Three of a Kind: Black Aces, Book Two Read online

  She couldn’t help it; his wry sarcasm wrenched a snort of laughter from her, before she took another step back.

  The corner of his lips twitched, and he shrugged his good shoulder. “Well, mute or not, at least I know you’ve got a sense of humor.”

  A sense of humor? Finnie was already calculating her escape routes, wondering how fast she could dart around him and down the alley to the back door of the High Stakes, all without being seen by whichever of King’s goons was patrolling town tonight. Could she do it without having to knock Quint down? Or should she wait for a moment of distraction and take her chances?

  But then his next words stopped all the frantic calculations flying through her brain.

  “I’m glad.”

  Finnie froze, all of her attention on him once more. Glad? Glad about what?

  He must’ve sensed her unvoiced question. “I’m glad I didn’t catch you in the middle of a crime. Of course, if you were actually stealing something, I doubt you’d tell me. Because then I’d have to arrest you for theft. Unless it was peppermints; I’m partial to them, and Gomez can’t seem to keep them in stock.”

  It was convoluted reasoning. Was he saying she could bribe him with peppermints, or was he just making small talk? He could be real charming; that was part of his appeal, and he knew he could catch more flies with honey than vinegar. So was he just trying to sweeten her up?

  Cautiously, she shook her head, answering the unspoken question about peppermints.

  He shifted his weight again, his hand leaving the butt of his gun and rising to rub the back of his neck in a gesture she’d never seen before. In fact, his voice sounded almost embarrassed when he continued.

  “I was sent out here to track you down, you know. King is kicking up a real fuss back in Washington, yelling about how his investors aren’t getting their money’s worth, thanks to you.”

  When he shrugged, a slight wince pulled at his lips, and Finnie knew his shoulder wasn’t completely healed.

  “I showed up here, and the first thing that happened was you ambushed me and plugged a hole in my shoulder.”

  No! Finnie jerked forward, already reaching for him, when she stopped herself. What the hell had she thought she was going to do, anyhow? She clenched her hand into a fist and shook her head again; half in exasperation, half in denial.

  The Black Ace hadn’t been the one to shoot Quint. As near as she and Hart had been able to figure, it’d been King trying to make the Ace look guiltier.

  Quint was watching her now, his gaze sharp, his hand still on the back of his neck, but all hints of wariness gone. No, now he looked as if he were judging her.

  Finally, he nodded, as if satisfied. “Honestly, I didn’t think it was you. I remember Miss Finnie sitting guard over me the night you supposedly came to finish me off.” His lips twitched again. “You know, you’ve got quite an admirer in that young lady.”

  Young lady. Finnie’s eyes went round under the brim of the hat. He’d called her a young lady! That meant that, despite her size, despite her roughness, he still saw her as, well…a lady. Despite standing here in the cold, dressed as a man, Finnie wanted to squeal with excitement.

  No. He ain’t talking to Finnie Pompey, girl. He’s talking to a man wanted for murder, remember?

  The sobering through was enough to make her breathe again.

  Quint shrugged. “Anyhow, I’m here to track you down, but I haven’t seen you do one thing against the law, not as yet. Hell, I catch you breaking into a respectable business, and it turns out you’ve got the key.”

  He leaned in suddenly, the faint light catching in his dark eyes. “You’re not Mr. Gomez, are you?”

  She couldn’t help it. She snorted again and shook her head. Mr. Gomez was sixty years old, at least.

  “Well, alright then,” Quint said in that delicious deep voice of his. “Point is, you’re a wanted man for a whole mess of crimes I can’t exactly figure you’re guilty of. Of course, that’s not my job, is it?” He shrugged again and dropped his hand to the butt of his gun once more. This time, however, it didn’t look threatening, but more as if he was just resting it there. “I should draw and escort you to Sheriff McNelis’s jail cell, then ship you up to Helena to let a judge figure out how guilty you are.”

  Finnie swallowed. The way he said it, so casual-like, belied the seriousness of his words. He should do all those things. But if he did, Finnie would lose everything.

  Cinco. Her saloon. The town would lose its champion, and King would win. And she’d lose the chance to sit beside Quint Diamon and listen to him teach Cinco checkers, or discuss what was printed in those fancy newspapers.

  She resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut. The smart thing to do would be to run, or at least try to bluff her way out of this encounter. But she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting Quint further. Besides, even with a hole in his shoulder, he moved faster than she ever could.

  But to her surprise, he didn’t pull his gun. No, instead, his lips twisted a little wryly, and he lifted his right shoulder once more.

  “I might lose my job for this, Mr. Ace, but I’m not going to drag your ass to jail. Not tonight, at least. I haven’t seen you commit a crime, and yeah, there’s a warrant out for your arrest…”

  He leaned forward, enough to make her nervous.

  “But from what I remember of that night I was shot, you came into town to save my life. If you weren’t the one who set up the ambush and put a hole in me, then you risked your life—and King’s trap—to make sure I was safe.” He straightened and took a deep breath. “So I figure I owe you one.”

  Finnie was still reeling, torn between being flattered and terrified and relieved.

  That’s when Quint stuck out his right hand. “And I owe you my appreciation.”

  In a daze, Finnie reached for his hand, ready to shake it, but froze at the last minute. Was this a trick? The man was a marshal, trained in combat and tactics, right? Was he lying, pretending to be grateful, just to get close to her? Once her right hand was trapped in his, would he yank down her bandana, exposing her secret and dooming her and the town?

  He didn’t move. Just stood there, his hand out, watching her with patient eyes and giving her no clue what to expect.

  Finnie’s hand shook just slightly, torn between the urge to run and the fierce certainty Quint Diamon was a good man.

  Finally, she took a deep breath and completed the motion. She closed her hand around his, tightening her grip just slightly as he shook hers.

  He’d been her tenant since he’d arrived in town. She’d tended to him after he’d been shot, and she’d spent the night at his bedside protecting him the night King had lured Hart into that trap. She’d touched him plenty of times, and each time, had felt an odd warmth, a spark when their skin touched.

  But shaking his hand here in the dark alley didn’t feel like that. They were both wearing gloves, and this time…well, he shook her hand as an equal, and there was respect there. Grudgingly given, maybe, but still there.

  She let out a breath when he dropped her hand and stepped back.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ace,” he said in that smooth voice of his. “But I’m not going to turn a blind eye again. I’m grateful I had the chance to say my piece, but if I catch you in town again, whatever you’re doing, I will arrest you.”

  Inside her glove, her fingers curled into a fist, and she resisted the urge to cradle it to her chest. Instead, she dropped her hand to her side and nodded to let him know she understood.

  He nodded in response, then jerked his chin over his shoulder. “Now, whatever it is you’re doing, get your ass out of here and don’t let me see you again.”

  She didn’t wait to be told twice. The sack of coffee thumping against her hip, she whirled and strode for the end of the alley. Purposefully taking the route away from the saloon, she hunched her shoulders, half expecting at each moment to feel the burn of a bullet. But when she glanced back as she reached the end of the alley, Quint was st
ill standing where she’d left him, the flash of a match telling her he’d lit another cheroot.

  He'd let her go, because he felt…what? Indebted? Well, he had basically just said he owed her—or rather, the Ace—for saving his life.

  Sure now she was safe, she sucked in a breath and jogged the long way back to her saloon. She spent some time standing in the shadows out back to ensure he hadn’t returned first, then darted forward, let herself in the back door, and ran up the stairs to her room. She locked the door behind her and threw herself down on her bed, her heart beating too fast to focus on hiding the costume, and squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the feel of his hand in hers.

  What the hell just happened?

  2

  It really was a beautiful day, despite being colder than a—well, colder than Quint could remember. He’d thought, growing up in Pennsylvania, he knew cold. But childhood memories, and years spent in Chicago and Washington, still couldn’t compare to the frigid wind and deep snows of western Montana.

  He loosened his hold on the reins and let his gelding pick its way along the road in the wake of the others, and sat back in the saddle. Pushing his hat back on his head, he peered up into the perfect blue sky and inhaled deeply.

  It might be cold, but it sure was pretty. Snow so white, it was almost blue blanketed the hills and mountains surrounding the town, and sat atop the pines and boulders, making the whole place look like a damn fairy tale. And the air! It was so crisp and clean, he could practically taste it!

  He’d come to Black Aces because his supervisors had sent him, but he definitely hadn’t minded the delay. In fact, sometimes he wondered if he wasn’t trying as hard as he should to complete his mission, because he liked the area so much.

  The area, and a particular townswoman.

  The reactions to his arrival in Black Aces had been rude, to say the least. Even though he’d had many successes in the past, and some moderate fame as a lawman, he knew there were still a lot of people in this country who didn’t have much respect for a negro man in power. So when that bullet had ripped through his shoulder—from a sniper with a rifle atop one of the roofs—part of him hadn’t been completely surprised.

  But he’d lived, thanks to the care of the local doctor’s daughter and his new landlady. And as he’d recovered, he’d discovered just how nice it could be to have a…well, have a home. Sure, he had an apartment back in Chicago, but was rarely there. At the High Stakes Saloon, there was always someone there to welcome him back when he returned from the telegraph office in Helena, or from his daily investigations.

  And when she smiled at him, Quint felt as if everything was right in the world.

  “What’s that?”

  Cinco’s quiet voice jerked his attention back to the present.

  “What’s what?”

  And that voice made him feel all sorts of warm.

  He shifted in his saddle to glance at the pair beside him. While most of the rest of the townspeople had come on this adventure—laughing and singing Christmas carols—in sleighs, both Quint and Miss Finnie had opted to ride the horses they boarded at Blake and Daughter Livery. Finnie sat with the boy perched in front of her in the saddle, probably so she could wrap her coat around both of them.

  Now, the kid freed one skinny arm from the warmth and pointed to his left. “Something’s moving over there.

  Both adults shifted their attention to the scrub bushes clinging to the base of the mountain, Quint realized there was something up there, hopping from one branch to another, but damned if he knew what it was. He shrugged, just as Finnie answered.

  “It’s a grouse. They don’t fly far, but they got good camouflage. Easiest way to hunt them is to scare them into taking off.”

  “You can shoot it?” Cinco sounded impressed. “Something that small?”

  “Sure.” She shrugged casually. “It ain’t as small if we were closer.”

  “I want to try that one day, alright?”

  Quint could hear the smile in Finnie’s voice when she replied, “My rifle’s a little big for you yet, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Satisfied, Cinco nodded and hunched his shoulders, snuggling back into the warm cocoon Finnie had created for him in her lap. She tucked her coat around him once more and clucked to her horse. She was a surprisingly good rider.

  She was also a surprisingly good shot to be able to hit a bird on the wing, as she’d told Cinco. Her rifle—which he’d seen her carry a few times for protection—was nestled under her right leg in a boot, and he couldn’t help admire how confident she seemed with it.

  He was finding himself surprised by a lot of things this woman did. She wasn’t beautiful, not really in the traditional sense. She was too large, too wide at the shoulders to be considered feminine, and her features too strong. Her jaw was too hard, her nose too aquiline to fit what the fashion magazines were saying was ideal, but Quint was coming to realize he just didn’t care.

  Sure, she was as big as a lot of men in town, and probably as strong, but as someone who’d always stood half a head taller than most other people, he didn’t mind her height at all. And while he’d heard some townsfolk scoff at her, doing a man’s job in a man’s world, he admired her strength.

  She’d been running the High Stakes Saloon for years now, and it was obvious how much time and love she’d put into the place. As far as Quint was concerned, there was nothing about that worth ridiculing, and everything worth admiring.

  And when she smiled…well, when she smiled that shy grin of hers, he figured the fashion magazines could all go burn, because she was pretty.

  Pretty surprising, at least. His lips twitched slightly at the unintentional pun, and her eyes widened. As she always did when she caught him staring, she blushed and looked down, then peeked up at him from under her lowered lashes. The gesture was just so damn cute, and feminine, and out of place, that Quint’s smile grew.

  And, lucky him, she answered him with a shy smile. Of course, as soon as she figured out what she was doing, she cleared her throat, snapped her expression back to neutral, and turned her attention to the rear of the sleigh in front of her.

  It seemed to be a nervous habit of hers; whenever she caught herself doing something as simple as flirting, she dropped back into her businesslike guise. At first, Quint had assumed it was because he was a negro, and she didn’t want to give him the wrong impression about any feelings she might have. But in the months they’d been living under the same roof, he’d come to realize the color of his skin didn’t matter to Miss Finnie Pompey one bit. No, he knew enough about women to know when one was attracted to him, and she was, without a doubt. He’d come to suspect her reaction was more out of embarrassment of being caught acting like…well, like a woman.

  The thought made him smile even broader as his horse fell into step beside her.

  She might be doing a man’s job in a man’s world, and doing damn well at it, but she was still very much a woman, and he liked he could bring out that side of her.

  “You know a lot about the animals around these parts?” he asked, ready to start any conversation he could, even if it was about Cinco’s bird.

  She glanced sidelong at him, as if wondering his interest, but answered. “I grew up down in Idaho.”

  “I remember,” he assured her. He remembered everything she’d told him.

  That startled her enough to shift her attention fully to him, and he kept his expression solemn, not wanting to smile and shut her up again. Instead, he nodded, and after a moment’s study, she continued.

  “Yeah, well, Pops didn’t used to let me work when I was a girl. He had a partner, so I spent my days riding and hunting and chasing grouse just for the hell of it.” She shrugged and turned back to the road. “It wasn’t until we moved here to Black Aces, and he started drinking so much that I started pulling my own weight managing the High Stakes.”

  He hummed in encouragement. “And when was that?”

  “Oh, about ten years ago. That w
as when the place was booming. Jim Hoyle had just opened the Bicycle, and it was paying out left and right. Silver was a big industry around these parts back then.”

  “It still is,” he offered.

  She made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat and didn’t look at him.

  What did that mean? She didn’t agree it was a big business? Or was it the these parts thing she objected to?

  Quint had spent the last month—since he’d gotten back on his feet—poking his nose into as much of Black Aces’ business as he could, and while she’d been an open source, full of gossip, he still felt a little guilty about asking so many questions. Still…

  “The Bicycle Mine,” he prompted, “that’s the one King’s running now, right?” As if he didn’t know. “The one he’s selling shares in to all those investors back east?”

  This time she hummed and cut a glance towards him. “Supposedly.”

  Did she not think King was selling the shares? “Rumor is that a representative is showing up soon to talk to Mr. King about all the money they’re sinking into this mine.”

  “Really?” Her expression lit in excitement. “Do you think he’ll demand a tour of the mine?”

  Quint shrugged easily, his mind working overtime behind his careless expression. “Possibly. He’d be stupid not to, if he’s really investing.”

  She looked surprisingly satisfied when she turned back to the road once more. “Good,” she said with a nod and a little smile. “I hope the representative sees everything he needs to see.”

  What the hell did that mean?

  “People are stopping up ahead,” Cinco broke in quietly.

  Sure enough, where the road split to head towards one of the mountains, a few of the leaders were milling around uneasily, talking. Sleighs were piling up behind them.