Three of a Kind (Black Aces Book 2) Read online

  Three of a Kind

  Black Aces, Book Two

  Caroline Lee

  Contents

  Other historical westerns by Caroline Lee

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other historical westerns by Caroline Lee

  Copyright © 2019, Caroline Lee

  [email protected]

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

  First edition: 2019

  This work is made available in e-book format by Amazon Kindle at www.amazon.com

  Printing/manufacturing information for this book may be found on the last page

  Cover: EDHGraphics

  Created with Vellum

  Other historical westerns by Caroline Lee

  Sunset Valley

  (Black Aces prequel)

  Lucas’s Lady

  Verrick’s Vixen

  Abigail’s Adventure

  Everland Ever After:

  A fairy-tale town set in the wilds of the old west!

  Little Red (free on all retailers)

  Ella

  Beauty

  The Stepmother

  Rapunzelle

  Briar Rose

  Rose Red

  The Mermaid

  The Prince’s Pea

  The Sweet Cheyenne Quartet:

  Love for all seasons in nineteenth-century Wyoming.

  A Cheyenne Christmas

  A Cheyenne Celebration

  A Cheyenne Thanksgiving

  A Cheyenne Christmas Homecoming

  The Mothers of Sweet Cheyenne

  Where They Belong

  Sign up for Caroline’s Newsletter to receive exclusive content and freebies, as well as first dibs on her books! Or if newsletters aren’t your thing, follow her on Bookbub for a quick, concise new release alert every time she publishes a book!

  For the heroines

  ***

  You've got to know when to hold 'em,

  Know when to fold 'em,

  Know when to walk away

  And know when to run.

  You never count your money

  When you're sittin' at the table;

  There'll be time enough for countin'

  When the dealin's done.

  —The Gambler, Kenny Rogers, 1979

  1

  Breaking in Gomez’s store at three-thirty in the morning wasn’t exactly courting death, but it was nerve-wracking as hell. Finnie held her breath as she pulled the door closed behind her, listening intently for any tell-tale squeak of the floorboards upstairs to alert her to being found out.

  Nothing.

  She exhaled in relief and crossed to the aisle she wanted, making sure her footfalls were as silent and deliberate as possible. The sack she’d untied from her belt now hung heavy from her left hand as she crept past the canned goods and cleaning supplies.

  I gotta be the only thief sneaking around in the dark to deliver something, instead of taking it.

  As she passed the front counter, she briefly considered shoving a handful of peppermint sticks into the pocket of her black duster, just so she could feel like a respectable thief, but quickly dismissed the idea as too risky. She didn’t want anyone to realize she’d been here.

  Not Mr. Gomez, and definitely not Augustus King.

  The coffee was exactly where Gomez usually kept it, which meant she didn’t have to go hunting through the store, thank goodness. There were only three packages left, and she knew O’Grady would be in first thing in the morning to pick up his order to take back to King’s ranch.

  From the questions Finnie had managed to nonchalantly ask over the last few weeks, she knew King’s goons kept the coffee on all day, and they all drank from the same pot. It was too much to hope King himself would partake in this particular batch, but Finnie was hoping to incapacitate as many of his henchmen as possible.

  That’s why she’d had a sit-down with her new friend Regina Hartwell, and had learned all about the various laxatives available to the innocent saloon-owner Finnie was pretending to be. Regina—besides being Finnie’s friend’s new wife—was the daughter of Doc Vickers, and knew her way around a medicine cabinet. She hadn’t blinked an eye when Finnie had started asking questions, probably because she’d figured out Finnie’s secret.

  After all, Regina’s husband Hart had kept the secret himself for a good long while.

  Years ago, Hart had created a second identity, the Black Ace. Their little town was in bad shape, thanks to Mr. King, and the people had needed a champion, someone to believe in. No one really remembered who’d first named the vigilante the Black Ace, but the name had stuck, and the masked man had come to mean hope to the people of Black Aces. All this time, it’d been Hart behind that bandana, but Finnie hadn’t figured it out until it was almost too late. When King had his no-good pawn Sheriff McNelis drag Hart into town for a lynching, Finnie had done what needed to be done.

  She’d stolen Hart’s black duster, black hat, black bandana, and black horse…and saved him.

  Hart and Regina were safe now, safe to start their lives together without King’s suspicions hanging over them. But Finnie had landed herself in a world of trouble. It’s not that she didn’t believe in what the Black Ace did—no, she’d admired the man for years—but there was only so much she could manage with the guests she had living full-time at the saloon.

  One in particular.

  On nights like this one, when she had Ace business to take care of, she had to wait until the last patron left, then watch to make sure her guests really were asleep, then get changed into her disguise and sneak out. That’s why it was so late it was nearly early, and she was only now getting to her goal.

  Her palms itched as she swapped out the coffee. She placed hers nice and prominent in the front of the shelf, then shoved a package into her sack, which she hung back on her belt. That wasn’t really; she’d paid for the doctored coffee, after all, so this was just a trade. The other two packages, she shoved way in the back, behind the flour sacks. At times like this, it was pretty handy Gomez parceled out his dry goods like this…she’d hate to think of poisoning the whole town accidentally.

  When it was done, she blew out a breath and shook her hands and arms, hoping to get rid of the nervous energy tingling through her limbs.

  No luck.

  Still, it was justified. She stared at the single package of coffee, knowing it could change the tide of King’s control. See, Hart’s plan to secretly stand up to King had been a good one, but it hadn’t gotten anywhere. His goal hadn’t been to expose King as an evil man, he’d been content to only offer aid where necessary. And she’d appreciated that, as the Black Ace had once dumped a sack of cash in her saloon when she’d been too low to pay King’s rent, and Finnie knew she wouldn’t have been able to keep her saloon—her dream—without the Ace’s help.

  But now
that she’d donned the mantle—or rather, the bandana—of the Black Ace, it was her goal to break King’s control of their town. The only way to do that was to expose his treachery to the people of Black Aces. Once they all knew how he’d been lying and cheating them, surely they’d stand up and run him out of town together?

  It’d taken a few of her wee-hours-of-the-morning outings to figure out this plan, but she was confident it would work. Tomorrow was the twentieth of December, the day the townspeople usually traveled together to cut down their Christmas trees. It was sort of a town holiday, one the school kids always looked forward to. But the grove they usually went to was near the mining camp for the Bicycle Mine, and King’s goons had been clear no one was allowed nearby.

  Last week, Finnie had discovered why; the camp was empty.

  If the camp was empty, that meant there were no miners working the Bicycle, because the people of Black Aces damn well would’ve heard about a bunch of homeless miners. If there were no miners working the mine, that meant the whole thing was played out, empty. And if the Bicycle Mine was empty…

  Then what in the hell was Augustus King doing here in Black Aces, Montana?

  She didn’t know yet, but her plan was to make sure the people of Black Aces knew as much as she did…without having to stand up and declare herself a wanted vigilante.

  Especially not with a US Marshal sleeping in the bedroom next to hers.

  Alright. She blew out another breath, gave her hands another shake, and swallowed down her fears. This scheme would work. O’Grady would pick up the coffee and take it back to King’s ranch. Enough of them would drink it and have to spend the next few days close to the outhouse. That would mean not enough goons would be left to patrol the area around the camp, so the townspeople would be able to not only cut down their Christmas trees, but see how empty the camp was, and start questioning just what was going on at the Bicycle Mine.

  Yeah, this would work.

  That was what she was telling herself as she ghosted across the store once more, then let herself out the door. This would work. She’d help the town stand up to King, and soon they’d be rid of him.

  Standing on the back stoop of the store, she carefully pulled Gomez’s door closed, listening for the tell-tale click to indicate it had locked behind her. She didn’t need Mr. Gomez wondering why the hell his back door was open in the morning—

  “You’re out awful late, mister.”

  It was a miracle Finnie didn’t swallow her tongue, she was so startled. As it was, she whirled around and met the eyes of her silent watcher, wishing she had her rifle with her. Hart might’ve carried a revolver as the Black Ace, but Finnie had never shot anything besides her Winchester, and didn’t intend to start now.

  She’d already lowered her shoulder and was fixing to barrel into the man, when her brain caught up with her eyes and she froze. The man on the other side of the alley, leaning so nonchalantly against the railing of the old post office and smoking a cheroot, wasn’t an enemy.

  Or rather, he was an enemy. One of the scariest enemies a masked vigilante could have. But he wasn’t her enemy.

  At least, she didn’t want him to be.

  Slowly, she drew in a calming breath and straightened, dropping her gaze to the bright silver star pinned to the man’s vest.

  Because US Marshall Quint Diamon was handsome enough to make her forget her words when he looked right at her with that knowing dark gaze of his.

  He took another long drag on the cheroot, then dropped it into the snow by his foot. As he blew out the smoke, he shifted forward, managing to hook his jacket behind his holster and rest his good hand on the butt of his gun, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Finnie sucked in a breath again, as she realized no matter what she thought, Quint was now viewing her as his enemy.

  Well hell, girl. You’re dressed like a bad guy, and he just caught you robbing a store!

  “Late?” Quint repeated in a drawl as he moved closer at a measured pace. “Now that I see that bandana, I’m thinking you’re out awfully early, Mr. Ace.” He stopped an arms’ reach in front of her. “You are the Black Ace, aren’t you?”

  Finnie’s heart was beating a frantic tattoo against her ribcage as her eyes darted left and right, looking for an escape. She was just as tall as Quint, and probably as strong, thanks to her years managing the saloon by herself. It was that little quirk of genetics which had made it so easy to become the Black Ace—she was the same size as most men in town. But there was no way she could go up against Quint and win…not that she had any interest in trying.

  No, if she was going to consider barreling into him and going down in a tangle of legs and arms, she wanted it to be for an entirely different reason, thank you very much.

  She almost groaned at her thoughts. Here she stood, exposed in the moonlight reflecting off the snow, and she was thinking about—what? Wrestling the man? Kissing the man?

  Come on, girl. Focus!

  “What’s the matter, Ace?” Quint asked again in that low, mocking tone of his as he stepped closer. “Cat got your tongue?”

  There was no way she could answer him. For one thing, even if her body was built more like a man than a woman, her voice was unmistakably feminine. And it was a voice which spoke to him every day, sitting with him for meals and talking about Washington politics and whatever else he read in the Helena papers.

  So instead of answering him, she tucked her chin down further, praying her eyes weren’t illuminated. With her hair tucked up under the broad hat, and most of her features obscured by the bandana, she had to just hope he wouldn’t recognize her.

  Quint hummed thoughtfully and shifted his weight, his hand not leaving the butt of his gun. “I’ve been in this town for only a few months, but I haven’t met too many people who’ve claimed to have met the Ace. And of them, I’ve met even fewer I believe.” His other gloved hand was tucked up tight against his chest, a gesture Finnie recognized as him trying to keep his still-recovering shoulder as still as possible. “But no one ever mentioned the Ace was mute. So I’m wondering if you even are the Ace.”

  Quicker than she could blink, quicker than she could think, he was standing right in front of her. She jerked back, startled, but remembered to keep her head down.

  He moves like a cat!

  And just like a cat, he’d pounced.

  “So who are you?” he growled, leaning towards her intimidatingly. “Just some common thief? Because I can’t think of a single reason for the Black Ace to be breaking into Gomez’s store in the middle of the night.”

  Breaking into Gomez’s—? Finnie blinked, trying desperately to come up with a way out of this encounter in one piece. He thought she was breaking into the store, which she was, but he didn’t think the Ace would be doing that. So how could she convince him she wasn’t?

  Inspiration hit.

  Slowly, making it clear she wasn’t going to make any sudden moves, Finnie’s hand crept towards the pocket of the man’s waistcoat she wore. It was part of the costume, sure, but it was also the middle of winter. Finnie had always figured it’d be unseen under the black jacket and duster, but she wore it to hide the bindings around her breasts.

  Now, she felt his eyes on her as she dipped two fingers into the pocket and pulled out a key. It was the key to the back door of the High Stakes Saloon, where he was supposed to be currently sleeping, but no need for him to know that. Instead, she confidently held the key up and waggled it a little, so he wouldn’t miss her meaning.

  He didn’t. In fact, he snorted a little—laughter?—as he straightened, but didn’t move farther away. Instead, he cocked his head and watched her thoughtfully.

  “You’re not breaking into Gomez’s store, because you have the key. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Heart pounding, she dipped her head in acknowledgment, praying he’d believe her.

  He hummed, and she’d been around him enough to know what that meant; he was reserving judgment.
Good God, but the man was sexy, when he sat and really thought about something. She’d always liked the way he considered problems from all angles before he made a decision. He would’ve made a damn fine engineer if he hadn’t been a lawman.

  But he was a lawman, and that was about eighty percent of Finnie’s problems right now.

  Because no matter how sexy he was, she couldn’t so much as wink at him.

  No, he’d been sent to Black Aces, Montana, to capture and hang her.

  Under the bandana, Finnie’s tongue darted out over suddenly dry lips. This was, as far as she knew, the first time US Marshal Quint Diamon had stood face-to-face with the Black Ace. All it would take was one pounce, and he could have her bandana off and her hands tied, bad shoulder or no.

  So as much as she wanted to lean forward, as much as she wanted to inhale his spicy-sweet scent, she forced herself to do the opposite. For the town, for herself, for Cinco, she had to keep her identity a secret.

  Dropping the key back in her pocket, she stepped backwards, her booted heel breaking through the thin layer of ice which had been deposited earlier that evening on the town’s snow piles.

  The sound seemed to startle Quint. At least, something did. He jerked his head, then shook it, as if laughing at himself, and the tension she hadn’t realized he’d been carrying drained from his shoulders.

  And that’s when—God help her—he smiled at her.

  “I don’t know why you’d be sneaking around the town at night, but if you have the key to Gomez’s store, you’re clearly not breaking in. And that means I haven’t witnessed a crime.” He shrugged, his lips settling into their usual fullness once more. “This is just a case of two men meeting innocently in a dark back alley in the middle of a freezing night, right?”