Ante Up: Black Aces Book One

by Lee, Caroline

  Seven

  “Morning, Matthias,” Hart called as he pushed open the large livery door. “Just here to board.”

  Over the last few years, since Matthias Blake had opened his livery, he’d done a lot of business with Hart. Hartwell horses were generally thought to be among the best in the area, and the only place someone could buy them, aside from Hart’s ranch itself, was Blake’s livery.

  So Hart was used to coming and going without much fuss, leaving his horse on one of the stalls whenever he was in town. Oh, but not the black gelding. He was for the Black Ace alone, and never left the ranch during the daylight.

  “Matthias?” he called again. “You here?”

  “Yeah,” came the subdued voice of his friend as he turned the corner, a pitchfork in his hand. “Although I’m probably the only one not out on the street gossiping.”

  Hart’s brows went up as he pulled the saddle off his mare. “Something worth gossiping over?”

  “You could say that.”

  Matthias leaned on his pitchfork, staring towards Blind Avenue as if he could see through the thick wooden walls. There was a frown on his face, which Hart hadn’t often seen.

  Finally, Hart figured he’d better prompt his friend to let him in on whatever was happening. “Yeah? Like what?”

  Matthias sighed and met his eyes. “Yesterday, the new US Marshal came into town. Last night, the Black Ace shot ‘im.”

  Hart surged back, the shock making him forget himself. “What?” The fear which had shot through his veins at the notice the Marshal was in town had been quickly overridden by Matthias’s second bit of news. “The Black Ace shot him? Is he dead?”

  His friend shrugged. “He ain’t dead, but Mr. King won’t let Doc Vickers heal him, seeing how he’s a negro and all. I think Miss Regina did what she could, but the man’s convalescing at the High Stakes.”

  Hart felt his pulse pounding in his temples, and he forced himself to breathe normally as he turned to brush down his mare. “You said the Black Ace shot him?”

  Behind him, the sounds of hay being shoveled accompanied Matthias’ grunt, “That’s what they say. Whoever shot him was dressed all in black, and shot the man with a long rifle. From atop the telegraph office’s roof.”

  With his head spinning the way it was, Hart propped one palm against the mare’s flank to keep himself upright. “That’s…”

  Not true. Impossible. I never use a rifle.

  Matthias, however, didn’t hear those words. “Downright cowardly.”

  “Why would the Ace shoot the Marshal?” Hart whirled around. “The Ace? He wouldn’t!”

  Straightening, Matthias grunted in agreement. “That’s what I figured too. That’s what all of us thought. My boy, Josh, he’s a big fan of the Black Ace, and what boy wouldn’t be? But if this Marshal was in town to hunt him down, it’d make sense for the Black Ace to try to kill him, wouldn’t it?”

  Hart just stared at his friend, his mouth open.

  Yeah, Josh had always shown a real interest in the Black Ace. It was the reason why, back when Matthias and Abigail were struggling to find a way to pay King’s rent on the schoolhouse, Hart had chosen Josh as the one to find the “mysterious” gift of money he’d left behind. The boy damn-near hero-worshiped the Ace after that, and it rankled to think his opinion would now change over a lie.

  And if a kid like Josh could change his opinion, what about the rest of the town? One of the reasons Hart had kept up his midnight charade, kept the ridiculous moniker, was because the town needed hope. If they stopped believing in the Black Ace, what would happen then?

  Hart’s hands clenched into fists. “The Ace didn’t shoot that Marshal, Matthias.”

  His friend shrugged. “Hard to say. He had reason, in his mind anyway, and who else wears all black and hangs out on rooftops? He killed Stilton a few weeks back, remember?”

  “Yeah, but that was—” with a Colt Army revolver, and it was just a lucky shot.

  But Hart had enough sense to bite down on his words. Matthias didn’t know that detail, and there was no reason for Hart to know it either. “I just know he wouldn’t hurt a US Marshal, alright?”

  Matthias propped his elbow up on the pitchfork and cocked his head as he stared a little too thoughtfully at Hart. Finally, he shrugged.

  “Alright. I believe you.”

  Hart nodded.

  Good.

  Matthias was his friend, and had his own reason to support the Black Ace. Without coming right out and confessing the Ace’s identity, this was the closest Hart could come. Still, maybe with Matthias convinced, the rest of the town wouldn’t be so hard.

  He took a deep breath and started for the door, but slowed when Matthias called out.

  “Where you off to today? It’s been a week since you were here.”

  A week since he was back in town. A week since he’d kissed Regina. A week spent working himself into exhaustion every damn day, hoping the sweat would keep his mind off her, and knowing it wouldn’t.

  Having her in his arms had been the best feeling he could have ever imagined, and even Pony had been teasing him about how distracted Hart had been lately.

  Could he help himself? He’d been thinking about Regina. He’d been thinking about making her realize how special life with someone else could be, if she’d allowed herself to love. He’d been thinking about making her his, finding a way for them to be together. Would she marry him? Would she live out on the ranch with him? Or would she expect him to move into town?

  Would they be able to spend the rest of their lives together?

  He’d come into town today to talk to her about it. Maybe nothing drastic, but just talk.

  And maybe kiss a bit more.

  He needed to know what she was feeling, what she was thinking when she’d kissed him like that.

  But Matthias’s news changed everything.

  A week ago, the Black Ace might’ve been able to retire, to slip into obscurity, especially since there was a US Marshal being brought in to hunt him down. The Ace needed never to ride again.

  But now?

  Somehow, the Black Ace had ridden again, and done something no one would’ve expected. And no one, besides Hart, knew the Ace—the real Ace—had nothing to do with it.

  Well, Hart and Regina. At least, he hoped so. If she really did believe in him the way he thought, she’d know he hadn’t hurt the Marshal.

  So he just jammed his hat down on his head and nodded to Matthias.

  “I’m going to see Regina.”

  * * *

  The entire town felt…wrong. Regina had spent the hour after dawn at the High Stakes treating Mr. Diamon, and when she’d left the saloon, it seemed as if the majority of Black Aces’ citizens were standing in the street gossiping. She’d heard so many different stories about last night’s attack, her head was spinning by the time she’d made it back home and relayed it all to Papa.

  The two of them agreed it was almost certainly a ruse by Mr. King, whose goons had prevented Papa from going to the Marshal’s aid last night. They hadn’t stopped Regina from “visiting her friend Finnie” first thing that morning, luckily, and she had discovered Finnie had done a tolerable job saving the Marshal’s life. Regina had done the stitching, and was hopeful the man would heal, even though he’d lost so much blood.

  “Are you going to head out to the Hartwell ranch today?” Papa asked with a gleam in his eye.

  Regina was exhausted from the excitement, but remembered her vow from yesterday, so she nodded. “He needs to know about…all this.”

  Her father hummed and lifted his newspaper, for all intents and purposes engrossed in the words. But she knew him well enough to know he had something else on his mind.

  “What is it, Papa?”

  “Oh, nothing. I think it’s a good idea you go see that boy and tell him what he needs to know.”

  What he needs to…?

  She frowned at her father, and might’ve questioned him, but at that moment, the
re was a knock on the front door.

  Was it more bad news?

  She found herself opening the door faster than normal when she rushed to it.

  And when she saw Hart standing there, a thunderous expression on his face, she didn’t even think, just reached out, grabbed his arm, and pulled him inside. He kicked the door closed behind him, locking out the cold November air, and exhaled heavily.

  When she snaked her arm around him, under his coat, and laid her cheek against his chest, his arms wrapped around her back and pulled her closer.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled his scent, feeling stronger for it. He was here. He was here, in her arms, and he was safe.

  “Hart, they’re saying the Black Ace shot the Marshal.”

  “I know.” When he spoke, she felt his deep rumble against her cheek. “I didn’t do it.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

  His muscles seemed to relax at her words, as if he’d been hoping for her support, but wary of not getting it, and she tightened her hold on him. She felt his chin sink to the top of her head.

  This was right.

  Behind them, Papa cleared his throat.

  “Oh!” She jerked away, but not so far she lost her hold on Hart. “Papa, you know Hart, right?”

  Her father stood, folding the newspaper with a faint grin on his face. “If I didn’t, introducing him with your arms around him would be a bit awkward, don’t you think?”

  Hart inclined his head, his expression still serious. “Doc. I heard you tried to save the Marshal’s life.”

  Papa shrugged. “It was Miss Finnie and my daughter who saved him.” His voice turned bitter when he said, “I wasn’t allowed to help.”

  Hart shrugged. “You tried, and that’s what people will remember.”

  “Hmm.” Papa stared at Hart a few moments too long, then shrugged. “Maybe. And what they need right now is hope, right? I’m glad to hear you didn’t shoot the man.”

  Oh!

  Regina’s head jerked up.

  Oh, they had said those things in front of Papa, hadn’t they?

  Oh dear.

  “Papa, don’t misunderstand. Hart was just saying he—”

  But her father raised his hand to stop her, his lips pulled up just slightly. “Why don’t I take my paper to my office and leave you two young people to spark out here in the parlor?”

  She felt like rolling her eyes at Papa’s old-fashioned sensibilities, but appreciated him giving them some privacy. Hart also nodded solemnly.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As soon as the door to Papa’s small office closed behind him, Regina dropped her hands to Hart’s. He was freezing, so she tugged him towards the dying fire.

  “Hart, no one believes you—I mean, the Ace—shot the Marshal.”

  He scoffed, but held his hands up to the meager flames. “That ain’t true. I just had a talk with Matthias, and even he had an explanation for why the Black Ace would want to kill a US Marshal.” His fingers curled into fists and he spun away, pacing towards the front window and back. “And why wouldn’t he? It makes damn good sense. The Marshal was sent here to track down the Ace, right? So of course, I’d have to take him out if I wanted to live.”

  He yanked his hat off his head and ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. “And I’m not ashamed to admit I had the thought, but the man’s a Marshal. He’s— He’s everything I ever stood for. Going against King put me on the wrong side of the law, sure, but when that law shows up in the form of a US Marshal, I ain’t going up against him.”

  Regina watched him pace, watched the way his features pinched, as if in pain, and her heart ached for him. She was a healer, and here was a man who needed her.

  And she needed him.

  Glancing down at the fire, nearing embers now, she had an idea. The next time Hart came near in his pacing, she snagged his hand and tugged him towards the kitchen and the back door. He was still wearing his coat, so she pulled her shawl down from its hook.

  “Who do you think did it? Or do I even have to ask?”

  He blew out a hard breath. “Hell. It’s gotta be King of course. I mean, it could’ve been an accident, right? Or unrelated.” Once out in the little fenced-in yard, Hart resumed his pacing. “But the fact that his man dressed all in black and shot him from up on the roof, that’s gotta be a sign.”

  Regina hated seeing him like this, practically vibrating with anger. It took much of her strength, but as he paced, she hoisted a chunk of wood up onto the stump they used as a chopping block. Usually, Papa paid one of the local boys to keep their woodpile stocked, but Hart needed something to release this pent-up energy. And she could help him.

  As she skirted the scraggly bushes and reached for the ax hanging under the porch overhang, she called out to him. “You think whoever did it intended for the Black Ace to be blamed?”

  “I know it,” he growled. “And after everything I—he’s done for this town, you’d think people would be a little less quick to believe the worst of him.”

  “It’s alright,” she said softly, smiling at him as she held out the ax. “There’s no one on either side of us, and we’ll be able to see anyone coming from back here. You’re welcome to say whatever you want out here.”

  His fascinating topaz eyes flicked between the ax and the wood to be split. When he moved, it was sudden enough to make her inhale sharply, and before she could blink, he was bringing the ax down hard. Hard enough to split the log and sink into the stump below, but he wrenched it out without much trouble, and reached for another piece.

  She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, flattened her hands against her sides for warmth, and watched him. After a few minutes of work, he paused, stripped off his jacket and tossed it over the back rail, and got back to chopping. He released carefully controlled exhales, each grunt and swing marked by a white puff of air, until his breathing seemed to slow into the same rhythm as his arms.

  Finally, he spoke. “It’s King alright.” Another swing. “He’s the only one who stands to gain anything.” He leaned over to pick up another log and position it. “If the Black Ace looks bad, I mean.” Swing, grunt. “Now, the US Marshals want my head, same as King does.”

  “So you’re going to quit?” she asked quietly.

  “Not sure there’s any other option.” Another log, another swing. “I had a good run, and I’d like to think I did some good. But with King and McNelis and the United States Marshals after my hide, I plan to lay low for a bit.”

  She nodded, more relieved than she should be. For years, the Black Ace had been their savior, their beacon of hope. Regina, as much as anyone else in town, believed in the Ace and loved to attribute each small miracle to their masked aide.

  But finding out the Black Ace was really Hart…getting to know Hart…she’d never been so conflicted. She knew what he was doing was important, and she understood his role as a symbol of hope. But at the same time, she couldn’t stand the thought of him being injured, or worse.

  What if…? She swallowed. What if despite her best efforts, Diamon died, and the Marshals did send more men? What if they hunted Hart down and put him in jail? Or worse?

  So yes, she was relieved to hear he’d be hanging up his black bandana. It was for the best. The best for her heart.

  Her heart? At what point had her heart become involved in all this?

  She’d always been very clear what she wanted out of life, and a future with someone who could at any moment catch the ‘flu or be run over by a cart or fall down a mountain or catch a stray bullet while minding his own business never held any appeal.

  But she remembered what he’d said, that day in her kitchen. You haven’t met a man you’re willing to be interested in, even if you might lose him someday.

  Is that what had happened? Because oh yes, she was very interested in Hart, and she couldn’t even manage to be bothered by that.

  Regina asked him something she’d been wondering since discovering
his secret.

  “Why did you start? I mean, you’ve done such wonderful things, but why?”

  He exhaled heavily and propped his elbow up on the ax handle while he stared off towards the ridge. His breathing evened out before he spoke, and Regina wondered what he was looking at that was able to calm him so much, so quickly.

  “My ma was an Indian lady, Crow. Or at least half.” His shrug was slight. “I never got the whole story of how Pony ended up with a white woman. He don't like to talk about it. But Pa was in love with her, and he didn't care who knew.” He frowned suddenly, then glanced down at the pile of split wood beside his feet. With one smooth movement, he buried the ax into the stump, then bent down to start stacking the split logs. “Now, in the decades since the war, it'd be nice to think the color of a man's skin don't determine his character, but I suspect that's got to do more with proximity than society. People around these parts knew my pa, they know Pony, and they know me. We’ve all helped them out at one time or another.”

  He stood, his arms full of chopped wood, and crossed to the porch, where he began re-stocking the woodpile. “When Pa died, I was a grown man, just barely. Me and Pony, two grown men out on the ranch, we should’ve been all right. But the women in town, they brought us food. An extra loaf of bread, a casserole after church on Sunday. Not a lot, just enough to show… I don't know. That they cared about us, I guess.” He went back for another load of wood. “That really stuck with me. Pony always taught me to do the right thing, even when it isn't comfortable. And seeing those people stand up for us like that... I guess it left an impression.”

  “So what did you do?” she prompted.

  “When King showed up in town, I didn’t think much of it. Who owned the Bicycle didn’t bother me or my property or business one way or the other. But then he demanded rent from others, and some of those same people who helped us were in bad shape themselves.”

  She hummed quietly, knowing what he meant. Papa had used some of his savings to help various townspeople and friends over the years, but it usually wasn’t enough.

  Hart finished stacking the logs on the porch, and dusted his palms on his jeans. “Mrs. Gomez made us this real nice cake. She didn’t have to do that, but I could still remember the way it tasted when I found out they were short on their rent. So…” He shrugged. “I gave them some money. I left it on their back porch one evening, because I was afraid…”