoop in and defraud their widows of land that they’d purchased legally and rightfully.

But Rojita wasn’t going to be fooled. She knew him for what he really was, thanks to
Abuelo’s
warning, and she was going to figure out a way out of this. She’d been to school in a big city; surely she was smart enough to outthink a common
bandito
like Lobo. Just because he was at a complete advantage here didn’t mean that she couldn’t beat him to Everland after all.

“Come on, Red, wake up. I managed to run down your horse—you’re welcome, by the way. All we’re waiting on is you.”

Her horse?
Her
horse? She’d stolen it from him. Lobo would know that, and would be…
angry
, wouldn’t he? So why did he sound exasperated instead?

Unless… Her eyes snapped open, the bright Wyoming sky not bothering her nearly as much as it had a minute before. Unless this wasn’t
El Lobo
.

With a gasp, Rojita jerked herself up onto her elbows, twisting to find the source of the coffee-warm voice. She had just a glimpse of a small fire and a man hunched behind it, before the pain made everything go black again.

Find out how Rojita and Hank escape
El Lobo
in

Little Red: An Everland Ever After Tale

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.

“My apologies, Doctor.” He waved his glass lazily in Gordy’s direction. “That will be all, boy.”

Gordy, who had to be twenty-four and at least a half-foot taller than Vincenzo, stamped his feet heavily on the wooden floor as if coming to attention and said, in every imitation of a sergeant humoring an officer, “Yes, milord. Very good, milord.”

“Oh, go away, Gordy.”

After the stamping had died away and the door to the hall had swung closed, Vincenzo heard the leather of the other chair squeak as Dr. Carpenter shifted. He took pity on his guest. “I
did
tell him to turn away visitors, you know.”

“I think he liked me.”

“I think you bribed him.”

There was a little exhalation from the other chair, something that might have been a laugh. “He told me that I reminded him of you, and that you’d like me.”

“I don’t like anyone.”

“Does anyone like you?”

“No.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

That earned a chuckle from Vincenzo, and he toasted the other man. The brandy was warm and rich and reminded him of Paris. “So you’ve charmed Gordy. Congratulations.”

“I know that you’ve turned away Mr. Smith and a few others who’ve come to meet you. I thought that you might want to meet the town doctor. Gordon agreed.”

“Oh, he did, did he? Did he say
why
he thought I needed a doctor?”

“Well… ah…” The other man cleared his throat, and Vincenzo could imagine him awkwardly looking anywhere else besides the ruined remains of his host’s face. “I assume…”

“Do not assume, Doctor. Despite my appearance, I am quite healthy.”

“Do your eyes pain you?”

“My eyes are gone. Removed by doctors like yourself a decade ago.” And yes, they still managed to pain him, only not as much as they used to. And he could overcome a little pain; he’d overcome so much more.