Ace's Wild (Hqn)

by Sarah McCarty

  “Hey!”

  The black ace covering his queen.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you lead with that?”

  “Because I’m not superstitious, like you.”

  Ace stood and grabbed his hat. Gillian’s knee was never wrong.

  “Where you going?” Luke asked, standing also.

  “Where the hell do you think?”

  He was getting his queen back.

  * * *

  THE STAGE ROCKED back and forth, back and forth, up and down, side to side. Petunia grabbed at the strap above her and held on as tightly to that as she did to her stomach. She hated riding the stage on the best of days, but this driver—Gillian—seemed absolutely compelled to hit every bump, sway and dip in the road. Her bones felt shaken; her teeth hurt from snapping together, and any minute now she was going to lose her breakfast. Yet none of that made her as miserable as the “what-ifs” plaguing her with every turn of the wheels.

  What if she’d stayed? What if she’d let Ace do what he wanted to do? What if she’d stepped out of her safe little place and demanded her place in his world? What if she was leaving the only man she was every going to feel this way about? She wanted to tell the driver to turn around but it wouldn’t do any good. Gillian wouldn’t stop until he got to the next post. And there wasn’t anything of substance waiting for her back there.

  What if she swallowed her pride and telegraphed her father for money? He’d yell, say he told her so, start arranging parties full of men in stiff-collared suits and give her a timeline within which to marry. Her father loved her, but he had very strict ideas of what his daughter’s perfect future should be. She sometimes thought he believed the tightness of his plans were a talisman against the fate that had befallen her mother. As if wrapping her in a cocoon of conformity warded off all illness and misfortune. The only problem was, she couldn’t breathe in a cage, no matter how gilded.

  The coach lurched as it hit a rock or a tree or whatever the hell the driver was aiming for. It sent her flying across the compartment. Thank goodness there weren’t any other passengers. She didn’t have to worry about landing in an undignified heap in a stranger’s lap. She banged on the side of the coach.

  “Be careful, can’t you?” she called up to the driver.

  The only response was a “Hyah!” and the sound of reins slapping the horses’ backs. Of course, requesting he be careful set him to driving like a maniac. Was everyone out here contrary? Scrambling back into her seat, she braced her feet against the bench opposite and straightened her jacket. She knew darn well her hat was askew, but every time she reached up she lost her balance. She was afraid if she tried to fix it she’d end up snatching herself bald.

  “Hang on tight, miss.”

  “What is the rush?” she hollered above all the clamor.

  No answer. The coach picked up speed. Another bump sent her flying across the bench. She hit her head hard enough to see stars. She wasn’t worried about her hat anymore. She was worried about coming out of this alive. She had at least ten bruises already. She slammed her hand on the side of the door again.

  “Slow down or it’s not going to be a stagecoach, but a hearse!”

  Gillian’s voice took on an edge as he continued to yell at the horses while the carriage pitched and hawed.

  She heard a gunshot.

  Then another. And another. Then from Gillian, “Hold on to your bloomers, miss!”

  As if she could do anything else.

  “What is it?”

  “Comanche.”

  The one word guaranteed to strike terror into her heart. She hadn’t been raised in the West. She hadn’t been here for the raids twenty years previous, but she knew about them. The first war cry rose in a terrifying trill. It was followed by another and another.

  It was foolish. It was dangerous. She had to look. She pulled the curtain away from the small rear window and immediately wished she hadn’t. There was safety in that little bubble of wood that constituted the chassis and the ignorance that came from not knowing. But looking out that window she felt all hope die. Indians. Wild men with painted faces and guns and knives riding wild running ponies. Of their outriders there was no sign. Petunia forced herself to calmly count.

  Fourteen. There were fourteen Comanche and only two of them and one of them was driving the coach.

  “Dear God.”

  This time after she rapped on the wall, she leaned out the window.

  “Give me a gun.”

  The sounds and smells were so much stronger.

  “Women can’t shoot.”

  Really? “Then think of me as a man, but give me a damn gun.”

  Gil took a rifle, held it down. It took three grabs before she could get it.

  “Don’t drop these. They’re all we’ve got.” He tossed her the box of bullets.

  She barely caught them with the carriage careening on the path. The Indians closed in, their screams louder. She shoved a shell into the chamber and leaned out the window again. Gunshots peppered the air. There was a plink as one hit the wood above her head. This was real. She was amazingly calm. One of the riders had a bright red feather in his hair. She took aim on him.

  “Don’t be wasting those bullets,” she heard from above.

  “Keep the damn coach straight for a minute, and I won’t.”

  She took aim and fired. Red feather toppled from the horse. She jacked another bullet into the chamber. One down, thirteen to go.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ACE AND LUKE caught up with the coach far earlier than they’d expected. It tipped on its side in the middle of a clearing, wheels bent and broken, doors open. A wooden carcass stripped of all of its essentials. The horses were nowhere in sight. Ace wasn’t surprised. There was nothing more valuable to a Comanche than a good horse, and Gillian prided himself on his team. Overhead, a vulture circled.

  “Shit,” Luke said, pulling up.

  Ace didn’t have room in him for words. His heart had been in his throat since they’d found Gillian’s outriders shot dead two miles back. All the signs pointed to Comanche, from the unshod hoofprints to the sweep out of cover flanking attack. Along those two miles, someone had done some fancy shooting. It wasn’t easy to hit the broadside of a barn from a moving coach, let alone a man on a horse. At least four Comanche were dead or dying. But the odds had never been with the coach. And the end was inevitable.

  Sliding off Crusher, Ace approached the carriage. All around the ground was churned up from the stomp of horses’ hooves and the trample of raiders feet. Later, he’d figure out how many, but right now there was only one thing he wanted to know. Step by step he approached the carriage, one step, two step, his breath caught in his lungs, a solid ache of dread. His heart beat sluggishly as he approached the door.

  Luke was right behind him. He caught his arm. “Wait up, Ace.”

  Ace shrugged him off. He wasn’t waiting for anything. He had to know. Feeling as if he were fighting a headwind in a slow-moving world, he opened the door. For one heartbeat he couldn’t look. Couldn’t know. In the next, he saw it all. His breath exploded outward on a curse.

  “She there?”

  “Fuck.” He shook his head, holding on to the coach to steady himself. There was nothing in the carriage. No body. No bags. No blood. “Looks like they took her.”

  “Thank God.”

  Most folk considered a woman’s fate at the hands of the Comanche a fate worse than death. He wasn’t one of them. Only death was final. Everything before that was possibility. He’d forgotten that for a bit. He wouldn’t ever forget it again. “She probably doesn’t feel that way.”

  Luke looked up from where he knelt at the back, studying the prints in the dirt. “The important t
hing is that she’s still alive to feel anything at all.”

  Ace nodded. Whatever had happened, whatever was happening to Petunia didn’t matter. Whatever the repercussions he’d fix it, make it right. “I should have ridden with them.”

  “There was no reason to think there was need. Gil’s been seeing the vengeance signs for twenty years. Just luck this time that he was right.”

  “His knee hurt.”

  “He was sixty years old. Probably every joint in his body hurt.”

  Luke wanted to absolve him of guilt. It was a pointless endeavor. Ace would go to his grave with the weight of his choices this day on his soul. Pet was his woman. Hell’s Eight by default. He owed her better than he’d given.

  Moving to the front of the carriage, he saw Gil’s crumpled body. No bloody pool seeped out from beneath. The thirsty earth had drained it all, leaving him a too-pale husk of the tough-as-nails son of a bitch he used to be. Ace turned him over. His head lolled unnaturally. From the look of things he’d been alive when the coach had overturned. Shot but alive. It was a blessing the fall had broken his neck. The Comanche weren’t kind to their enemies.

  “He dead?”

  Goodbye, old man.

  Ace stood and dusted off his hands. “Yeah.”

  Luke took off his hat. “Shit. He was a tough old coot.”

  Ace nodded. “He was.”

  “What do you want to do? Go after them or wait for a posse?”

  Ace picked up the reins of his horse. “What do you think?”

  They’d ridden together so long they were almost an extension of each other. Luke was swinging up into the saddle before he got the words out.

  “We ride.” Ace checked his rifle in the scabbard, his eyes on the horizon, his mind already on the battle ahead. “And then we make them pay.”

  For every moment of fear Pet suffered, for every bruise on her lovely skin, for every shadow they put on her soul, they’d pay. In blood and suffering. He swung up on his horse. They had no right to touch what was his. Crusher pawed the ground. Ace stilled him with pressure from his knees.

  Luke’s horse Buddy tossed his head and hopped in a circle. Even the horses could feel what was coming.

  “There’s at least eight in the party,” Luke said.

  “Including the dead?”

  “No.”

  It didn’t matter how many there were. However many there were, they were going to die. Screaming.

  “Tough odds.”

  Luke tugged his hat down. “We’ve faced tougher.”

  Not in Ace’s memory, but Luke was Luke. Deadly and loyal. They’d been to hell and back together. His brother in spirit. His best friend. The one man Ace trusted above all others. The only one he’d always joked with whom he’d want to ride into hell. And now they were. There was only one thing to say.

  “Thank you.”

  Luke smiled that perfect smile of his. “You can owe me.”

  * * *

  THE COMANCHE RAIDERS were moving fast. They weren’t taking time to cover their tracks. Either they weren’t expecting pursuit or they had enough numbers waiting up ahead they didn’t fear it. Shit.

  Ace and Luke rode harder.

  It was a long six hours before they caught up with the raiders. The trail led straight to a small cutback canyon.

  Ace’s first instinct was to charge right in. Luke grabbed his horse’s reins. One word was all it took to snap him back.

  “Think.”

  He couldn’t. Not then. Pet was there, within reach, suffering. The knowledge tore at his reasoning. Luke didn’t let go of the reins. His gaze was stone-cold as the muzzle he pressed into Ace’s thigh.

  “Get your head right, Ace. Or get home.”

  “You’d shoot me?”

  “Without batting an eye.”

  Ace would do the same if the situations were reversed.

  The gun stayed pressed to his thigh. “Petunia doesn’t need your emotion, she needs your skills.”

  “Fuck.” Luke was right. He knew it.

  “So what’s it going to be?”

  Ace wasn’t a rash man in or out of battle. He was methodical and thought things through. He closed his eyes and reached deep, pushing aside his worst fears, finding his balance. When he opened his eyes, he was who he needed to be. “You can let go of the reins.”

  Luke did, slowly. “I realize what she means to you, but riding straight into a bullet isn’t going to do her much good.”

  “I know.” The familiar chill of prebattle encased his nerves.

  “I doubt they’ve seen us, so we’ve got surprise to our advantage plus it’s going to be darker than a hole in a pocket tonight.”

  Ace agreed. “If we take out the guard, we should be able to slip in unnoticed. I doubt they’re expecting so few so soon.”

  “I know they’re not expecting Hell’s Eight.”

  Over the years a mutual respect for each other’s fighting skills had developed between the Comanche and the members of Hell’s Eight.

  “I’ll take all the advantages I can get.”

  “It’ll be dark in a few hours.”

  It was those few hours that gnawed on Ace. A man could do a lot to a woman in a few hours. Eight hard-ass Comanche, an unbelievable amount.

  As if reading his thoughts, Luke muttered, “Don’t think on that, Ace.”

  “I’m not thinking anything.”

  Luke dismounted and ground-tied Buddy farther behind the bluff shielding their position. “You’re thinking the same thing I am, but if we do this right, there’ll be a point to that thinking later.”

  Staying low, Luke started climbing the bluff.

  Because if they did this right, Petunia would be alive. Ace fondled the butt of his revolver. Usually Ace was the calm one of the two, but tonight Luke could be the voice of reason. He’d settle for being the hand of justice. Dismounting, he followed Luke.

  “You with me still?” Luke asked as he hunkered beside him near the lip of the bluff.

  “You worry too much.”

  Luke pushed his hat back, took a sip from his canteen and passed it to Ace. “Must be because I’ve never seen you in love before.”

  Ace took a long pull. The water was warm and brackish but it did the job. “And you’re not likely going to see it again.”

  “What’s it feel like?”

  He couldn’t explain the mix of fear, excitement and perfection. “Like sitting with your legs dangling over the edge of the highest cliff you’ve ever seen.”

  “That bad?”

  Ace handed the canteen back, studying the canyon wall. “That good.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ace pointed to the craggy right side of the wall. “I figure the most likely place to have sentries is that ledge right there. It’s close enough to get a shot off at anyone past this bluff but still provide some cover. Visibility is clear on all sides. With a man stationed there, you would only need one sentry.”

  Luke pointed to the left. “That spot over there would be my second choice.”

  “Cover’s not as good, and that outcropping blocks the view to the west,” Ace countered.

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m betting that is where they’re going to have the sentry. Which only leaves one question—”

  Ace didn’t need him to finish. “You can take the sentry.”

  For a long moment, Luke just studied him. Then he nodded.

  “All right. I figure it’s going to take me a good five minutes to get down off the wall. Think you can curb your impatience that long before rushing in?”

  “When you take him out, I’m going in.”

  “The plan is you wait.”

  Ace nodded and drew his knife,
checking the edge.

  Luke shook his head. “Why do I get the impression I’d better grow wings?”

  “No clue.”

  Sliding down until the angle of the bluff served as his pillow, Luke settled his hat over his eyes. “If I’m going to be running down mountains like a goat, I’ll need my rest.”

  “I’ll stand watch.”

  Luke smiled. “That was my plan.”

  The hours passed slowly. The silence was only broken by birdcalls and the relentless chime of his conscience. At the top of each hour, Ace scanned the canyon walls, looking for anything he might have missed, anything that might have changed, any potential threat Luke hadn’t seen, any eventuality Ace hadn’t predicted. The hours passed with no change except the gradual dip of the sun below the horizon. When the sliver of moon began its rise, Luke woke, checked his revolvers and picked up his rifle.

  “It’s time.”

  Ace nodded and patted his rifle. “I’ve got you covered.”

  Luke turned. Stopped. Turned back, held up his hand, fingers spread. “Remember, five minutes.”

  Ace nodded. “I heard you.”

  A few steps farther, and Luke blended into the shadows. Ace crawled up to the ledge and balanced his rifle on a rock. It was too dark to see much, but he didn’t need more than a rifle flash to pick off the sentry. After that they probably had five minutes before Comanche came spilling out of the canyon. Luke had better get that damn sentry.

  The minutes ground by with excruciating slowness. It took every bit of discipline Ace had not to rush that canyon. He wasn’t foolish, but Pet made him feel that way sometimes. He was a fool for thinking he could take on twelve Comanche alone. A fool for thinking a woman like her would be happy with a man like him. A fool for thinking he could even be happy. He shook his head. He wasn’t a man destined for joy. He was destined to be what he was, a gambler, a gunfighter, Hell’s Eight. He tightened his grip on the rifle. Justice.

  There was a scuff of a boot on dirt behind him. He spun around, knife ready. Just before he struck, Luke cautioned, “Easy.”

  He stopped the thrust midway. “Son of a bitch, I almost gutted you,” he whispered under his breath. “Why in the hell didn’t you give me the call?”