“There you go.”
Cinco was a serious kid most of the time, but when he did smile, his chipped front teeth gleamed white against his tan skin.
Seeing that smile, seeing the excitement in Cinco’s dark eyes, did something funny to Quint’s stomach. He remembered himself as a boy, celebrating Christmas with his parents and sisters, the anticipation and joy. Had Cinco experienced that? Quint didn’t know the kid’s story, only how he’d arrived at the High Stakes Saloon, thanks to Mr. Hartwell’s interference. Had the kid had a proper Christmas before?
The thought made him…well, not sad exactly, but more determined. Quint decided then and there he’d do whatever he could to make sure Cinco had a Christmas to remember.
He cleared his throat and tried a smile. “Sure, son,” he managed in a strangled whisper, then cleared his throat. “Why don’t you—why don’t you choose a tree?”
Cinco didn’t seem to notice anything wrong, and turned to hobble among the small pines, using their limbs as support where he could. Quint watched him go, then drew in a deep breath and turned back to Finnie. She’d already dismounted, of course. She wasn’t some helpless lady, waiting around to be lifted down from the saddle, and Quint liked that.
Still smiling, although more naturally this time, he moved back towards her. “Cinco seems excited about Christmas.”
“Yeah,” Finnie sighed happily as she turned, the ax she’d strapped to her saddle now in her hands. “I’m determined to give him a Christmas he’ll really remember.”
Surprised to hear his own words repeated back to him so perfectly, Quint blinked, then nodded. “I agree. Please let me know what I can do to help.”
When she smiled up at him, she wasn’t blushing at all, and he wondered what had changed. Then she held the ax out towards him.
“Well, Marshal Diamon, if you’re feeling up for it, we could use a Christmas tree for the saloon.”
Without hesitation, he closed his hand around the grip, his gloved fingers brushing against hers. The burst of warmth he normally felt when they accidentally touched wasn’t there, but there was still a feeling of something. Companionship? Trust?
He grinned in return and dropped his chin in a brief nod. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”
And it was the truth. No matter how much his shoulder ached, he was going to cut down a Christmas tree for Cinco and Finnie.
3
Finnie caught herself humming “Silent Night” as she rolled the dumplings for the stew, and smiled softly. This time last year, Christmas hadn’t been anything special; she’d gone to church in the morning, had dinner with the Blakes in the afternoon, then back to business. She sure hadn’t thought about decorating or buying presents or singing carols in the weeks leading up to the holiday.
So what had changed? That was easy; it was the two sitting behind her at the small table, talking in low voices.
She wasn’t sure about Cinco’s past—or even his last name—but he’d arrived in town a few months back, starving and desperate. He’d tried to pick the pocket of one of King’s goons, an evil hombre named McAuliffe, and gotten a whopping for it. Actually, McAuliffe had kicked and beaten him to within an inch of his life, breaking his leg and his ribs, and would’ve killed him, if Hart hadn’t stepped in.
Finnie’s heart had broken to see the little mite all busted up like that, and she hadn’t hesitated to offer a room for the boy to recover. He’d been slow to heal, but she’d fed him as much as he could stand, and sat with him as often as she could find time.
Her hands covered in pasty dough, she peeked over her shoulder and caught Cinco’s eye. They shared a small smile which warmed her heart. Neither of them were big talkers, and if she wasn’t reading to him, they could sit in silence for an hour easy. But at the same time, she liked they understood each other, and didn’t have to talk all the time.
The newspaper was spread out between Cinco and Quint, as it was whenever he was trying to teach the boy his letters, so she nodded to let him know to get back to his studies. His grin turned cheeky, revealing his missing bottom teeth, before he turned his attention back to whatever Quint was pointing at.
Chuckling quietly, she went back to her rolling and slicing and dropping the dumplings into the simmering pot. She wasn’t the world’s best cook, but she was good enough. The other saloon in town offered gambling and whoring, but she could at least offer a home-cooked meal. Over the years, she’d gotten good at making suppers which could be served for fifty cents a bowl. Since Cinco had come to live with her, and then Quint, she’d started making the meal earlier in the day, so they could share it together before the evening rush started.
And although having a family had never been important to her, this was now her favorite part of the day. The little kitchen was off the main room of the saloon, so she kept the door open in case a customer came in. Otherwise, they’d share the tiny table for their meals. Sometimes they all talked, sometimes they didn’t, but it was still nice.
“What’s that?” Cinco’s voice interrupted Quint’s murmur.
Finnie was surprised to realize she’d been humming again, and swallowed down the song to hear Quint’s response to one of the kid’s favorite questions.
“What’s what?” he rumbled in that deliciously smooth voice of his.
“That song Finnie’s humming. I’ve heard it before.”
She dropped the last of the dumplings in the pot and rubbed her hands over the counter to clump the dough off her hands, thinking how sad it was the boy didn’t know the name to such a common hymn.
“That’s Silent Night, son,” came Quint’s response after a pause. “It’s about Christmas Eve, so that’s when we sing it.”Had his pause meant he'd been thinking the same thing she had?
“I heard it at a church once.”
“On Christmas?”
Grabbing for a cloth, Finnie turned and propped her hip against the counter as she wiped off her hands, curious at Cinco’s response.
The boy was frowning down at the newspaper folded oddly in front of him. “I…I don’t remember.”
“Where was this?” Quint prompted gently.
Cinco shook his head. “I…” He blew out a breath, then shrugged. “Salt Lake, maybe? Or back in Texas. Or someplace else.” He looked up and met Finnie’s eyes. “My mama was alive. I remember that.”
Her heart clenched at the casual admission. Of course he’d remember a time when his mother had been alive, wouldn’t he? He was only about six or seven, judging from his size and missing front teeth. But this was the first time he’d mentioned his family.
She didn’t want to push him, so she smiled softly in acknowledgment. “Sounds nice.”
The kid nodded, then reached for a pair of scissors. When he dropped her gaze, Finnie’s gaze darted towards Quint. The man was staring at her, and she saw approval and something else—sadness?—in his dark eyes. She remembered what he’d said yesterday about wanting to help give Cinco a good Christmas this year, and she knew she had a partner in her goal.
A partner.
Quint Diamon could be her partner?
It was an incredibly tempting idea, the thought the two of them—the three of them—could make a life right here in the kitchen of her saloon, working together to make sure they were happy and healthy and—
Her smile faded, and she forced herself to turn back to the stew, snapping whatever connection she might’ve shared with Quint. He was kind and caring and sexy as hell…but he was also loyal and good and a US Marshal.
Which meant, no matter how nice it was to spend time with him, pretending they were more than they were, it was an impossible dream.
He was a US Marshal, sent to Black Aces to stop a notorious criminal.
And she was now that criminal.
If he found out, what would he do?
She’d like to think he wouldn’t kill her outright. And maybe he wouldn’t drag her to jail without hearing her side of the story first. But his loyalty was to the law, whi
ch she was breaking...or so they say. And she didn’t want to put him in a position to doubt his own loyalty.
She couldn’t do that to him.
Behind her, Quint cleared his throat. “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright…”
As his beautiful baritone wrapped around her and seeped into her bones, Finnie froze, held immobile by the music and her fears. But slowly, softly, she relaxed, his song filling her, warming her, comforting her. It seemed to be reminding her this was the season of miracles, and for now, everything was fine.
This was Christmas, and she and Quint had to work together to ensure Cinco had the best one possible, despite the town’s hardships. She had no need or plans to be the Black Ace again any time soon—her trick with the coffee had apparently worked well enough for the townspeople to demand answers—so for now, everything was fine. She was safe, Quint was here, and Christmas was coming.
His song seemed to remind her of all that, and by the second verse, she was humming along.
There was a pull in his song. Almost unbidden, she turned back to the table to watch him sing. Quint had leaned back in his chair, his booted ankles crossed in front of him, his jacket pushed back to reveal the revolver he always carried on his hip and the badge pinned to his vest. He looked like a panther at rest; coiled energy, barely relaxed.
But his voice…His voice was deep and pure and felt like a warm hug on a cold day. Or so Finnie imagined.
At the start of the third verse, she took a breath and found herself joining in.
“Silent night, holy night, Son of God, love's pure light…”
Her father—her last family member—had died six years ago, but even when he was still with her, she hadn’t had a whole lot of experience with holidays. And other than singing in church every Sunday, she’d never so much as hummed in front of another person.
But this song, this man, made her want to sing. So she opened her mouth and allowed the words and the way she was feeling—contentment and confusion, and the most wonderful sort of warmth—spill out.
As they reached the last line of the song—Jesus, Lord at thy birth—Quint’s lips curved into a grin she could hear in his voice, and she found herself smiling in return. Then, to her surprise, instead of trailing off, he took another deep breath and began to sing again.
“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht…”
Finnie felt her mouth drop open as his baritone switched seamlessly to German, singing the lyrics the way she’d heard them sung a long time ago. But Quint sang as if he knew what the words meant.
He was watching her while he sang, which is possibly why he stopped singing after only one verse, because she was shaking her head in amazement.
“You speak German?” Finnie asked him.
He shrugged modestly and tucked his thumb in his belt. “Ein bisschen.”
“That’s…remarkable.”
Maybe it was the awe in her voice, but his lips suddenly tugged downward. and he sat up a little straighter. “Why?”
“I just…” She shrugged. “Do you speak any other languages?”
“Some Spanish. Why are you surprised? Because you didn’t think I might be so educated?”
“No!” She shook her head again, then exhaled and leaned heavily against the counter, draping the cloth over her shoulder. “No,” she repeated more quietly. “Because I don’t think I could ever learn so much.”
His expression softened, but there was still a bit of wariness in his dark eyes. “I think you could, Miss Finnie. You’re an intelligent young lady.”
Young lady. He’d called her that the other night out behind Gomez’s store when he was talking about her to the “Black Ace.” The reminder was sobering.
She swallowed and waved away his praise. “Not like— I mean, you’re the smartest man I know. You’re always reading, and now I find out you speak other languages, and you can sing!” She took a deep breath, trying to pin down her earlier serenity, and fortunately, found a bit of it in the scent of the simmering stew. “That was really beautiful.”
“Si,” Cinco interrupted with an enthusiastic head bob. “Muy bien.”
Quint’s attention swung to the boy, but the grin he gave him seemed almost forced. But after a brief moment, he finally chuckled and shook his head.
“Muy bien,” he agreed, then reached out and tapped the table beside where the boy was working. “Did you figure it out yet?”
Cinco shook his head and blew out a frustrated breath. “I can’t get the hands to line up.”
“Here, like this,” Quint said as he peeled a sheet of the newspaper off and began carefully folding.
Finnie kept her eye on the two of them as she began scraping up the dough still stuck to the counter. He reached for a pencil and murmured instructions to the boy as he drew, but she couldn’t quite hear what he was saying.
But she did hear Cinco ask, “Why do you speak German anyhow?”
Quint shrugged, his attention still on his task. “I grew up in Pennsylvania. Do you know where that is?”
“Nope,” the kid answered cheerfully.
“Hold on, I think I saw…” Quint put aside his project and reached for the newspapers again, flipping until he found the correct sheet, which he pulled towards them. “Here, this part,” he said, as he circled something with the pencil. “That’s the northeast. This is New York City, which is the biggest city—”
“In the world?”
Chuckling, Quint shook his head, then shrugged. “I don’t know, but we could find out. But this is where I grew up.” He tapped the paper with the pencil. “There are a lot of German speakers there.”
“Why?”
“I guess because a lot of people moved from Germany to live there.”
“Did you?”
Finnie knew Quint wasn’t German, but was curious to hear his story. She shifted slightly so she could see the both of them while she wiped the counter.
“My great-grandfather came to America from England. Most men in America who look like me—even the ones who grew up in Pennsylvania—were born as slaves in the south.”
“Like Texas.”
It wasn’t a question, and from the pensive look in Cinco’s eyes, he obviously knew something about bigotry. Quint nodded.
“Texas has slaves, yes. Their journey to the north would’ve been full of hardships and terror. But I grew up in Pennsylvania, surrounded by my cousins and second-cousins, because my grandfather had purchased a big chunk of land many years ago.”
“What are cousins?”
Finnie whirled completely around in time to see Quint rear back in surprise. They met each other’s eyes; her surprise and sorrow mirrored his own. It was shocking to her, and obviously to Quint as well, the boy had no knowledge of the roles which made up a family unit.
Finnie was speechless, but fortunately, Quint recovered much quicker.“
They’re, ah…” He paused, and she assumed it was to clear the emotion blocking his throat. “Your mother and father’s sisters and brothers, if they have any, are your aunts and uncles. Their children would be your cousins. Do you have any aunts and uncles?”
The kid was using the scissors to snip sort of aimlessly at the folded newspaper in his hand, but he managed a shrug. “It was just me and my mama, far as I remember.”
The adults exchanged another glance, and Finnie let out the breath she’d been holding. She’d gathered, from randomly dropped clues Cinco would give, he’d come to Montana from the south, but hadn’t pushed to learn anything else. If he still had family, she’d do everything she could to get him back to them. But if not…
Quint, it seemed, was willing to push.“Your mother passed away?” he asked gently.
“No, she died.”
Cinco’s confusion wasn’t even a little bit funny. Finnie shook her head sadly at his latest revelation.
“Do you remember her?” she asked.
The sweet boy shrugged again, but didn’t look up when he answered, “A little. She told
me it was okay to take stuff if I was really, really hungry, but not to take more than what I needed. She got sick last year.”
“Are you…” Finnie paused to think of how to phrase her next question as gently as possible. “Were you trying to get to anyone, or anywhere in particular? Now that you’re healed up, if you were going someplace else, to meet family or something, I’ll help get you there.”
The boy’s panicked expression sent a jolt of fear through her.
“You mean I can’t stay here? I like it here!” He dropped the scissors and his eyes filled with tears. “Please, Miss Finnie! I’ll do—”
She was moving before she’d realized it and cut him off when she wrapped her arms around the boy. “Cinco, you’ll always have a home here. I like having you around, and I don’t want you to leave.”
To her relief, the boy’s free arm snaked around her middle, and he buried his head in her belly.
Over the last few months, she’d spent hours at his bedside as he recovered, then carried him around when he couldn’t walk and happily took responsibility for his most basic needs.
She wasn’t his mama, but she’d come to care deeply for the little lost soul and was glad to be able to offer him some comfort.
Caressing the top of his head, she lowered her voice. “You don’t ever have to leave if you don’t want to, honey.”
Honey?
She’d never had the opportunity to call anyone that before, but had a vague memory of her own long-gone mother calling her that. From the little whimpered noise the child made as he burrowed deeper into her arms, it was apparently appreciated.
On the other side of the small table, Quint cleared his throat and reached over to place his large hand on the kid’s back. “I’m not going anywhere for a while either, Cinco.” His gaze moved from where the boy was nestled against her and traveled up her arms to her face. His eyes were strangely intense when he added, “That is, if Miss Finnie doesn’t object.”
Three of a Kind: Black Aces, Book Two Page 4