Page 79 of Spring's Arcana
It looked like a tiny apartment, right down to the freestanding sink in the front right corner, an old-timey pump handle poised above it like a sleepy snake. Next to the window and the table, its three wooden chairs all different styles, a big maple bookcase held acollection of spines—some old and leather, others cheap paperback, all apparently well-loved.
Nat liked it immediately. The warmth loosened her arms, made her backpack lighter, and she knew that behind the curtain would be a single iron bedstead, the covers so tight you could bounce a quarter. It would be nice to live in a room like this, especially once the bar closed down and you could open the window-curtains, looking out on snow. You could sit at the table and read, or just listen to the creaking and sighing of a solid wooden structure as it breathed.
There was no sound from the other side of the red velvet. If this was magic, it wasgreat;making a warm little nook like this would be well worth knowing how to do. A faint tang of woodsmoke, the smell of clean sawdust and a thread of bleached, sun-dried laundry—every bit of tension fled her aching shoulders.
“It ain’t big, but it’s quiet.” Ranger led her to the very center of the room, stepping onto a rug patterned like the hanging blanket curtaining the bed before letting go of her arm. “You, sir, can take that chair and set it near the fire.” He pointed, and there was that glint in his hazel gaze again. “Y’all behave yourself while you’re on my ground.”
“As if you have anything I want.” Dmitri made a short, scornful noise, but he also took the chair and dragged it, bumping carelessly, over the wooden floor.
Ranger shook his head. “Ma’am, come on in and sit down. What would you like? Coffee? Scotch? Or if you’re in the mood for something more substantial…”
“Coffee would be great.” Nat let her backpack slip, dangling it from one hand as she edged toward the bookshelf, suddenly longing to see the titles. “So… I guess you’re a divinity, right? Is that the word?”
“One of ’em. Used to have a quick temper and a quicker gun, but nowadays I’m more of a keeper, like. I keep track of things.” Another dark glance at Dmitri, and the man moved with swift, economical grace to the fireplace. Two speckled blue enamel cups appeared in his strong hands; he dipped them in the bubbling cauldron. “Andsometimes I ride, or roughneck a bit when I’ve a mind to. Always glad when you come around, though, Miss Drozdova. Your mama’s poorly?”
Dmitri muttered something; Ranger didn’t even glance at him. Nat set her backpack carefully on the chair with its back to the bookcase, studying the titles. Mostly field guides, though there were a fair number of old medical texts, mostly veterinary, and a whole shelf of Westerns with lurid titles. It was warm enough she could unbutton her peacoat, and she found herself doing so. It was impossible not to like the man, he radiated such calm goodwill. “She’s really sick.” Nat glanced over her shoulder, gauging the gangster’s reaction.
Dmitri spun the chair around and dropped astraddle; then he stared into the fire, his profile hardened into granite, his black-clad arms crossed on the chair back. Orange firelight played over his hair and suit jacket, burnishing every sharp edge and making his boot-toes glitter balefully.
“Have a seat.” Ranger brought the two cups to the table, edging sideways with balletic grace. He was, Nat realized, very pointedly not turning his back to the gangster. One cup went in front of what he obviously considered Nat’s chair at the moment, the other settled on mellow wood in front of the other. “If you like, ma’am, he can wait outside. You’re safe here.”
It was almost ridiculous, those last three words. Nothing wassafe,especially not when you were driving cross-country with a man who carried straight razors and a silenced gun, not when you visited a woman named de Winter and agreed to fetch a bloody diamond from wherever your cancer-ridden mother had hidden it, not when “divinities” and “principalities” were doing things that violated every rule of the safe, sane, normal world Mom kept insisting was real all Nat’s life.
Constantly calling your own daughter a liar wasn’t really protection. There was another word for it, one Nat had been trying not to think.
The lump in her throat had swelled.Oh, for God’s sake. Please don’t.
It was ridiculous to sayGod. Who knew what would answer? It was even more ridiculous to feel so sheltered while sitting in a room with two virtual strangers, especially when one of them was quite clear he was going to try to kill you. But the feeling was deep, undeniable, and her eyes smarted. A single hot fingertip traced down her cheek.
“Oh, hell,” the cowboy said, digging hastily in his right coat pocket and producing a crisp white cotton handkerchief. “Pardon my French, ma’am; it’s gonna storm tonight for sure. Take this and do what you need to—and you, horsethief. Go on out and drink at the bar, the lady needs a moment.”
“Nyet.” Dmitri didn’t move, gazing at the fire like it held some sort of secret text. “I stay with little girl,cowboy. Lots of people like to get their hands on her during incarnation.”
“During…” Ranger’s chin swiveled toward Nat, his hand offering the hankie hanging in midair. “And Maria’s still… huh.”
The silence turned uncomfortable. Nat’s heart wrung itself into a tight, painful fist. Of course she’d walk into a nice, homey little room and completely ruin the atmosphere. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, dismally aware it made no difference at all, and accepted the scrap of cloth. “I’m kind of new at this.”
“Take your coat off, sit down. Tell me what you’ve got a mind to.” He settled in his own chair, a slow graceful coiling. His back rested against the wall near the window, and his gaze moved restlessly from the fireplace to the red velvet over the archway.
Nat lowered herself gingerly; the chair was solid, and it was a relief not to be trapped in the car’s confines or on a teetering barstool. She settled her backpack in her lap, touched the blue metal mug. “These are like the ones for camping, right?”
“I like ’em.” Ranger smiled with one side of his mouth, a quick warm glance in her direction before he returned to watching the room like he suspected Dmitri would do something… well, something violent.
It wasn’t a bad guess.
The mug was warm; a hot comforting wire slid down her armwhen she cautiously hefted it. She gave the dark liquid a token sniff, caught between the urge to smile and the lump in her throat.
It smelled exactly, butexactlylike Leo’s coffee, with just enough vodka poured in to make it respectable. Nat realized she was still holding the man’s handkerchief when the tears overflowed again, and she sniffed heavily, dabbing at her cheek. “She never told me about any of this.”Stop that silly crying, Natchenka. Or I give you something toreallycry for. “Maybe she was…”
Ranger lifted his own mug, took a sip. His quiet was almost tangible, but not like a classroom with a towering nun by the chalkboard or a little yellow house full of displeasure. Instead, it was a soft, considering unsound, granting space like the wide prairie outside.
“Maybe she was trying to protect me?” Nat continued, hating that she sounded so tentative.
Dmitri’s snort sliced through the fire’s crackling breath.
Ranger frowned. “If you can’t keep your mouth shut—”
“Why should I?” The gangster stared at the fire like it had made a rude noise instead. “Only thing Matchenka Drozdova want to protect her own sweet self. Count on that,zaika.”
