by Caroline Lee
Her fingers tightened on his. “Thank you for sharing your traditions with Cinco. And me. Thanks. It’s…” She cleared her throat and looked away. “It’s been real nice.”
The bacon forgotten for a moment, he reached out with his free hand and placed two fingertips on the side of her chin. It took very little pressure to turn her back to him, so their gazes locked. They stood there beside the stove on that snowy Christmas morning, his touch light on her skin, staring into one another’s eyes, and he positively ached to taste her.
Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!
The two of them jerked away with a start, then began to chuckle.
The moment was broken, but they fell into an easy camaraderie. They worked well together, passing what they needed back and forth, as he finished up the bacon and started some eggs frying, and she mixed together a batch of rolls. But instead of her usual method, she took the time to flatten the dough and brush it with butter, sugar and cinnamon, then roll it up like a tube and cut it.
It was a fancy sort of treat, and by the time the oven was warm enough to bake it, and the warm cinnamony scent was wafting throughout the room, Quint decided he was in love.
With more than just her cooking. It was pretty obvious he was falling in love with Finnie Pompey. Another man might’ve worried about that; there weren’t many places a white woman and a negro man would be accepted, much less a couple with a boy like Cinco. But above all else, Quint knew who he was, what he was capable of, and what he was worth. He knew he was a good man, an honorable man, who did his duty and could provide for a family. More than anything else, that convinced him there was a possibility of a future with Finnie. Quint didn’t know exactly what was coming, but he needed to finish up this mission before he could think beyond that. All he knew was, he was falling for Finnie, and from all her reactions, she felt the same way. He wasn’t going to push her, but he knew he wanted something more from her.
And once he caught the Black Ace and completed his mission, he’d be able to return to Montana and court Finnie properly.
Breakfast was nice and relaxed, with plenty of laughter as they each told the worst jokes they could think of. Cinco’s sense of humor was still developing, so he only understood about half of the puns, but he laughed just as hard as the adults, which was even funnier. After, Finnie and Quint both got bundled up to bring in more wood to dry out in the main room. Even in the back alley, with the buildings and overhangs offering some protection, it was almost impossible to see more than a few feet, and both were happy to return to the nice cozy kitchen.
In the afternoon while Cinco read his new books, Finnie poured two glasses of her most expensive brandy, and toasted the season with Quint.
But when he winked and said, “To our future,” as he raised his glass, her smile died, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.
Later, he went out into the main room to smoke one of the cheroots she’d gotten him, but he was lonely—and cold—out there. He snuffed it out before he’d even finished half of it and returned to find the smaller room swirling with the scents of rosewater and leftover ham, which made up for missing his smoke.
After dinner, he read more about Jesus’s life from the Bible, and he and Finnie took turns answering Cinco’s questions. He liked how no-nonsense she was with her answers, and apparently, the kid did as well. For Quint’s part, he just enjoyed sitting and watching the two of them interact.
The following day, the 26th, was much the same, only they had potatoes for dinner, and Cinco, thankfully, didn’t practice too much more on his whistle. While Quint should have been antsy, stuck inside with no way to further his investigation, instead, he accepted the days as the gifts they were: a chance to relax with people he was coming to care for.
Conversations ranged from childhood memories, to beliefs and world history, and to their plans for the future. Quint noticed, while Cinco didn’t remember too much of his past beyond a year or so ago, the boy hung eagerly onto his suggestions and plans for the coming months. It was nice to know the kid was looking forward to so much and was excited about being here in Black Aces.
With them.
But as for Finnie…?
Whenever he started talking about a future together, she’d get this yearning in her eyes, before suddenly shaking her head and looking away, as if she didn’t think they had a chance at being happy. She’d talk about her own plans of course, but she seemed very careful not to mention who would be there with her.
That night, after Cinco had fallen asleep on the sofa beside the tree, Quint collected the cards they’d been playing and began to shuffle them. He needed a way to figure out what Finnie’s feelings were, and find out if he was completely mistaken. She did enjoy his company, and she did want to be with him, he was sure of it. So why was she hesitating to take things further with him?
“That kid’s a good poker player,” he offered as an opening, expertly dealing another hand.
Finnie’s smile came easily as she reached for her cards. “He is. Makes me wonder about his past and what he was up to with that mother of his.”
Suddenly, Quint knew what he had to do. Before she could touch her cards, he dropped his hand on top of hers, pinning it beneath his.
“You know he thinks of you as his mother now, right?”
He could tell, from the way her lips parted and the rapid pulse at the base of her throat, she was surprised by his touch, but didn’t mind it either.
“I…” She stopped, then swallowed and nodded. “And he thinks of you as his father, Quint,” she told him in a low whisper.
The thought made him smile, and after a moment, she returned it.
He loosened his hold on her, and instead, brushed his fingertips along the back of her hand. She shivered, but didn’t look away.
“So, he’s a good player, but he doesn’t mind taking wild risks.”
“What?” She seemed distracted, and the thought was damn pleasing to him.
Quint’s grin turned devilish. “I mean, he doesn’t have anything at stake, so he doesn’t mind taking wild risks.”
“You mean— You mean gambling?” She cleared her throat and shook her head as if to clear it, but didn’t pull her hand away. “This place is called the High Stakes for a reason, you know.”
“I do know.” His grin grew. “So why not a friendly wager on this next hand?”
“Money?”
He scoffed. “Nah, how about…” He looked around, then reached for his bag of peppermints. “I’ll wager some of these. I’m partial to them, you know.”
Still looking a little dazed, she nodded jerkily. “Yeah. You, uh…you must’ve told me.”
He couldn’t recall mentioning it to her, but he shrugged and plopped the sack on the table between them. “I’ll put my peppermints up against some more of those cinnamon breakfast rolls. If you lose, you make them again tomorrow morning.”
This time, her smile slowly bloomed. “You’re on. Deal the cards, sir.”
She won the first hand, then the second. He liked the way she was so serious about poker, and her expressions were also serious, so he never could figure out her tells. He wasn’t the best player, but he’d long ago learned how to use charm to his advantage.
By the third hand, he'd won back some of his peppermints and popped one in his mouth as she laid down her hand.
“You can’t eat the stakes, Quint,” she scolded.
“Yes I can, because my three queens beats your pair.”
She scowled and flicked another four peppermints in his direction. By the eighth hand, she’d lost all her candies, and had bet and lost her stakes as well, when she'd raised and he'd defeated her.
“Cinnamon rolls tomorrow,” he crowed.
“I’m out,” she said with a chuckle, making ready to push away from the table.
“Wait!” He hurried to stop her. “I’ll spot you so we can keep playing.”
She eyed him, her palms flat in front of her. “It’s a bad idea to play on credit. Learned th
at lesson long ago.”
Their game wasn’t that serious, but he knew what he wanted. “New stakes then.” His gaze settled on her lips. “All in.”
Her breath was coming shorter now, and when her tongue darted out over her lips, he knew he had her.
“Like what?” she asked, breathlessly.
“A kiss.” The words burst out of him before his brain could stop them, but once they hung between him and Finnie, his gaze slammed back up to hers.
“Deal the cards,” she said in a strangled whisper.
He shuffled, then dealt, not missing the way her eyes followed each movement , as someone used to playing will do. Since they’d already anted—the kiss was the only bet on the table—they each picked up their hand.
He was holding the four of hearts, six of spades, queen of hearts, four of clubs, and the two of diamonds.
Internally, he frowned, considering his move. He could hope for a flush with the hearts, or…
“You ready?”
He nodded. “No bets, so what do you want?”
The way her gaze landed on his lips once more made him grin, knowing she wanted exactly what he wanted. She shook her head, then pulled four cards from her hand.
When she tossed them face-down on the table, he dealt four more, sliding them in her direction. Her poker face was good; he couldn’t read her reaction to the new hand.
“Dealer takes two,” he said as he tossed down the two of diamonds and the six of spades, hoping for another queen for two pair.
But what he got was even better.
The queen of spades.
And the four of diamonds.
Three fours and two queens; a full house.
Finnie shifted forward in her chair to lay out her cards. She had a five and a nine, plus three sevens. She must’ve picked up two of them on the draw, but it wasn’t enough.
Exhaling, he allowed himself to grin just slightly as he laid his cards on the table. “Full house beats your three of a kind.”
Three of a kind.
That’s what Cinco had called him, Finnie and Quint. But the longer they were together, the more Quint realized how much he’d like to have a full house as well.
His smile grew. “You owe me a kiss, Finnie.”
She shook her head, but before he had the chance to be disappointed, she drawled, “Nah, you owe me a kiss. Never said who was staking what, did you?”
He was chuckling when he stood, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet. Even though she appeared a little flustered, she still stepped closer to him. They now stood eye-to-eye, and he liked that about her too.
Hell, he liked everything about her.
Lightly, he touched his fingertips to her cheek. “I’d be happy to lose a kiss to you,” he murmured.
Her lips twitched with a smile, just before she surged forward and pressed them to his. His hand became entangled in the simple braid she wore in her hair, and he used it to pull her closer.
God Almighty, but she tasted good. Like cinnamon and sugar. And underneath, was a faint hint of sweat and desire and rosewater and strength.
She met him head-on, her arms wrapping around his middle, her hands resting on the back of his belt to hold him in place. He smiled against her lips and deepened the kiss.
This was Finnie; this perfection, this strength, this capability. She wasn’t afraid to stand up for what she believed in, wasn’t afraid to take risks.
And kissing her was everything he’d hoped for.
When her tongue brushed against his lips, he groaned, then proceeded to show her exactly what to do with it.
In his pocket, his watch ticked away the seconds, then the minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime, before they finally pulled apart, breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling intimately, his fingers still tangled in the hair at the back of her neck.
It was even longer before their breathing slowed, and she opened her eyes. They were so close to his, he swore he could see golden flecks within their depths.
“Quint…” she whispered.
And to him, it sounded much like a promise.
It sounded wonderful when she said his name like that, heavy with passion. She’d enjoyed that kiss as much as he had, and it was obvious. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and they were good for one another.
So why did he feel as if she were holding back?
10
Millard Caplan was really beginning to regret accepting his boss’s invitation to Christmas Eve dinner all those days ago. It was a tradition, which had started a few years back, when Mr. King was still trying to woo the people of Black Aces. He’d invited the most notable and respected to join him for dinner, served the best food and strongest drinks, and talked about what a great guy he was.
But as his true, greedy nature became known, he received fewer and fewer guests. Some of the businessmen had moved away, or lost their standing in the community, or—like Gomez—came to flat-out hate King.
This year, only his employees attended, which unfortunately, included Millard. It hadn't been too bad for the actual dinner, as King’s cook was excellent, and the wine was flowing. But then the snow, which had started that night, hadn’t let up, so they had all been stranded there, and King had had nothing better to do than drink and rave for three straight days.
It was the tensest Christmas Millard could remember, and he wished many times over he’d stayed in his little room behind the assayer’s office. Some very welcome and good news finally came, when O’Grady stepped outside, then came back in, and in that slow, lazy way of his, informed them the snow had definitely stopped, and some of the other hands were now clearing the grounds.
Millard hid a sigh of relief in the glass of whiskey he’d been sipping all evening. It was the evening of the 27th, and now he knew he’d be able to go home tomorrow morning. Away from King and McNelis, and the anger both of ‘em had been spewing throughout these three long, and tortuous, days.
“Stop hovering, O’Grady, and sit down. Pour yourself a drink,” King commanded from where he sat slouched in one of the large chairs by the fire. His hair was mussed, his jacket long ago having been left to hang over another chair, and his tie was severely skewed. He looked exactly as you'd expect a man, who'd spent the last three days debauched on liquor, to look.
Of course, O’Grady didn’t have to be told twice, but he still didn’t hurry as he reached for the whiskey. McNelis belched loudly, and in the chair opposite Millard, Burton grimaced in disgust, before turning the page of the book in his hands. The guard hadn’t had a drop to drink, but King didn’t seem surprised, and still included the man in his complaints anyhow.
“O’Grady, you’re just in time to hear about our revenge plans.” King hiccuped and smirked lazily, as if he were a misbehaving child who was up to no good. “With Douglas staying God-knows-where, I haven’t been able to advance any of my schemes.”
More than once, over the last few days, King had drunkenly ranted about how the representative for the investors had turned down, not only his offer of hospitality, but his invitation to dinner as well.
“If he were stuck in here with us now, instead of useless Millard, I’d have been able to further endear myself to him. We’d have been partners before the snow cleared!”
Secretly, Millard suspected, if King had behaved this way around Douglas, the shrewd representative would have left as soon as he was able, and would have recommended the investors back out of the deal immediately. He’d only met the man once, which was the day he’d arrived and King had brought him by the assayer’s office to pick up the doctored books Millard had prepared.
Douglas had smiled easily, as if he hadn't a care in the world, but Millard suspected there was more to him than met the eye. Why else would the investors have sent him to determine the worth of the mine?
The only reason Millard was able to act unaffected, when he turned over the fake reports to the man, was from the long years he’d already spent do
ctoring the mine's books on behalf of the Black Ace.
Millard was pulled from his miserable thoughts when King’s complaints grew louder and more belligerent, over how the blizzard delayed his plans. He watched as the drunken man waved his glass around grandly, sloshing whiskey from one end of the room to the other every time he waved his arm.
“Anyhow, since there’s nothing better to do, and we’re forced to sit here with our thumbs up our asses, McNelis has concocted the most juvenile plan possible.”
“Oh yeah?” O’Grady turned to the sheriff. “What’s that?”
McNelis thrust himself forward in his large chair, catching himself before he could tip out of it. “We— Are you ready? We—” He belched again. “We’re gonna rob that bastard Gomez.”
Millard had heard the plan earlier as it was being discussed, and though he agreed it was childish and wrong, he did like it better than their attempt to arrest Gomez, or worse, their talk of killing the man.
Although, with the way McNelis’s beady eyes gleamed and the easy way King had accepted the plan without debate, it was likely when the sheriff said “rob,” he really meant something much worse.
O’Grady didn’t seem impressed. “That negro marshal’s got you scared, huh? Boy stood up to you, and now you can’t risk pissing him off? So you’re just gonna rob Gomez, instead of stringing him up for what he did to us?”
Quietly, Burton closed his book, using one finger to mark his place, and dropped the palm of his other hand to his stomach, as if he was remembering the effects from the poisoned coffee.
Millard winced, thankful yet again, he hadn’t been there for that.
The way Burton eyed McNelis and King told Millard he was ready for a fight. But the sheriff just smiled nastily.
“I ain’t gonna rob him, O’Grady. You are. Take Erstwhile and Ziggy, go smash in his windows, and take whatever you can find. And if he happens to wake up and come downstairs…” McNelis’s smile gleamed evilly as he dragged his thumbnail across his thick neck.
