by Caroline Lee
Cinco nodded again, then rested his head back on the pillows and let out a little sigh. When he closed his eyes, Regina took it to mean he didn’t want to talk to her, and she picked up her coat and stood. From beside the bed, she could see the boy had filled out; he wasn’t quite the pile of skin and bones Hart had carried into the saloon the week before. No, he’d fattened up slightly, although he couldn’t be considered plump by any means, and the bruises were fading. Like Pony, he had to remain off his leg, so he was doing a lot of sleeping, according to Finnie. Yes, he was healing just fine.
“Thank you for watching over him,” she said to Finnie at the door.
The other woman seemed surprised, judging from the way her brows drew in. “Of course. He’s hardly any trouble at all, and he’s asleep by the time the evening rush begins. I carried him downstairs the last two mornings and propped him up. He listened to me read some of the newspaper and had some good questions.”
“He does speak?” How silly, of course he did—he’d told Finnie his name, hadn’t he? She hurried to clarify. “I mean, that’s good to know. I guess he feels comfortable around you.” Regina made sure to keep her voice low, so she wouldn’t disturb the boy.
When Finnie shrugged, it was a reminder of how easy it must’ve been for her to carry the boy downstairs. Why, she probably lifted him as easily as Hart had. Finnie stood almost a head taller than Regina and was wearing a man’s shirt again today. She looked capable of lifting a hog under each arm, honestly.
“I wanted to—” The other woman cut herself off with a glance towards the bed, then jerked her head to motion Regina out into the hall. Once there, she began again, in that soft voice of hers, “Thank you for coming out today. Your father said he didn’t want to risk coming over too much, but it was real nice to have another set of eyes on Cinco.”
Papa had come over to the saloon the day following the attack—the day after Regina had kissed Hart, the day she’d guessed his identity, the day her life had changed in the most exciting way—just to check on her work. He’d said the boy would heal, but also added Burton and Mr. King didn’t want him treating “that little thief.” So Regina offered to come in his stead, as she had with so many others.
Regina smiled. “Happy to do it. I just hope King doesn’t realize what I’m up to, or we’ll have a conundrum.”
“We” meaning the two of them, and half the citizens of Black Aces. Everyone outside King’s influence had to rely on his good graces to receive medical attention from Papa, and King had very few good graces in him.
The other woman shrugged again as they began to move down the hall towards the stairs. “If that happens, we’ll just have to rely on the Black Ace to get us the help we need, won’t we?”
Regina raised her brow in surprise. “I didn’t realize you were a believer.”
The look Finnie sent clearly showed her amusement. “I don’t need to believe, Miss Regina, in someone who’s real.”
“Fair enough.” The two women descended the stairs and crossed the saloon’s main room before Regina found a way to bring up the topic again. “Do you… I mean, why are you so certain he exists?”
The look in Finnie’s eyes was wary, as if she wasn’t sure if Regina was teasing her or not. “He’s helped the town a lot. You know that, right?”
Hurrying to set the other woman at ease, Regina nodded. “I just meant…has he helped you?”
Last week, right here in this saloon, Regina had kissed Hart. He’d kissed her right back. It had made her feel…well, if she’d thought she was warm from just the touch of his hand in hers, then kissing him was some sort of conflagration! She hadn’t been able to get enough of him, and after an embarrassingly long time—a wonderfully long time—she’d finally realized she’d had him pressed up against the wall and was taking whatever she’d wanted.
But when she’d tried to pull away, he’d gone with her, and they ended up kissing again. Then they kissed at the door. Then he’d walked her home and kissed her again, and each time was better than the last.
He’d been breathing deeply when he’d pressed his forehead to hers, there on her front porch where anyone could see. When she breathed in, Regina felt him clear down to her lungs, and wasn’t sure why it made her feel so right.
“Pony would tan my hide, if I told him you know my secret,” Hart had finally whispered. Then he’d straightened and stared into her eyes. “But I trust you.”
And those three words—I trust you—had meant more than anything else he could’ve said. They were better than a confession. They were better than an I love you, although she wasn’t sure why she was thinking of those words.
Then he’d tipped his hat to her and strode off towards the livery stable, leaving her there, with her fingers pressed against her lips and her mind a mass of white fluff.
When she’d called him out for being the Black Ace, all he’d said was that he cared. And from the way he’d been looking at her at the time, Regina didn’t know if he'd meant he cared about the town as a whole, or about her.
But now she knew. She knew Hart was the Black Ace.
After all, she’d sat on the man’s lap. And then last week, she’d pressed herself against Hart, pinning him to the wall with her body. Just the way he’d pinned her to the wall of Gomez’s store during their first encounter.
Oh yes, River Hartwell was the Black Ace, and she was terrified.
A year ago—a month ago—the Black Ace had been a shadowy figure, a symbol in a mask. She and so many others had relied on him for help, for hope. But now she knew him as a man, a man who could be hurt or, even worse, killed, and she was terrified for him.
She’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d confronted McAuliffe. She could sense it had taken so much control for him not to go after the man, not to make him pay for what he’d done to Cinco. She was terrified he still would go after McAuliffe, therefore making it obvious who he was.
But it was almost a week after the incident, and she’d heard no rumor of a threat against any of King’s goons. McAuliffe still strutted around the town, pushing everyone around and receiving “gifts” just to leave people alone. Hart hadn’t harmed him. He’d listened to Regina.
But he also hadn’t returned to town.
It wasn’t until they’d crossed the main room and stood before the door that Regina realized Finnie hadn’t said another word. In fact, the other woman seemed ill-at-ease, as if she wasn’t sure what to say.
What had Regina last asked her…?
Oh yes, if the Ace had personally helped her.
Finally, Finnie cleared her throat, and spoke quietly. “After my pa died and left this place to me, Mr. King tried to buy me out. I was in over my head, and I couldn’t afford his rent, and it sure would’ve been easy to just sell him the saloon and leave town. But he was offering me peanuts, and this place is mine. Even when Pa was alive, I ran it, you know?”
When she glanced at Regina, a surprisingly imploring look in her eyes, Regina nodded hurriedly.
“Word got around, I guess. One morning I came downstairs and there was a big ol’ sack of money on the bar. I thought someone had robbed a bank, ‘til I saw a black ace drawn in charcoal. I don’t know where he gets the money, but I’m not the only one he’s helped in that way.”
Regina nodded, happy to finally hear the other woman’s story. “Abigail Blake received money from the Ace as well, remember? To pay the rent on the old schoolhouse, and after it burned, to help build the new school.”
“Yep.” Finnie reached for the door. “I used the money to pay the rent to keep King happy. The Black Ace is the reason I still have my home, my saloon. I owe him.”
As the women stepped outside together into the cold sunlight, Regina hummed thoughtfully. “We all do.”
“The Marshal’s here!”
The call from up the street had both women whipping their heads around to where a crowd had gathered near the sheriff’s office.
The Marshal! The US Marshal was here…t
o track down the Black Ace. Their Ace was technically a criminal, in the way he stood up to King and Sheriff McNelis, no matter that he was on the side of honor and decency. If the Marshal was here, the Black Ace’s days were numbered.
And now that Regina knew exactly who the Ace was—a man who made her feel all sorts of interesting things, a man who made her laugh and who shared his life with her, a man who had kissed her—she wasn’t just worried about the town anymore.
She and Finnie exchanged a glance, then hurried towards the crowd. They needed to see this Marshal for themselves
The man was still on horseback, and as they joined the group gathered around, he turned towards them. Beside her, Finnie sucked in a startled breath, and Regina felt like echoing it.
The tall man on the brown horse, the imposing man with a US Marshal’s badge pinned to his coat, had skin darker than Cinco’s.
Around her, there was some angry muttering, and she heard a few not-so-nice terms. But it was hard to tell if the townspeople were angry about his presence here because he was asked to come to hunt down their Ace, or if it was because of the man himself.
Sheriff McNelis chose that moment to swagger out of his office, his belly preceding him by quite a bit, as always. He stopped at the edge of the walkway, hooked his thumbs over his gun belt, and glared at the Marshal.
“Just who in the hell are you supposed to be, boy?”
The man on the horse didn’t react to the slight, although the muttering ceased with a few shocked gasps. Instead, the Marshal allowed his gaze to travel over the sheriff for just a few heartbeats longer than necessary, his expression carefully neutral.
Finally, he met McNelis’s eyes once more. “US Marshal Quint Diamon. Washington sent me, because apparently, there are some issues with law and order in this town.”
The sheriff spit in disgust. “There ain’t no issues—”
“So you’re saying you’ve apprehended the vigilante known as the Black Ace?”
McNelis seemed irritated by the man’s calm tone, and he scowled.
“We ain’t caught him yet, if that’s what you’re asking. But we sure as hell don’t need help from the likes of you.”
The man—Marshal Diamon—seemed unaffected by the slight. “I’m a duly appointed US Marshal, here in this town to do my duty, whether you believe you need it or not.”
When the sheriff laughed, there was a frantic edge to it. “This is my town, mine and Mr. King’s, and we can handle that low-down criminal. I dunno what the Marshals are doing, allowing a boy like you a badge, but you’re welcome to hang around and watch how real men do it. If you can find a place to stay.”
From the crowd, someone called out. “The hotel ain’t gunna allow a negro to rent a room, Sheriff.”
It was likely true, but before anyone could say anything further, Finnie pushed through the crowd. “I have rooms to let.”
The Marshal twisted to meet her eyes, staring for a few heartbeats before inclining his head briefly—in thanks?—and touched the brim of his hat.
“Well, there ya go, folks.” Sheriff McNelis made a shooing motion. “Nothing to see here.”
The crowd began to drift away, but Regina heard some disturbing comments as they did.
“You really think the Marshals let a negro sign up?”
“Mr. King ain’t gunna like this.”
“Mr. King wanted the Black Ace dead, and he got a Marshal. If the man’s a negro, that don’t mean he ain’t a Marshal, I figure.”
“I heard of ‘im. He’s a crack shot. The Black Ace better watch his back.”
Her knuckles tightened on the reticule she carried to disguise her medicines and wished Papa were here. Taking a deep breath, Regina backed away from the jail and the crowd—including the serious-looking Marshal—then turned and hurried towards her home.
If Hart didn’t come to town by tomorrow, she might have to ride out to his ranch. To check on Pony, of course, but mostly to warn Hart about the Marshal’s arrival.
And maybe, if she was lucky, to kiss him again.
* * *
Millard Caplan ignored his boss’s ranting, because he was used to it.
Well, not ignored. Never completely ignored. Augustus King didn’t tolerate being ignored, so Millard had gotten quite good at listening with only one ear, while the rest of his attention was on the mine foreman’s reports.
With the Bicycle Mine being so large and sitting squarely atop the only silver vein in the area, there really hadn’t been a reason to locate the assayer’s office in town. But Mr. Hoyle had suggested it, oh, ten years ago or so, and miners who couldn’t make it to Helena came to the Black Aces office.
Of course, when Mr. King had taken over the mine, he’d started charging higher rates, and now the miners had all but deserted their little town.
All of them except those in Mr. King’s pay. Who, according to the reports, weren’t pulling out a quarter of what they needed to. Millard had been dreading this for a while; the Bicycle was all played out.
What’s worse, was Mr. King knew it. Millard was sure of it, even though the man didn’t spend as much time with the reports as he oughta. Millard knew that, because he’d doctored those reports on more than one occasion, to shift money from profits to—
Well, it didn’t matter now.
King knew the mine was dying, and had known for a while. That’s why he was courtin’ those investors so hard. That’s why he was leaning on the townspeople for money.
“The gall! The utter gall! I’ve half a mind to telegraph Washington myself! All that campaign money I spread around back in ‘76, and this is how they repay me?”
Money you stole from the people of Black Aces, no doubt.
But Millard knew when to nod. “Mm-hmm.” He pulled his spectacles off to wipe them, then perched them on his nose once more. “The gall.”
“I asked for a Marshal. You know what they sent me? A negro! And they expect me to believe he’s some sort of law officer? His kind don’t know the meaning of the word law-abiding.”
Frowning, Millard looked up from his work. “The US Marshal is here already?”
King whirled, his features twisted in rage. “What in the hell do you think I’ve been talking about? Yes, he’s here. Arrived this morning.” He resumed his pacing, his words matching his livid visage. “I thought my friends in Washington would be helping me, sending a US Marshal to apprehend this vigilante. But there’s no way a negro is going to be able to do a better job than McNelis.”
Surprised at his boss’s anger, if not his vitriol, Millard offered, “McNelis is a fine law officer.”
He was a terrible law officer. Somewhere around McNelis’s second paycheck from King, he’d quit his loyalty to the law, and transferred it to King. The sheriff was a valuable asset for King, but in no way did he give two hoots about the law anymore.
And King, proudly, knew it.
“McNelis couldn’t find his ass with two hands. He’s incompetent, and that’s the way I like him. But to be shown up by a negro Marshal?” King frowned thoughtfully and clasped his hands behind his back. “That wouldn’t make me look good at all, would it?”
Millard suspected his boss wasn’t looking for an agreement, so he just kept his mouth shut and watched the volatile man pace. He knew King had requested the US Marshals’ help in order to more properly cow the townspeople. With the Ace under lock and key—preferably someplace far away—there’d be no reason for the people of Black Aces to stand up to King any more.
“Any progress?” King suddenly barked.
Millard jumped. “Progress, sir?”
“With finding the identity of this masked criminal!” King scoffed. “You know, the task I gave you a year ago? A task you seem incompetent at, you imbecile.”
Being used to the insults, Millard just shook his head. Sometimes he wondered if his boss really did think he was incompetent, and he did his best to help the illusion along.
“No, Mr. King. Sorry, Mr. King. No one seems to
know anything about him, I’ve been asking around, and the descriptions I’ve been getting could be anyone.”
“Anyone?”
“Yessir.” Millard was lying through his teeth now. “Some say he’s huge, like McAuliffe, and some say he ain’t that big at all, like Stilton.”
“Stilton didn’t shoot himself,” King said icily.
“Yessir. I mean, no, sir.” Millard ducked his head meekly. “Sorry, Mr. King.”
King sniffed dismissively and went back to pacing, and Millard breathed a sigh of relief.
No, he didn’t know the Ace’s identity, and was glad for it. But he’d met the man on several occasions. Although the man kept his lower face covered and disguised his voice by making it rough and lower, Millard felt fairly confident he could pick him out of a crowd.
Thank God his boss had never asked him to do that.
King was muttering to himself again as he paced. Suddenly, he slammed one fist into the other. “I have it!”
“Yessir?”
“The way to make this disaster work for me. The Marshals are mocking me, sending that negro out here, but I’ll make them send me someone else. More Marshals. Plural.”
The evil gleam in King’s eyes made Millard swallow.
“How will you do that, sir?”
“What brings Marshals flocking more than the death of one of their own?”
Millard felt his eyes bug out behind his spectacles. Death? “You’re gonna kill the Marshal, Mr. King?”
King’s lips curled upwards, his smile promising terror.
“No, the Black Ace is.”
Seven
“Morning, Matthias,” Hart called as he pushed open the large livery door. “Just here to board.”
Over the last few years, since Matthias Blake had opened his livery, he’d done a lot of business with Hart. Hartwell horses were generally thought to be among the best in the area, and the only place someone could buy them, aside from Hart’s ranch itself, was Blake’s livery.
So Hart was used to coming and going without much fuss, leaving his horse on one of the stalls whenever he was in town. Oh, but not the black gelding. He was for the Black Ace alone, and never left the ranch during the daylight.