Her throat was dry, so she just shook her head, wide-eyed. That intensity, however, didn’t lessen as he slowly nodded, and Finnie could swear she saw promise in his gaze. Her heart began to pound against her ribs as he watched her.
“Good,” he said in that deliciously low voice of his. “Because I haven’t gotten what I came here for yet.”
His words crashed into her like a bucket of ice water, and she sucked in a breath.
What I came here for.
He was speaking of the Black Ace, and the reminder was sobering.
Marshal Quint Diamon was only in town long enough to capture the criminal he’d been sent after, then he’d be leaving. She locked her attention onto the top of Cinco’s head and tried not to feel too betrayed.
When Quint sat back and spoke again, his tone was deceptively mild, as if he were trying to force himself to be merry and lighthearted. “Besides, it’s almost Christmas, so I can’t leave now. We’ve got plenty of decorating left to do!”
“Yeah,” she managed to croak, then cleared her throat and tried again. “Just–just what are you working on, honey?”
The boy turned in her arms, but didn’t loosen his hold on her. He used his other hand to shake out the paper he’d been cutting, but all Finnie could see was a mangled mess.
“What’s that?” she asked, unintentionally parroting one of his favorite phrases.
He mumbled something she couldn't understand, but caused Quint to chuckle and reach for his own paper and scissors. A few snips here and there, and he ended with a flourish, then shook out his paper.
Finnie gasped as a perfect chain of paper people, linked together by their hands, unfolded. Cinco let her go and sat up, a grin already forming on his normally solemn face.
“How’d you do that so easy?” the little boy asked with wide-eyed wonder.
Quint shrugged modestly. “I grew up with very creative sisters, and they taught me how to do a lot of crafts. My family always made our own Christmas decorations.” He glanced at Finnie. “I suggested to Cinco these paper chains might look nice on the tree...?”
She understood what he was asking, and was almost overwhelmed by his kindness. The tree he himself had cut down was sitting in the corner of the kitchen, held upright by a nail in a board on the floor. But now he was asking for her permission to decorate it?
She nodded, then swallowed past a lump in her throat.
When his grin flashed, she almost became light-headed, but was able to steady herself again when he switched his attention back to Cinco.
“Why don’t you do me a favor, son, and hang this first one on the tree.”
The boy extricated himself from her arms and reached for the paper chain. Using the table to push himself upright, he began to limp excitedly towards the tree. Finnie’s arms felt empty without him, which was stupid, because he’d only just come into her life recently. Still, she clenched her fingers closed and bounced her fists against her thighs awkwardly.
Quint cleared his throat—surely he didn’t feel as awkward as she did?—and reached for the mangled mess of paper the boy had left. With a few deft moves, he’d folded the paper properly and reached for his scissors once more. He snipped here and there, and she found herself watching his hands. His strong, sure hands…What would they feel like, if they touched her? Not the accidental brush, here and there, but if they actually touched her, the way a man touches a woman?
She knew enough about them to be sure he’d be gentle with her, despite the strength coiled in him.
Would he make her—
Whoa there, girl, slow your roll.
She forced herself to breathe normally, and when he put down the scissors, hurried to place a curious smile on her lips, as if she hadn’t just been fantasizing about her new tenant.
Carefully, he peeled off a few layers of newspaper from the front and back of the folded bundle, and she had a moment to wonder if those were a result of Cinco’s efforts. Then he took a breath and delicately unfolded what remained. And met her eyes.
Finnie’s own eyes widened. Dangling between his fingers was a short paper chain; three figures, holding hands, connected together.
She told herself not to read anything into the design, but something in his expression told her he’d done it on purpose.
“Thank you for letting us celebrate Christmas with you, Finnie,” he said quietly.
She swallowed, knowing she would go through hell and high water for the chance to celebrate anything with this man.
“Thank you for making it worth celebrating, Quint,” she managed to whisper.
And when his smile bloomed—his even white teeth, framed by perfect lips—she knew this really was going to be the best Christmas ever.
Even if she spent it with a man determined to bring her to justice.
4
The fire inside the iron stove in the old assayer’s office was nearly out, but Millard Caplan knew he couldn’t add more fuel just yet. If he tried, his boss would likely berate him for wasting money…or hit him with that damned silver-tipped cane of his.
Yeah, Mr. King was in a rotten mood again, and there was no telling what he’d do if he thought Millard was being extravagant with his coal. Of course, King himself could be as extravagant as he wanted; wasn’t that a brand new winter coat the man had pulled off when he’d entered? Probably ordered direct from Paris or something, knowing King’s spending habits.
Man had run outta money, and didn’t seem able to realize it.
You must have money to make money, Millard, he’d said. Or at least appear to have money.
Well, King certainly appeared to have money, but from the way he was staring out the window right now, slamming that silver tip of his cane into his opposite palm again and again, deep in thought…well, he also looked like he was in a world of trouble.
Good.
Millard kept his smile to himself as he shuffled through the paperwork once more. “I’m sorry, Mr. King, but I can’t get you—”
“Have I told you you’re an incompetent fool, Millard?”
King asked the question mildly, without any real malice, so Millard prayed he was safe.
“Yes, Mr. King,” he answered hurriedly. “Often.” He’d learned years ago it was easier to just accept the insults and appear as though he were slightly dense.
“Excellent. Well, I know you cannot make silver appear where there is none, but for this scheme to work, I need the appearance of silver.” He tilted his head to one side, although he didn’t turn his body at all. “Can you do that for me?”
“The appearance…? You mean you want the books to look like—”
“No!” King whirled then, his cane slapping against his palm once more. “I want the mine to look like there’s still plenty of silver left.”
Millard gulped. “With Ziggy and Erstwhile still working it, I could have this week’s take and the next gathered in one place. We could make it look natural.”
King’s shoulders relaxed, and he began to hum. “And the books too, Millard. You’ll make the books look good for the investor, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. King.”
Millard was excellent at making the books look good. He’d done it for years, after all, to cover the small amounts of money he slipped from King’s profits each month. He would doctor the amount of ore sent to Helena, then deposit a bit into his own separate account here in town when they got back the return.
And then, every few months, he’d get a note from the Black Ace, alerting him to a townsperson in need, and he’d make a withdrawal.
Millard had known he was taking his life into his own hands by helping the Ace and by going against Mr. King. And even though what King was taking from the townspeople was a pittance compared to what the mine had been making, it was everything to the people who struggled under King’s rule. So he’d done what he could, until the mine began to peter out.
As the veins dried up, the take was less, so his skim wasn't much for the Ace to work with. The mine prof
its steadily declined until they were just about equal to the amount King was taking in rent and “protection money” from the people of Black Aces. Then, suddenly, the take from the mine was nothing at all.
In the last few weeks, since the mine had petered out completely, and the last of the miners had left, Millard had realized King’s only income was from the townspeople living on his land.
But King was still talking about making money, and Millard had to know what his earlier comment had been about. “Your scheme, boss?”
The man had already turned away and didn’t bother responding, so Millard decided to risk it and tried again.
“Mr. King, you need the appearance of silver for the scheme to work, you said?”
“The investors,” King snarled, followed by a put-upon sigh, “are sending a representative. Surely you know that, although I have no idea how word has gotten out to everyone else.”
The people of Black Aces knew about the representative coming to examine King’s investment, because Millard himself had spread the rumor. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut as King slammed the silver knob into his palm once more.
“I’m so close to finishing the deal with these idiotic windbags. I’ll have their money in my pocket, if I can just convince this damn representative of theirs that the mine is producing.”
Suddenly, it clicked for Millard. “And you can only do that by appearing to be making money.”
Even if all the actual money was coming from King's own struggling neighbors.
“Yes,” King growled in agreement, as he stared out the window towards the snowy town. “I just need to keep this together for another few weeks. Maybe I should increase the rents for January,” he murmured.
Millard figured the man was now talking to himself and didn't expect, or want, an answer from him. So again, he played it safe and kept his mouth shut.
“That should pad the pot enough so that whoever shows up won’t guess the mine has been salted. I just need to keep these damn simpletons fooled for another month. It’s bad enough they’re going around demanding answers about the mine, like they have some right to know my business. I’ve shut them down, but the nosiest aren’t satisfied. I need them to keep paying without interference.”
Millard couldn’t help himself. The, “Interference, boss?” slipped out, before he could clamp down his lips. Luckily, King didn’t seem any more irritated than before.
“Since we almost hanged that half-breed, the Ace has been quiet. I guess he’s scared to show that damn bandana of his, now that he knows what Sheriff McNelis is capable of.”
Millard gripped the papers in his hand tighter at the mention of McNelis. That man was a disgusting fraud, who didn't care about true justice in any way. He’d almost lynched Hart Hartwell, for God's sake, simply because King had told him to. Thank goodness the marshal had been in town to diffuse the situation, and hadn't been afraid to remind McNelis he was no longer the only law in these parts.
Millard had been fairly certain Hart had been the mysterious Ace, but now he wasn't sure what to think.
If Hart had been the Ace, as Millard had long suspected, then who had shown up at the lynching to shoot the rope and free him? And if someone else was the new Ace, why wasn’t the man stepping up to help the way he used to?
Sighing, Millard pinched the bridge of his nose and admitted it was confusing enough to give him a headache.
Was there a new Black Ace? Or was it still the same man as before, but Hart had nothing to do with it?
Millard hoped he'd someday find out, but all he knew for sure, at that moment, was the Ace hadn’t contacted him for any money in the last few months. Which was a damn good thing, because there wasn’t any!
When he looked back up, King was staring at him speculatively, which was never a good thing.
“You know, Millard...I’ve just had a rather brilliant thought. A way to keep them all busy.”
Millard gulped. “Yes, Mr. King?”
“Did you happen to have any of that coffee O’Grady bought last week?”
Though he’d been at King’s ranch that day delivering the meager profits, no one had offered him anything to drink, and he'd known it was best not to ask. Besides, he'd had no desire to linger there. “No, Mr. King.”
It was almost obscene the way King smiled as he began to fondle the silver knob at the end of his cane. “That coffee was what made us all so ill, remember? All of us, except you. It was the only thing all of us shared, except you, and although I blamed O’Grady for it—rather severely—I’ve since re-thought my stance.”
Millard wondered if King thought he had done something to the coffee and almost began to panic. Forcing himself to remain calm, he asked the question he knew King was waiting for. “And what is that, sir?”
King’s gaze sharpened. “That worthless storekeeper has never liked me and has always struggled to pay his rent. He’s the one who has been pushing the hardest, demanding answers, and then he had the audacity to poison the coffee he sold to my men!”
Saying a silent prayer for the Gomezes, though he couldn't help feeling relieved he wasn't a suspect too, Millard played along. “You want me to make a report to that marshal over at the High Stakes? He’s recovered enough to start looking for the Black Ace again too, from what I hear.”
King’s “Bah!” was accompanied by a dismissive wave of the cane. “That boy is useless. He didn’t have the decency to die either time he was supposed to, and his failure to apprehend that thorn-in-my-side vigilante long ago is proof his kind aren’t fit for that level of responsibility.” His grin turned downright feral. “Besides, he won’t follow my orders like he should, but I have plenty others who do, and one who is very loyal to me.”
That was surely the case. Even after McAuliffe and Stilton’s deaths, King had been able to hire other men who were not necessarily loyal, but darn sure liked their paychecks from King.
Paychecks the townspeople were unwittingly supplying.
“Who's that, boss?” Millard asked with trepidation, already knowing, and dreading, his answer.
“McNelis, of course.” King spun the cane once in satisfaction. “McNelis will show that upstart Gomez that attempting to poison a respectable businessman will bring him nothing but trouble.”
5
The distant puff of steam told Quint the afternoon train would be right on time. He was standing in front of the station on Blind Avenue, staring into the distance, with his gloved hands tucked into his gun belt, and wondering what the hell he should do next.
It wasn’t exactly that his investigation had stalled, it was that he wasn’t sure what he was investigating anymore. He’d met the Black Ace, sure, but the man hadn’t been doing anything illegal. And besides stopping that lynching back in the fall, which Quint couldn’t fault, the mysterious vigilante hadn’t done anything anyone could exactly pin on him. Hell, there’d only been one or two sightings of the man, period.
But the longer he hung around Black Aces, the more Quint thought, lawbreaker or not, the Ace was the good guy. King might own the land, sure, but Quint had never met such a greedy, malicious bastard. Everything he’d seen so far told him King was going to step all over his neighbors in order to get rich.
But he wasn’t exactly breaking the law, whereas the Black Ace was.
“You pissed off about something, Marshal?”
The call broke his concentration, and Quint shook his head, then turned to his right to find Bert Wheeler approaching with a good-natured smile on his face.
“Nah, I’m not angry,” Quint drawled, inclining his head in greeting.
The older man shrugged. “You were frowning pretty hard at the horizon is why I asked.”
“Just thinking.” Quint had learned long ago a polite smile could do a lot to endear him to people who might help him later, and it had apparently worked just as well on a few of the townspeople here, at least. “It’s a mighty fine day, too fine to frown.”
“That it is, Marshal.” Wheeler shr
ugged, then rotated his left shoulder. “But it won’t last. My joints are telling me we’ll get snow soon, and it'll be a bad one.” He nodded knowingly. “Probably have a blizzard for Christmas, is my guess.”
Quint’s brows rose at the prediction. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll spread the word.” Assuming “according to Old Man Wheeler’s joints” was a respected weather forecast in this town.
The other man waved his farewell and continued on. Quint was just about to follow him, when he heard screaming come from the opposite direction. A woman's voice was hollering curses and screaming for help.
He took off at a run for the noise and arrived at Gomez’s store, just in time to see Mrs. Gomez beating Sheriff McNelis around the shoulders with a broom, as the corpulent lawman led her husband out the door in shackles.
“Release him! He’s done nothing wrong. Neither of us have!” Whack, whack. “You can’t blame him; it wasn’t his fault!”
Before the broom could descend again, McNelis turned with a snarl and drew his revolver. “Hit me again, bitch.”
The older woman reared back, fear in her eyes, just as Quint stepped forward.
He pushed the woman’s broom down and tried for a calm tone when he assured her, saying, “I’ll handle this, Mrs. Gomez. Let’s not resort to violence.”
He looked at both Mrs. Gomez, and the sheriff, when he said the last part.
McNelis responded with a humorous snort as he continued to wave his gun around. “Interfering with a lawman in pursuit of his duty is what she was doing. I could arrest her too!”
“But you won’t,” Quint said calmly. “Because it seems as if you’ve got enough to worry about as it is. On what grounds are you arresting this man?”
Gomez looked a little sick, but it wasn’t clear if it was because he was guilty, or if it were simply out of fear. McNelis jabbed him in the back with the gun, and the older man stumbled forward.
“This here low-life poisoned a respectable businessman is what Mr. King says. So I’m carting his ass to jail to show everyone else in this town we believe in law and order! Can’t go around poisoning people just ‘cause you don’t like paying rent!”
Three of a Kind: Black Aces, Book Two Page 5
