Wild Card: Black Aces, Book Three

by Lee, Caroline

  The man’s arm shot out again, slamming into the older woman and knocking her to the ground beside Tavie.

  This time, the red haze didn’t creep into his vision. No, it slammed into Jack, the mania infusing his limbs and soul in the time it took to inhale.

  In between one heartbeat and the next, Jack was in motion. He pushed off with his left foot, throwing himself across the sprawled women, and planting his right heel above the stranger’s knee.

  As if from above, he watched the demon he’d become, as the man staggered back into the outer wall of the restaurant, and Jack’s other foot slammed into the brute’s foot, then his shin.

  The man began to fall, but the demon jerked an elbow into the man’s chin, knocking his head back against the wooden slats, before sending a flurry of knuckles into the man’s upper right arm, causing him to howl in pain.

  From where he hovered, watching the fight, Jack knew the demon had seen the man’s gun on his right hip, and was attempting to neutralize that arm, without any conscious effort on Jack’s part.

  As the man slumped, the demon grabbed him by the front of his coat and lifted him, slamming his head into the wall again. Jack wanted to scream, to rail at a man who could harm two ladies like he did, but he was helpless, floating above the demon, the mania, who inhabited his body.

  He peered through the haze as not-quite-Jack wedged his forearm under the other man’s chin and reached for his own gun.

  “Jack.”

  The soft voice made him blink and shake his head.

  “Jack. Jack. Come back to me.”

  He felt a cold set of fingers on his cheek, and as fast as he’d let the mania in, Jack was back where he belonged, the stranger choking under his grip.

  With Tavie’s hand caressing his face.

  His eyes darted from the man to Tavie, and when she caught his gaze, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Come back to me, Jack,” she said calmly, as her thumb stroked his cheek. “Please.”

  Jack inhaled.

  Her scent, her nearness, seeped into him faster than the mania could leave. Her essence caught up with the haze, and Jack choked on the confusion and anger and fear.

  With a lurch, he pushed away from the man, stumbling back into Tavie’s arms. She grabbed him and pulled him toward the door to the restaurant.

  In a mere moment, he was standing inside, his mother on one side of him, and Tavie before him, both of them holding him, as if they were afraid he’d leave.

  As if they were afraid he’d already gone.

  There won’t be anything left.

  Jack inhaled again.

  Exhaled.

  Then inhaled deeply once more.

  Staring into Tavie’s eyes, her beautiful chameleon eyes, he breathed in time with her until he felt his shoulders heaving less, his heartbeat slow, and the panic—the mania—began to subside.

  “Jack,” she whispered, and that was enough.

  He closed his eyes in shame, not wanting to see the disappointment in hers.

  Thank you, he wanted to say. Thank you for bringing me back.

  But to say it aloud, would be to acknowledge he needed the help.

  Instead, he pushed himself upright and peered out the window. The stranger, whoever he’d been, had already escaped. He hadn’t been a small man, but still Jack hadn’t hesitated to put his training to use.

  “Who was that?” he croaked, not really expecting an answer.

  He got one anyway.

  “That was Dick Stevens, who should still be in jail down in Kansas.” Tavie’s voice was strangely flat.

  His mind leapt to the conversation he’d heard at the post office. “King’s new hired gun?” he asked.

  She nodded dully. “I guess so.”

  When she stepped back, her hold on his arm falling away, Jack felt bereft for some reason. On his other side, his mother quickly dropped her hold on him as well.

  And why the hell did that make him feel even worse?

  But they were playing the charade he’d insisted on, weren’t they? Knowing there were plenty of people watching from their tables, he cleared his throat and remembered his role.

  “Thank you for your interference, ladies. I trust you’re not too bruised?”

  Tavie said nothing, but Mother pulled herself as far upright as she could. “The nerve of that scoundrel! What kind of man shoves a dear old woman like me? A scoundrel, that’s who. Thank you so much for coming to our rescue, young man!”

  She was putting it on too thick. Still, Jack nodded as regally as he could manage. “Allow me to escort you ladies home, so no further ill befalls you.”

  Mother nodded enthusiastically and latched onto his arm. But when he offered his other arm to Tavie, she tucked her elbows against her side, pulled Mother’s reticule tight against her chest, and looked away.

  As he led them out of town, toward the house his father had built with his own two hands, Jack tried not to feel lost without Tavie’s touch.

  It didn’t work.

  5

  Did the man ever get to eat?

  When they reached Ruth’s home, far enough from town they could be sure of no prying eyes, everyone had relaxed slightly. Jack had tipped his hat to both Tavie and his mother, then slipped around the back of the house.

  And Tavie had stood there on the porch, frowning in his direction, long after the older woman had gone inside.

  Finally, she sighed and entered the house. She was worried about him, and hated she was worried. He was a grown man who made his own choices. And if she disagreed with those choices, or hated the fact he was hurting himself so much, then…

  Well, it wasn’t really her business, was it?

  The meals the restaurant served were filling, and the chicken she and Ruth had both ordered would provide more than enough, probably for the rest of the day. But when the older woman went upstairs to rest, Tavie found herself in the kitchen.

  It really was a sweet little kitchen, perfect for a family. Jim Hoyle, may he rest in peace, certainly did right by his wife and two sons. Ruth had told her she’d spent many years crafting special meals for her menfolk right here. When Jack had left, and then Daniel had perished in that horrible accident, well, Ruth had devoted herself to caring for Jim.

  But when Jim left for Helena, and never returned, Ruth had been beside herself. And when Mr. King had shown up with the deed to Jim’s mine, and later, Ruth learned Jim had died and was buried in a Helena churchyard, the woman had found herself all alone in the world.

  But not anymore.

  She had Tavie now. And thanks to Tavie’s efforts, she had one of her sons back again.

  At least until Jack lost himself forever.

  Tavie scrubbed her hand over her face with a sigh, then reached for the apron hanging on a hook. As she tied it, she was frowning. She’d seen Jack fight only a few times, but each time, he seemed to lose a part of himself. He lost control of himself, and it seemed as if he were giving control to…to something else. He fought like an animal, an automaton, whose sole purpose was to give pain.

  But one day, he’d finish a fight and realize he couldn’t return to who he’d once been. He would be stuck as that automaton, and she hated the thought.

  Stop it, girl. He’s not yours to worry about.

  She reached for a mixing bowl, then began to gather ingredients.

  Tavie had never been very good at cooking. When she’d been a girl back in Texas, her mother had attempted to teach her, but hadn’t had much luck. Cooking was all about guesswork, mixing ingredients all willy-nilly and hoping what you made would be edible and taste, at the very least, acceptable.

  But baking, on the other hand, was more Tavie’s talent. In baking, you had a set order of operations, instructions and predetermined ingredients. There was only one way to put them all together to get the result you wanted, and it was logical.

  As she cracked the eggs into the cookie batter, Tavie felt the muscles in between her shoulders begin to loosen.
She inhaled the sweet sugary scent and immediately felt more at peace.

  She’d become a Pinkerton—at a time when few women were—because she was good at putting ingredients together in the right order to get the right result. She saw a case, saw the facts lined up in front of her all orderly, and she just knew how they all fit together. That, combined with her talent with disguises, had made her a natural Pinkerton agent.

  Her mother had been the daughter of French immigrants, her father from Texas. She’d inherited her smooth complexion and brown hair from both of them, and her hazel eyes were an odd combination of both. They changed colors depending on what Tavie was wearing, usually, although Papa used to say they flashed green when she was irritated. As she’d explained to Ruth just last week, her appearance was one of her greatest assets: she was plain enough to consider herself a blank canvas, and could become anyone she wanted.

  She was a master of disguise, but she couldn’t fool herself.

  With an irritated growl, she slapped the cookie batter on the dusted counter top and reached for the rolling pin. Enough pining over Jack! If he wanted to waste himself the way he was doing, fine.

  As she cut the dough into small squares to lay out on the pan, she realized her lips were twitching wryly.

  Probably laughing at myself.

  If Mama could see her now, she’d probably laugh too. Can’t cook worth a lick—although Ruth was slowly teaching her exact recipes, which was a relief—but could still bake the shortbread cookies Grand-mere had taught them both. Of course, Mama and Papa had been gone for years, taken together by the influenza the winter Tavie was seventeen. Still, she knew the formidable woman was watching her from heaven, and probably clucking disapprovingly at her techniques.

  Yeah, Mama would be proud of her, but she’d never let her daughter get a big head. Tavie sank into one of the kitchen chairs with a sigh, wondering if she should just sit there and wait for the cookies to bake, or go do something useful.

  Baking was all about putting ingredients together in the right order, and that was all her cases were about as well.

  Maybe, while she waited, she should look at the evidence they’d collected once more.

  * * *

  The burn of his muscles let him know he was still alive, still him. Hito used to egg him on by yelling, “You sleep when you are dead!” and as Jack pounded up the small rise which led toward his mother’s house, he wondered if that’s what he’d been doing.

  Each time he allowed the mania to take control, was he sleeping? Was he chipping away at the time he had to be truly alive?

  There won’t be anything left.

  With a curse, Jack shook his head, trying to push aside the thought. Push aside her words.

  This wasn’t about him. This was about justice and saving this town, and to hell with his own worries.

  He was breathing hard by the time he made it to the little garden beside the stream.

  Years ago, Father had paid Jack and Daniel to gather some large rocks for Mother to arrange among her flowers. Even then, young Daniel had been a brilliant engineer, and had easily built a lever and pulley system to drag those things where they needed to go.

  Jack had always idolized his big brother, which is why he’d left all those years ago.

  Each family could only contain one perfect child, and the Hoyles had Daniel. Jack had been determined to make a name for himself out on the sea, and had been convinced his family was better off without him.

  He planted one foot on the smooth rock right beside the stream, tossed his jacket onto another nearby rock, then pulled his shirt over his head. It was still frigid out here, but there was nothing like a long run to warm a body up, and he was dripping with sweat. He threw the shirt over his abandoned jacket and began to stretch.

  Gripping his calves, he bent over until his nose was touching his knees, and allowed his muscles to really open up. Then, standing on one foot, he pulled the other up and behind him, reveling in the feel of his muscles stretching and pulling, taking them to the edge of human flexibility and a little beyond.

  He’d met Hito in the South Pacific, and the older man had taught him all sorts of things. Then, trapped together in that prison with Thordis, with nothing more to do than better their minds and bodies, Jack had pushed himself. He was more flexible, more agile, more everything than any man he’d ever met.

  And it was because he pushed himself.

  There won’t be anything left.

  With a growl, he leapt up onto the rock, determined to drown out her voice. He leaned down and planted his palms on the freezing stone surface, then shifted his weight. With a grunt, he leaned forward and lifted his feet off the ground, centering himself above his hands. Once he was steady, he shifted again, holding his legs plank-stiff as he lifted them upright above his head.

  His arms threatened to shake with the strain, but he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing them to be calm.

  Calm.

  He could do this. He could do it without the demon. He could do it by himself.

  “What are you doing?”

  His eyes flashed open, only to land on an upside-down Tavie, who stood peering at him from the garden. She was dressed in her long jacket and was carrying a plate balanced on gloved hands.

  And she was staring at his chest.

  His arms shook again, but he thought, this time, maybe it didn’t have anything to do with his position, and more to do with the way her eyes flicked from the area of one of his bare nipples, then to his lips.

  “I’m stretching.”

  She frowned, only it looked odd, upside-down. “No, you’re not.”

  And he felt his own lips twitch. “Yes, I am. I had a good run, and now I’m cooling down.”

  She snorted softly. “You’re naked. And steaming.”

  Her gaze lingered on his stomach, and something in her eyes suddenly changed. He realized he very much wanted to know what she was thinking as she looked at him, but he didn’t want to do that from his current position.

  Besides, his arms were tired.

  Right. That was why. Priorities.

  With another grunt, he lifted his weight up on his fingertips, then shifted his feet backward, until he fell into a flip and landed upright before her.

  She actually blew out a breath and took a step back.

  Was she flustered? Had he really the ability to fluster Miss-Pinkerton-who-doesn’t-want-anything-to-do-with-him?

  He slowly smiled and noted the way her cheeks grew darker, and her gaze dropped to his naked torso again.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she blurted.

  Not at all. In fact, with her intense gaze on him as it was, he was anything but cold. He could practically feel her eyes caressing his skin, which reminded him of the way it felt to hold her in his arms...and on his lap.

  Her lips had covered his, as if they were meant to be there, and he felt himself growing hard at the memory.

  Unfortunately—or not—his breeches were cut in the European style, and left little to her imagination.

  He knew the moment she noticed, because she groaned and cried, “Oh God!” then whirled around to face the house.

  Pretending not to understand, Jack reached for his shirt. “What’s wrong?” he asked, as he pulled it over his head.

  “What’s wrong?” The breath she huffed out was part-laugh, part-exasperated sigh. “What’s wrong is that you’re barely recovered from an injury, and you’re out here half-naked trying to tear it open!” Her eyes—green today, with flecks of gold—darted his way. “You’re traipsing through town, beating up gunslingers and God-knows-who, when you should be home resting!”

  Jack frowned as he scooped up his jacket and tossed it over his shoulder. “Resting? I’ve rested for the last week. I’m fine now.”

  Green eyes cut his way again, and when she saw he was dressed, she let out a little huff. “You most certainly are not fine.”

  When she began to march toward the house, Jack leapt after he
r, not sure what he was doing, but knowing he didn’t want her to go until he understood.

  “What do you mean?”

  When she didn’t answer him, and just kept marching, he reached out and touched her elbow. The response was immediate; she jerked away from him and shot a glare his way, which should’ve had him steaming from the heat of it.

  “What’s wrong, Tavie?”

  “What’s wrong?” She shook her head. “What’s wrong?” She shifted the plate to one hand and used the other gloved fingers to poke at his chest. “What’s wrong, Mister Hoyle, is that you don’t give two shits about your own safety. Do you know anything about Dick Stevens? Diamon might be faster at the draw than him, but we don’t know. Stevens is one mean hombre, and you just don’t care.”

  Jack opened his mouth to defend himself, but she pressed on, forcing him to step back when she jabbed him again.

  “What’s wrong is that you challenged four armed men to battle last week, Jack! Dammit, you could’ve died. You should’ve died!” She shook her head and threw up her hand. “Do you have any idea how much your mother worries for you? How much I—”

  Her lips snapped shut on whatever she’d been about to say, and Jack found himself stunned by the power she wielded. Despite the cold, she was flushed, breathing heavily, as her dark curls stuck to the skin around her temples and cheeks. Her chameleon eyes flashed with anger and desperation, and something else, and Jack very much wanted to know what that was.

  But it was her lower lip, dark pink and very plump, as if she’d been biting it, which truly held his attention.

  He was still mesmerized by it when he asked, “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  Slowly, he dragged his gaze up to her eyes. “Why does Mother worry for me?”

  Why do you?

  Her eyes widened, incredulous, and she made an exasperated noise as she whirled back toward the house. “Because she loves you, you stupid man!” she hollered, not even bothering to soften her words. “She loves you, for some God-forsaken reason, and doesn’t want you to be hurt!”