Aww, shoot. She’d gone and fainted again. Hank sighed, and leaned back against the saddle resting beside the fire. He’d done his mare a favor, and removed it right after they’d come back to the mysterious unconscious woman, leading her wayward horse. Hank figured the animal deserved a little rest after that run, and it hadn’t looked like the woman was waking up any time soon.
She’d surprised him, though. He’d only had enough time to get the fire going and a pot of water boiling before she’d started stirring. It’d been a little worrying, the way she hadn’t moved for a long while after she’d woken up. He’d been concerned then, wondering if she’d managed to break her neck or something. But his goading had worked—well, mentioning her horse had worked—and he was pleased to see that she was able to move all her relevant bits.
Before she fainted again, at least. As he went through his coffee-making routine, he wondered about that. She couldn’t have gotten more than a peek at him, and he didn’t think he was as scary as all that. But maybe she was the type who’d faint at the thought of being alone with a man? Any woman who’d go tearing hell-for-leather across the open hills when there was a perfectly good railroad connecting most of Wyoming Territory didn’t seem like the kind who’d faint at the sight of a scruffy bounty hunter.
On the other hand—Hank leaned back against the saddle, cradling his cup of coffee and studying the woman—she sure looked like the kind who might. Petite to the point of being tiny, with pale skin and thick red hair that must’ve come out of whatever style she usually wore it in. Her clothes were wool, and good quality, but simpler than he’d seen in some of the cities out here. He didn’t know much about women’s fashions, but she sure dressed like a lady, from the tips of her pointy black boots up to the hood on that ridiculous red cloak. She definitely wasn’t clothed for a cross-the-Territory horseback adventure… even before the animal had thrown her and wandered off, leaving her lying there on the ground like she was sleeping. Her expression had been peaceful, when he and his mare had veered off their path to investigate the intriguing splash of color against the browns and grays of the Wyoming landscape, and one leg had been cocked enough to get a tantalizing glimpse of a black-stockinged calf.
Was it any wonder he’d hobbled both horses and decided to wait ‘til she woke up? No one was ever going to accuse him of being gentlemanly, but he had more than his share of curiosity, and there was nothing more mysterious than an underdressed, unconscious lady out in the middle of nowhere.
Unfortunately, she didn’t look likely to come out of her faint any time soon. Hank glanced at the sky, knowing it still got dark fast this time of year. He couldn’t say that he was completely enamored with Wyoming in the winter, but the starkness did remind him a bit of his Texas. Of course, he also hadn’t planned on spending the night out here in it, either. If he’d been alone, he would’ve just kept riding ‘til he reached Haskell, but the lady wasn’t in any condition to travel right now.
With a sigh, he acknowledged that he wasn’t going to just leave her out here to freeze, either. Luckily, there wasn’t any snow on the ground, and the temperature didn’t feel too bad. Once again, he vowed to be in Arizona by summer.
There was a thicket of trees by the dry streambed, enough to protect a small camp from the worst of the wind. While he waited for her to wake up, Hank collected brush and moved the horses, saddles and packs. Then he stomped out the old fire, started a new one, and set the beans to boiling.
He hated beans.
The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and the beans were softening. She still hadn’t stirred, and Hank was beginning to get concerned. Maybe she hadn’t fainted out of fear of him; maybe there was something seriously wrong with her? If she’d been thrown—which is what it looked like, unless she was the type to climb off her horse and take a nap a dozen miles from the nearest town—then she could be hurt or something.
He gave the beans one last stir, made sure that the coffee was close enough to warm but not burn, and then headed back towards the woman. She hadn’t moved, and Hank couldn’t help but notice—again—how pretty she was, with all of that dark red hair floating around her shoulders.
It was that hair, rather than the cloak, that had caught his attention at first, and Hank supposed that he should be glad that she didn’t wear it all tied up in buns and braids like most women. In fact, looking over her now, she looked almost wanton.
He crouched beside her head, a little disturbed to see that she hadn’t moved since her last faint. “Hey, lady?” Too bad he didn’t know her name. “Red? Wake up, Red.”
Nothing. Hank lowered himself to one knee and his haunches, ignoring the way they creaked in protest, and hesitantly reached for her. The smooth burgundy strands slipped through his fingers, and he briefly considered peeling off his gloves, so that he could feel them. Instead, though, he fisted his hand gently, trapping the silk between leather. He tugged slightly. “Red, honey, wake up.”
It was either the endearment or the pull of her hair that worked. The mystery lady moaned slightly and shook her head. Hank let her hair go. “Red?” Shoot, he was going to have to touch her after all.
Dark eyes flashed open when he ran his gloved finger down her jawbone, and she stared up at him like she wasn’t really seeing him. “Are you hurt, honey?”
No reaction. Instead, she lifted one of her own hands, wrapped in a soft black glove not at all suited for riding and touched him. Hank clenched his jaw when her fingers scratched through the light beard he currently wore, suppressing the shivers that her touch caused. He knew that he should be glad that she was able to move her arm, but all he could think about was how long it’d been since a woman last touched him so gently.
There was a look of… of wonder in her expression, in those dark eyes, that made him shudder. When was the last time that a woman had looked at him that way? Not since…well, ever. There’d been the occasional whore, or sometimes lady who liked to court excitement by flirting with a known bounty hunter… but not one of them had every looked up at him like this. Like he was the answer to prayers she hadn’t even known she was praying.
He was lost. Without thinking, Hank trapped her tiny hand against his jaw, pressing it against his skin with one of his large ones. But that was the wrong thing to do, apparently.
She gasped, and blinked, and in that moment, the wonder in her eyes switched to horror.
Yanking her hand away from him, she scuttled sideways on her elbows, obviously determined to get away from him, and not wasting energy on screaming. She was still staring at him, terrified, and Hank felt his stomach harden. He was someone she should be afraid of, but it still hurt, somehow.
Unfortunately, he was kneeling on the edge of her cloak, and that brought her up short. She took a deep breath, and in that moment, her terror subsided a bit. She glanced down at the material trapped under him, and then back up at him, and back down again. Almost against his will, Hank felt one corner of his lips curl upward, and he decided that he was going to make her beg.
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 w
as 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.