Ante Up: Black Aces Book One Page 6

  Growing up as a half-breed—quarter-breed actually, but no one bothered with that difference—in Black Aces hadn’t been all that bad. Hart had learned early on that he was tolerated if he kept his head down and didn’t piss anyone off. So mostly, he kept to himself; attended church alone since Pa’s death, did his business alone, and drank alone.

  Unless Finnie could spare a moment, like now. It was mid-morning, so Hart was the only one in the saloon besides her. And since it was too early for whiskey, she’d brewed them both a pot of coffee.

  She propped her hip against the bar and warmed her hands on her coffee cup. “You hear about the Ace shooting Stilton? His burial was last week, but no one went.”

  Their gossip sessions had become a tradition, and they were the way Hart got all of his local information. If someone needed help, or someone was hurting for money, thanks to King, Finnie inevitably found out about it. And Hart made a point to visit her once a week to hear it all. Even after all these years, he wasn’t sure if she was feeding him necessary info because she knew he was the Ace, or if she just spread the gossip to everyone, hoping the Ace would hear about it.

  Or maybe she just liked to gossip. Hard to say.

  But their chat lasted nearly an hour, and three cups of coffee each. He made some mental notes about families who might need some help, and was pleased to hear from her—who’d heard it from a miner, who’d heard it from Mr. Steuben himself—that the Steuben kid was on the mend. They talked about King’s threatened rent increase on old Mrs. Hoyle. Without the mine, and with her husband dead, the woman’s resources were limited.

  As she walked Hart to the door, Finnie clicked her tongue. “I just feel so sorry for her. That’s her home, and it was downright rotten of Mr. Hoyle to bet all that land. Would’ve liked to know what his hand was, to be so sure about it he’d put up his mine.”

  Hart grunted in agreement as he pulled on his coat. “Happening in Denver the way it did, I doubt we’ll ever get the whole story.”

  “Especially with King being the one doing the telling. You ever wonder…”

  When she trailed off, Hart raised a brow at her. “If he’s lying through his teeth? If his story about Hoyle losing the mine and the land, then up and dying like that, might not be completely true? If he murdered the man, then swept into town with the deed, ready to strip that mine as the rightful owner?”

  There was silence, and Finnie looked mighty uncomfortable to hear such thoughts spoken out loud.

  Hart remembered his place as the affable outsider. “Because I sure don’t,” he said as he jammed his hat on his head with an easy smile.

  His friend just chuckled and shook her head, reaching for the door handle. “You’d better watch your mouth out there, Hart.”

  “Yes, ma’am. See you next week?”

  “Surely. I’ll—”

  He never found out what Finnie was going to say, because she opened the door just as Regina was walking by, and all of Hart’s attention landed on a set of beautiful blue eyes.

  And the way they lit up when they saw him? That made him feel downright blessed.

  “Miss Regina,” he said, tipping his hat and stepping out of the saloon completely. “How are you this morning?”

  “Quite well, Mr. Hartwell,” she said with a teasing grin as she waved to Finnie. “Isn’t it a little early for imbibing?”

  “Never too early for coffee with a friend, Miss Regina.”

  She giggled at his formality as she took his arm and they moved down the boardwalk. “I’ve been hoping to see you again, Hart.”

  His heart leaped at her confession, but he tried to keep his voice level. “Oh yeah?”

  “I have some questions— Oh!”

  Right in front of them, Mr. King stepped out of Sinclair’s Fine Dining. Regina’s startled exclamation drew the other man's attention, and Hart didn’t like the appreciative gleam in his eyes. As if he’d just seen a new acquisition he must have.

  Especially since those same eyes turned cruel when they turned to Hart.

  “Why, Miss Vickers,” King drawled, “I had no idea you were so engaged in charity. After all, what else could it be called when a fine Christian woman such as yourself is seen in the company of this Indian?”

  The insult didn’t bother Hart, but he liked the way Regina’s shoulders went back and her hold on him tightened.

  “Hart and I are friends, Mr. King. He’s a good man.”

  A good man?

  He told himself her defense of him shouldn’t mean that much—anyone with a lick of sense could see King’s views on race were outdated, it being the Nineteenth Century and all—but that didn’t stop Hart from grinning.

  When he saw that, King sneered. “Friends? That is charitable, Miss Vickers. Being friends with a man who not only has the wrong color skin, but is likely just as degraded and backwards as the rest of his people, can be dangerous. The man lives with animals, and likely is little better.”

  Animals?

  Oh, his horses.

  King really was stretching here, wasn’t he?

  But Regina, bless her, just sniffed regally. “He’s a businessman the same as you, Mr. King.”

  The man moved faster than a snake, thrusting his face towards her and forcing Regina to shuffle backwards quickly.

  “No, Miss Vickers. He’s nothing like me. I own half this town and a successful mine. My home is grand and comfortable, and lacks only a woman’s touch. I can give my friends any amount of benefits and gifts and power. Power, Miss Vickers, over those lesser than you. It is a strong attraction, is it not?”

  He straightened just as swiftly, leaving Regina’s mouth hanging open.

  In shock?

  She was a woman who knew her own mind, and didn’t mind sharing her thoughts. Seeing her looking so speechless was uncanny.

  Did King realize?

  Maybe he did, because the look he turned on Hart was gloating. “I doubt any of your other friends could offer you near as much, Miss Vickers. Especially not a half-breed horse rancher who only comes to town occasionally.”

  Hart didn’t bother rising to the bait. He just lifted one brow at King, which seemed to infuriate the other man.

  “I hold all the cards, Hartwell,” King hissed. “If you’re foolish enough to play, it’s time to ante up.”

  He nodded curtly to Regina, then spun on his heel. “McAuliffe! Where are you?”

  Beside Hart, Regina exhaled slowly. “Oh my,” she whispered.

  Since King was still within hearing, obviously searching for one of his goons, Hart kept his voice low when he asked, “Didn’t expect that, did you?”

  “I’ve known he held a tendre for me, but my goodness, he’s never stated it so openly.”

  “Do you think he means to court you?”

  Regina snorted softly. “I think that man doesn’t know how to court. I think he’d just show up and claim me.”

  The thought made Hart’s hackles raise. “He’ll regret it, if he does.”

  Disregarding King still in their sight, she turned to face Hart fully. Her head cocked as she peered up at him, considering. “Oh yes? And why is that?”

  Even through both their coats, he could feel the warmth of her hand on his arm. He took the other hand in his, and lightly squeezed her fingers. “Because I intend to make you mine, Miss Regina. I’ll leave the decision up to you, of course, but I’m not about to let that blowhard hurt someone I care about.”

  She didn’t say anything for what seemed like forever, her eyes searching his face. Finally, she hummed noncommittally. “Well, this certainly has been an enlightening five minutes, hasn’t it?”

  Before he could respond—not that he had any idea what he would’ve said—a wordless shout from up ahead stopped him.

  King had disappeared, but the man he’d been looking for—McAuliffe—was in the middle of the street, bent over something, kicking it repeatedly. His yells were indistinct, but he was clearly angry.

  Hart glanced down at Re
gina, then strode towards the excitement.

  “What are you— Hart!”

  He didn’t even pause when she called for him, but broke into a jog instead. McAuliffe had twisted, his big boots slamming into what appeared to be a sack in the street.

  But Hart had a terrible feeling it wasn’t a sack. If Stilton had been over-eager, and O’Grady lazy, and Burton quiet and meticulous…then McAuliffe was King’s weapon. The brute had beaten more than one visiting cowboy, and on the few occasions Hart—as the Ace—had actually interrupted the goons doing King’s dirty work, McAuliffe had been the one lighting the fires or slapping around the business owners.

  He was a menace, and he had no conscience.

  “Hey!” Hart called, hoping to distract him. “Everything alright?”

  McAuliffe didn’t pause, but slammed his boot into the sack again. The sack cried out.

  “This vermin tried to pick my pocket,” he panted in between kicks. “Showing him a little discipline.”

  Hart slowed to a stop as he made sense of the words. Discipline?

  On the ground, what he’d thought was a sack rolled over, and Hart saw a boy. A child, with skin a few shades darker than his own, holding his bruised, battered and bloody arms over his equally abused head in a futile attempt to protect himself.

  Hart saw red.

  He slammed into McAuliffe just as the man readied himself to take another swing with his boot, and knocked King’s brute away from the boy. McAuliffe stumbled away, but recovered and turned with his fists balled.

  “What in the hell!”

  “You oughta be ashamed!” Hart hollered, not caring that they were drawing an audience. “He’s a kid!” He lifted his own fists and moved between the man and the boy, fully prepared to take a beating, if necessary. “Pick on someone your own size.”

  But McAuliffe snorted. “You? I ain’t gonna taint my knuckles with your blood, ‘breed.”

  Hart was breathing heavily, not sure if it was fear or anger or something else coursing through his veins. “I bleed just the same as you. Come on!” All he could think of was smashing his fist into McAuliffe’s nose, causing pain for the pain the man had meted out to such a young and helpless child.

  But the other man had lowered his fists dismissively, as if Hart wasn’t worth his effort. “You all stick together, don’t you?” he sneered. “I’ve taught that Mexican a lesson, an’ that’s all I cared about. It was my Christian duty, otherwise he’d land behind bars, surely.”

  Before Hart could comment on the hypocrisy, McAuliffe had turned and was ambling in the direction King had taken.

  “Hart!”

  When he heard Regina call his name, he forced himself to dismiss McAuliffe from his mind, and turned. She was kneeling in the dirt, her hands flitting over the boy’s limbs, as if checking his bones. A few of the townspeople stood around her, muttering quietly, but Hart didn’t pay them any mind. They hadn’t bothered to stand up to McAuliffe on the boy’s behalf.

  No one stood up to McAuliffe.

  “Hart, we need to get him somewhere safe.”

  Her words kicked him into motion. Stooping beside her, he slid his hands under the boy’s legs and behind his back, and lifted. He was young, maybe seven, with short black hair and tears on his cheeks. Even with his darker skin, the bruises were beginning to show.

  Standing there in the street, cradling the boy against his chest, Hart knew he was far too skinny. The bones in his wrists stood out, which was made even more obvious by the fact the poor kid didn’t have a coat. His shirt and trousers were threadbare, and he was shivering, although whether from fear or cold, it was impossible to tell. Probably both, to be honest.

  No wonder he’d tried to steal money.

  But where in the world had he come from?

  “Don’t worry, kid,” Hart found himself murmuring. “We’ll find someplace for you.”

  Regina stood beside him, already intent on the boy’s injuries, and at that moment, Finnie barreled to a stop beside them.

  “My place,” she said breathlessly. “I saw it all—”

  “He needs medical attention,” Regina interrupted.

  Finnie nodded, already walking backwards, her plain skirt swishing around her ankles. “All my rooms are open right now. He’ll be safe there.”

  He followed her back to the High Stakes, with Regina hurrying alongside. No one said much, and Hart felt his pulse slamming in his ears. He was just so damn angry.

  What kind of man kicked a kid like that?

  A man who enjoyed causing pain, that’s who.

  A man who deserved to feel the same pain.

  Maybe the Black Ace could do something about that.

  Upstairs in the saloon, Hart gently laid the little boy down on the bed, and Regina began a more thorough examination, lifting his shirt to check for damage to his ribs, ribs covered with nothing more than battered skin.

  When the boy whimpered, Finnie echoed the sound and sank down on the other side of the mattress, taking the boy’s small hand in hers.

  His eyes opened, a lighter brown than Hart had expected, and met Finnie’s.

  “Hurts,” he whimpered.

  “I know, son,” she whispered in return, her free hand going to his head to stroke his tight curls. “But it’ll be better. Miss Regina is a doctor, near enough, and she’ll make it better.”

  His lower lip trembled, and he whispered something Hart couldn’t hear.

  But Finnie made a noise in the back of her throat, a noise which might’ve been a sob, and whispered, “I promise.”

  It took Regina near an hour to work her magic on the boy, with cold compresses and wrapping his broken leg. An hour during which Hart stood silently by, or pacing, feeling useless. Finally, she straightened with a cheery smile.

  “I’ll bring over some medicine later this afternoon, alright? In the meanwhile, I think some whiskey might help. He needs sleep.”

  Finnie, who’d been in and out, held up a bottle. “Way ahead of you.” She poured out a small dose and helped the boy sit up to drink it.

  Regina nodded firmly and began backing towards the door. “I’ll be back later,” she whispered as she snagged Hart’s hand and tugged him behind her.

  When they stepped into the hall and she pulled the door closed behind them, Hart took a deep breath and let himself admire her. She sure was a sight when she took charge like that, bossing everyone around. It was clear she was in her element, caring for people.

  Especially if that person was a little kid who’d just had his leg broken by a man five times his size.

  Hart felt his heart begin to pound in anger once again.

  Regina’s fingers tightened around his, and he glanced at her just in time for her to push him up against the wall on the other side of the hall.

  “Wha—?” was all he managed before her palm slapped against the wall beside his head, and she was leaning towards him. It was almost laughable that this little woman could think to hold him in place—she wasn’t even half Finnie’s size—but it was her hand in his that kept him there, more than the threatening look in her eyes.

  “River Hartwell,” she began in a commanding tone, “you listen to me. You are not to go hunt down McAuliffe, either now or later tonight.”

  His eyes widened. He’d never seen this particular side of her. Briefly, he wondered if anyone had. She was actually a little scary.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tried.

  She was having none of it. “I saw the way you looked at him,” she scoffed. “You’re ready to tear him limb from limb, but I want you to promise me you won’t.”

  This was making less and less sense. “Why? Plenty of people saw what he did.”

  “Yes, but none of them are you. None of them did what you did, or can do what you can do. And if you pay McAuliffe back, King will know, and he’ll figure out who you are.”

  “What?” Despite his confusion—or maybe because of it—Hart placed his free hand on her hip and
pulled her closer. “What the hell does me being me have anything to do with anything. Why would King care—”

  “Because you’re the Black Ace,” she hissed in a whisper, her gaze intent on him. “If River Hartwell searches out McAuliffe and makes him pay, King will begin to suspect you. And if the Black Ace searches out McAuliffe, after everyone saw you—Hart—stand up to him, it won’t be long until King puts two and two together.”

  Damn. She was right.

  More importantly, she’d put two and two together herself.

  He tried to deny it once more. “What are you talking about?” he asked weakly.

  Too weakly apparently, because her blue eyes rolled adorably in response.

  “Hart, I saw it the moment you lifted that boy in your arms. You’ve fooled this town—you fooled me!—into thinking you didn’t care, that you simply kept to yourself out at your ranch. But I saw. You care. You stood up to King, you stood up to McAuliffe, and you protect the innocent. Like that boy. Like all of us.”

  Double damn.

  She’d seen right through him.

  His hold on her hip tightened, and he knew in that moment that her knowing his secret wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  He trusted her.

  He lowered his chin until his lips were only inches from hers. “I do care,” he whispered.

  It must’ve been as good as a full confession to her, because her eyes softened and her lips tugged upwards. “I know.”

  She pushed herself up on her tiptoes at the same moment he felt her fingers—the ones which had been attempting to pin him in place—drift through his hair. She was…she was reaching for him. In the same way he’d been reaching for her for as long as he’d known her.

  He lowered his lips even more at the same moment she pushed upwards, and then…

  And then…

  Their kiss was everything he’d imagined.

  More!

  She tasted of sweetness and hope and a future with a home and babies and everything he’d ever dreamed. She was everything he’d ever dreamed of. At that moment, with Miss Regina Vickers pinning him against the wall with her hips, and her fingers wrapped through the hair at the base of his neck, Hart knew.