Devon Monk - Cold Copper

“Mr. Hink,” she said through her teeth. “Do not slight me so. I am not a fool.”

He had the sense to straighten up and lean back.

“The only thing you have that I would even consider accepting,” she continued, “is that horse. All the rest of you is abhorrent to my eyes.”

Hink hitched one shoulder back as if taking a punch.

“Rose, you’re just not seeing it straight,” Hink said.

“Excuse me, Mr. Hink, is it?” Thomas said. “The lady is obviously unwilling to entertain your company. In this weather, at this hour, a gentleman’s duty is to give up his mount so that the lady may find shelter.”

Hink turned his single blue eye down on the slender man next to her.

“Who the hell are you?”

Rose had seen that look on his face before. It was the sort of look he gave men who stood between him and the Swift . Possessive, angry, and harder than iron, Captain Hink didn’t hesitate to kill men who threatened the one thing he loved—his ship.

And it was the look he was giving Thomas.

But not because he was threatening his ship. The Swift was safely tucked away in a shop on coven land, being rebuilt by Mr. Seldom, Hink’s second-in-command; Rose; and Hink himself, when he wasn’t drinking and carousing.

So why the look? Because Thomas was threatening to take his horse away? Hink won that horse in a card game. As far as she knew, he didn’t care that much for the rambling old beast.

Then what had put the calculating, killing look into the man?

Could it be his feelings for her?

No, he’d made it clear just exactly where, and who, he wanted to spend his time with.

“Wicks,” Thomas said. “Thomas Wicks.”

“Are you speaking for her now, Mr. Wicks?” Hink rumbled.

“No,” Rose said. “Of course not. It’s—no man speaks for me. But at least he knows how to be courteous to a woman.”

Hink nodded slowly, still looking at Thomas, who stood beside Rose, his shoulders back, stock straight. He stared Hink right back, unafraid, or unaware of just how dangerous that man could be.

Rose was secretly surprised. Thomas had seemed a little distracted, and maybe a sweetly bumbling man, when they’d run into each other. But now he looked like someone who knew how to take care of himself and any situation that came his way.

She suddenly wondered if he had a gun on him.

Oh, for glim’s sake. She didn’t want either of them shot over this.

“Never mind,” Rose said. “The both of you. I’ll walk. Keep your horse, Mr. Hink. I’ll find my way home on my own.”

“I wouldn’t have it,” Thomas said. “I’ll see you home safely, Miss Small.”

He turned half away from Hink and touched her arm.

“I don’t need—,” Rose started.

“Step off, now, boy,” Hink warned. “Woman said you don’t speak for her. I’d be more than happy to see that’s a permanent sort of condition for you.” He dismounted and took the three steps or so to close the distance between them.

Now they were all huddled beneath the overhang of the hardware shop, wet and shining in yellow lamplight.

Rose was close enough to Thomas that even in the low light she could see his eyebrow arc and a hard, cool sort of look cross his face. She decided he most certainly had a gun on him.

“Please,” Rose said softly to him. “Let it be.”

He glanced at her, his wide eyes shifting just over the frames of his glasses to take in the all of her face. Then he nodded and leaned in a little closer, whispering, “As you please. I do hope I’ll see you again, Miss Small.”

Hink chucked his chin up and stared at Rose from behind Thomas. She heard the creak of leather in the seams of his gloves straining as he clenched his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Wicks.” She stepped back so as to lessen the chance of Hink walloping the man.

Thomas moved out of the way and Hink pushed past him to hand Rose the horse’s reins. “I’ll see you out at the farm,” he said.

“Don’t bother yourself, Captain.” She clomped past him, half expecting he would reach out for her, try to stop her, try to tell her that he was sorry.

But he just folded his arms across his chest and leaned back on one foot, glowering in the darkness as she swung up into the saddle—glowering at her as she turned the horse and started away.

The stirrups were too long, set for his legs not hers, but she pretended that it didn’t matter, just as she pretended he didn’t matter.

She had loved him, given him her heart, even if she hadn’t said so much in words. He had broken that trust and spent weeks in the arms of other women.

She didn’t want that, didn’t want a man who gave his affections to any pretty painted bird. But she had wanted him—so much so it had made her ache to think of leaving. But she knew she must.

She urged the horse into a quick trot as the cold sleet scrubbed away her tears.

By the time Rose got back to the farm, she was all cried out and numb, both inside and out. But the numbness brought with it a certainty she hadn’t possessed before: she was going to catch the next train out of town, head up to Kansas City, or maybe St. Louis, then off to Chicago, New York, Boston.

She had horizons to see, and she wasn’t going to let any man take them away from her.

She walked Hink’s horse into the barn, dismounted, lit the lantern with shaking, cold hands, then put the horse in a stall and gave it a quick wipe down with a cloth before tossing some hay in for the poor thing and setting the saddle and bridle in the tack room.

Her room was in the main house, a sort of large lodge building that housed all the people who worked the farm in the spring and summer, and fell empty during the wintering months. The witches all shared in the labor and the harvest of the land, but most lived in town or on their own smaller lots of land.

The gathering room of the main house was empty and quiet, fists of coal from the wood fire that had burned down to ash whispering softly. The rocking chair Mae Lindson had sat in while she was recovering her mind and sanity when they’d first arrived stood empty.

The quiet of the place just made Rose more lonely. And determined. She might have made the wrong choice agreeing to take the boilerman job on Captain Hink’s ship, but she didn’t have to sit around moping about it.

Not wanting to disturb the coven members who might be sleeping in the guest rooms, she made her way on tiptoe across the hall.

Halfway across the room she heard hushed voices, and almost called out softly to the sisters to ask why they were awake so late after sunset.

Probably spells. All of the sisters had been busy lately, mixing herbs and other blessings, making trips into town for supplies come by the mail or train, and then shipping them off again. She hadn’t seen any of the things they’d made their magic with, and since they’d told her it was of both a private and business nature, she hadn’t thought it right to ask.

Better just to pass by quietly.

“But he’s asking for more,” Margaret said. “We’ve already fulfilled our side of the agreement. I don’t know why Sister Adaline doesn’t tell him we’re done with this business. It’s worrisome. Do you ever think what that family of his might be doing with those things?”

“We have to think of what’s best for the coven,” Sarah replied. “Times are changing, Margaret. Witches can’t just stand by while the rest of the world falls apart. We must choose a side. Do you remember what happened the last time witches were on the losing side?”

“I don’t see any good coming of this. Since when do witches choose sides in wars? Our calling isn’t for these kinds of…devices and curses. He can do his own dirty spells. Or buy them from someone else.”