by Caroline Lee
“No!” Mr. Gomez whirled around, his face even paler now, and shook his head. “It’s true I sold O’Grady the coffee—just like I do every week!—but it wasn’t poisoned. If you all got sick from it, that’s not my fault! I’ll contact my distributor; I’ll buy from a different supplier! But it wasn’t me!”
“Bullshit!” McNelis waved the gun around. “You’ve always hated Mr. King. We all remember you've struggled to pay rent, and you keep opening your big mouth to complain about fairness. You probably figured it was time to get rid of the problem permanently, didn’t you!”
Gomez was shaking his head, and his wife looked as if she was going to resort to violence again soon, so Quint stepped in again.
“Sheriff,” he began, the title leaving a sour taste in his mouth. This man didn’t deserve the title, and he certainly didn’t deserve any respect. “What’s your evidence that this man poisoned the—the coffee, was it?” he directed the question to Gomez.
The older man nodded, then shook his head immediately. “It was coffee, but it wasn’t poisoned. I swear! At least, not by me!”
Quint believed him, because he could remember another man sneaking out of Gomez’s store. If the Black Ace hadn’t been stealing anything, had he been poisoning the coffee instead?
Trying like hell to maintain his calm demeanor, Quint offered McNelis a small smile. “There you have it, Sheriff. Gomez swears it wasn’t him, so I’m wondering what evidence you have that it was.”
“Evidence!” McNelis exploded, waving his revolver around. “I don’t need no evidence! Mr. King says this scum probably did it, and that’s good enough for me!”
Taking a moment to breathe, Quint wondered how long it would take before he exploded.
“You’re an officer of the law, McNelis,” he offered in a low, dangerous voice. “You took an oath to the law, not to Mr. King. ‘Probably’ isn’t going to cut it when it comes to a man’s livelihood.”
The so-called sheriff slammed his palm into the center of Gomez’s back, sending the man stumbling out of the way. McNelis then moved towards the man he must see as a threat, his large belly nearly brushing Quint’s gun belt.
Refusing to step away, Quint just lowered his chin and glared threateningly, but remained silent.
“Just who the hell do you think you are, boy? You show up in my town and start telling me what I oughta do? You think I’m gonna take orders from a negro upstart?”
It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with this kind of ignorance and hatred, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Quint didn’t bother trying to remain calm anymore, and instead, allowed his own anger to seep into his voice as he stepped forward, putting him nose to nose with the other man.
“No, I expect you to take orders from a US Marshal, you sorry excuse for a man,” he hissed at McNelis. “Your duty is to the law, same as mine; but right now, only one of us is doing it. I can put up with a lot of bullshit, and I have,” he growled, unconsciously rotating his healed shoulder, “but I will not stand by and allow you to arrest a man without any grounds.”
McNelis opened his mouth, probably to spout more hate, but Quint didn’t give him the chance. He leaned forward, his anger radiating, and McNelis actually stumbled back.
“Now, you might be sheriff of this town, but I answer directly to Washington. What do you think they’re going to say when I tell them the sorry sack of shit they appointed, is taking bribes from some slimy ‘businessman’ like Mr. King, huh? What do you think they’re going to say,” he continued, as McNelis took another step back, “when they find out you’re going around arresting people with no evidence?”
He didn’t mention how the man—the symbol of law and order whom the townspeople should trust—was allowing King’s goons to walk all over his neighbors. Quint figured he didn’t have to; the man looked scared enough already, but it probably was less about the threat to tell his supervisors, and more about Quint’s steely certainty.
“Now, I don’t know what King is paying you, but you’re not the only lawman in this town anymore. Which means, finally, someone else is going to be here, looking out for the best interests of the people of Black Aces. Which is what you should be doing.” Quint sneered down his nose at the other man. “And since one of us is doing our job, let me say this only once: Holster your weapon and release this man, or so help me, you will regret it.”
It was almost funny how fast McNelis jammed his revolver back into his holster and scrambled to unlock Gomez’s shackles, but the fury pumping through Quint’s veins wouldn’t let him appreciate it. Instead, his nostrils flared as he forced his breaths to slow, and his pulse to calm down.
“What exactly is going on here?”
Quint almost winced when he heard the icy question.
Great.
He took one last deep breath, then turned to face Mr. King, making sure to keep his expression neutral.
“You’re just in time, King, to see justice served.”
“Excellent!” The man beamed, looking back and forth between McNelis and Gomez, who was now comforting his wife as he hustled her back into the store. “You’re ready to arrest that nefarious shopkeeper, Sheriff?”
McNelis, still looking shaken, managed to grumble, “Did it already.”
Quint stepped between the two men, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. “The justice I was referring to was releasing Gomez, since there appears to be no credible evidence of his guilt.”
“Evidence!” King repeated incredulously, sounding remarkably like his lackey had. “We don’t need evidence! He’s the only one—”
Quint fought to keep his temper under control. “I’ll remind you what happened the last time you tried to punish a man without evidence. What you did to Hartwell was tantamount to murder, but luckily the Black Ace—”
“Luckily?” King’s eyes glinted with dangerous fury. “I’ve been in contact with your supervisors, boy, about the quality of help they sent us here. Now, I’ll be able to telegraph them and let them know of your unfortunate affiliation with the very criminal you’ve been sent to apprehend!”
Quint’s grip on the leather belt tightened, but he didn’t allow any notable reactions to show. King’s threat would have been a good one, but he didn’t realize how often Quint reported back to his supervisors on the progression of the investigation. His weekly trips to Helena were an excuse to frequent a telegraph office, where he knew for certain King couldn’t bully the operator into sharing messages.
So he inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the threat. “You do that, sir. In the meantime, you better be damn sure you’ve got a case, before you start arresting folks. Your word isn’t law.”
All pretext of civility fled King’s expression. He took a step closer and snarled. “Listen, you uppity bastard, this is my town, and my word is law. McNelis knows his duty, and it’s to me!”
Quint’s tone turned icy. “Wrong. His duty—and mine—is to the law and statutes of the United States of America, laid out by the United States Government. McNelis can’t arrest someone without evidence, nor can he hang someone without a trial. And you damn well can’t go around stealing from your neighbors and not expect to get caught!’
From the way King reared back, sucking in a shocked breath, Quint probably shouldn’t have stated his suspicions so boldly.
Dammit.
This might come back to bite him.
“Might you be Mr. King?”
The new voice was polished and smooth, and as both Quint and King swung around to face the newcomer, it became obvious it belonged to a man who didn’t startle easily. In fact, judging from his faint smile and hooded eyes, the man knew exactly what he’d just walked in on, and didn’t mind being the one to push others off-balance.
He wore a fine wool suit, an overcoat with a fur collar, and a tall hat. But instead of looking faintly oily, as King did, this man carried an air of command, as if he was used to getting his way…or at least, making sure things went the way he expected.
It was obvious King was still off-balance from allowing his anger free reign. But he cleared his throat and stuck out his hand. “I’m King. You’re the representative from the investors, I assume?”
“Indeed. Indeed,” the man murmured as he shook King’s hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
It was exactly what King wanted to hear, judging from the way he began preening. King also stood taller as he withdrew his hand, and he had that self-satisfied grin back on his face, which made Quint want to sneer.
These two deserved one another.
He was just about to make his excuses and back away to check on Mr. Gomez, when the newcomer turned to him.
“Jonathan Douglas,” he repeated, holding his kid-glove encased hand out.
Quint blinked in surprise. This man wanted to shake his hand? He’d put Douglas down as a greedy fop, same as King. But the man had just given King his shoulder, and was watching Quint with a vaguely curious expression, as if the man genuinely wanted to know him.
So Quint did the only thing a man could do; he shook Douglas’s hand. “Marshal Quint Diamon.”
Douglas’s handshake was strong.
“A US Marshal? In a quaint little town like Black Aces?” He glanced around, as if he didn’t believe the need for such a development. “Fascinating.”
Quint was the one to drop the handshake first, then stepped back. “Well, sir, you never can tell when a little law and order might be needed.”
Douglas’s gaze rested briefly on Sheriff McNelis, but he made no comment or indication he wanted to meet him as well. Instead, he turned back and gave a much too brilliant smile to King. “Excellent town you have here, King. I look forward to seeing more of it.”
King looked as if he were going to be sick, but it was hard to tell if it was because of Douglas’s words, or because of the other man's easy acceptance of Quint. Still, he nodded and tried a smile. “And the mine, I assume?”
“Of course the mine! Of course! And your books.” Douglas’s eyes turned hard, but it was so brief, Quint wondered if he'd imagined it.
“I intend to see everything, Mr. King!”
King cleared his throat and seemed to regain some of his normal equilibrium. “Excellent!” He took Douglas by the elbow, turning him towards the center of town, and began gesturing with his cane. “May I offer you a place to stay at my ranch?”
“No, thank you.” Douglas didn’t look at King again, seeming to be more interested in the buildings around them, in particular, the boarded-up ones. “I have found my own accommodations.”
“Well, let me at least invite you to Christmas dinner then!” King declared jovially as he led the man down the street. “For now, a tour of the town is in order!”
McNelis glanced once at Quint, then scuttled off after his master. Scowling, Quint watched the three of them parade down the street, King gesturing grandly, as if he owned the place.
He does, remember?
Quint sighed. This job was turning out to be a lot damn harder than he’d expected. He’d been sent to Black Aces to bring an end to the career of a vigilante. But the more he saw of King, the more he sympathized with the Ace’s actions.
My duty is to the law.
King legally was in the right to demand rent from people on his land, and as a US Marshal, Quint had to uphold that legality.
But as a man, he was beginning to understand the need for the Black Ace.
6
Christmas was coming!
In fact, it was almost here!
Finnie had never considered herself particularly devoted to the holiday, but this year...
She wasn't sure if it was Cinco's presence in her life, or the fact Quint had declared a goal similar to hers, but she was more excited about Christmas than she could ever remember being.
It was December 23rd, which meant she had two days to get all of her surprises in order, and she had to do it all with Cinco underfoot. She’d been thinking lately, when school started back up after the holiday, she would ask Abigail Blake about finding a spot for Cinco in her new schoolhouse. The boy was healed well enough to get around, even if it would be another month or two before he could run as well as the other kids. And it would do him good to meet some friends, especially if he was planning on staying.
The conversation they'd had a few days ago indicated to her the boy had no interest in leaving. Which was perfectly okay with Finnie; having Cinco in her life made her feel...whole somehow.
She was calculating inventory, while Cinco read aloud behind her and occasionally asked for help with words. Two months ago, he’d barely known his letters, but now, thanks to Quint’s patience, the kid was reading simple sentences! It really was impressive.
Behind him, in the corner, their Christmas tree glittered merrily. Besides the chains of paper people, which wrapped around the fir branches, they'd added scraps of foil and bows cut from a bright red shirt they found in Finnie’s scrap basket. It might not have been the fanciest Christmas tree ever, but it was theirs, and Finnie loved it.
And judging from the way Cinco would occasionally look at it and smile, the boy felt the same way.
She was halfway through last week’s take, when the sound of the main saloon doors opening interrupted her. She tossed down her ledger and hurried through the doorway into the saloon. She wasn't expecting any customers this early in the afternoon, but maybe it was Quint.
She stopped short when she saw the figure unwrapping his scarf.
“Hart!” She hurried across the room to offer her friend a hearty handshake. “What are you doing here? Did Regina send you into town for some gossip and coffee?”
The dark-skinned man frowned good-naturedly. “Hey now, I can come into town for some gossip and coffee all on my own. I don't need my wife's permission!”
Chuckling, Finnie shook her head. “You got it though, right?”
Hart rolled his eyes as he admitted, “Yeah, of course.”
The next hour was spent with companionable laughter, gossip, and teasing. Hart stood at the bar, as he always did, but he did make sure to pop back to the kitchen to catch up with Cinco, and admire their Christmas decorations. Finnie was just pouring him his third cup of coffee, when he returned, shaking his head.
“That kid sure has changed, Finnie. You're doing a good job with him.”
“It's not just me!” Finnie hastened to assure him. “Quint’s the one who's doing all the hard work. He's so patient when he teaches Cinco things!”
“ ‘Quint,’ huh?” Hart hummed as he wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee appreciatively. “Sounds like you two are getting along pretty well too.”
Finnie felt herself flush, so she turned her back to Hart, and pretended to wipe down one of the liquor shelves. “He's a good man,” she mumbled, hoping her voice didn't betray her.
Behind her, Hart chuckled. “You're right. A fine man.” He paused, then his voice turned sly when he added, “A fine-looking man too, eh?”
Finnie's gaze slammed upwards, meeting Hart’s own gaze in the mirror in front of her. She saw the teasing glint in his eyes, but that didn't stop her from whirling around. “Hart! You're a man! You're not supposed to say things like that.”
Heart just sipped his coffee. When he lowered the mug, he shrugged a little too innocently. “What? If you're allowed to tease me about having a spark for Regina, I'm damn well going to tease you right back.”
Finnie rolled her eyes and groaned. “I don't have a–a spark for Marshal Diamon!” She slapped the bar in emphasis. “He's just one of my tenants! And I happen to admire his sense of duty, that's all.” Her voice hitched a little at the confession. Quint’s sense of duty was what was going to ruin her someday, and she knew it. But instead of letting Hart k
now that, she scowled in his direction. “He's a good man,” she repeated.
Hart didn't seem irritated by her explosion, judging by the way he nodded calmly. “And you're a good woman. And you got a good kid sitting back there, and the two of you are doing good work for him.” Hart winked. “Together. Don't tell me you haven't thought of that?”
Finnie didn't have many people she considered true friends. She and Hart had been chatting like this for years, and he knew more about her than most people ever bothered to learn. That meant he was impossible to lie to. She sighed and shifted so one of her hips was propped against the bar. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she glared at her true friend.
“Yeah, fine! Is that what you want to hear? You want to hear that, even though I'm big and ugly, and most of the men in this town think of me as one of them, I can still appreciate a man like Quint? Hell yes I’ve thought about him and me together!”
In fact, the thought had kept her awake many nights since he'd arrived in town. She'd lie in bed, picturing him on the other side of that wall, and wonder what it would be like if the two of them were lying there together. Still, no need to confess all of that to Hart.
Maybe she didn't need to.
Her friend shrugged again and finished the last of his coffee. “Your appearance isn't what determines your worth, Finnie, same as is true for me, or any of us. What we look like, who our parents are or were, it doesn't matter. What matters is what we do, what we accomplish.” He met her eyes. “How we stand up to evil, how we make things right in the world.”
Finnie had never confessed to being Hart’s savior, but she figured he knew. If not, then his smart-as-a-whip wife Regina had probably figured it out and told him. But even though they'd never talked about it, Hart knew how she felt about King, and how she supported the Black Ace.
It was that unspoken connection which hung between them now as Hart nodded solemnly. “One thing I've learned, is that for people like you and me, happiness doesn't just fall in our laps everyday. If we have the chance to make a connection, a chance for true happiness, we need to grab onto it with both hands and never let go. You remember that, Finnie. If you get a chance at happiness, take it.”
