Wild Cards and Iron Horses (11 page)

“Shoo!”

Jon laughed and took a step backwards. With a wide smirk, he bowed to her and spun around, out of her line of sight.

She listened to his footsteps retreating from her workspace. The door hinges squeaked as it swung closed behind him, letting in a gust of cool morning air that whipped around her feet bringing with it the smell of soot. Letting her breath out slowly, Sam returned to her study of the fine wires and springs. Now was not the time to dwell on other things, more personal things, like how Jon Handleston was a truly interesting man, and someone she’d never quite seen the likes of here in Prosperity Ridge.

The door screamed again, prompting the two Weatherlys to turn around on their respective chairs.

Sam started to speak, ready to snap at Mr. Handleston for his speedy return and tell him that she could not work on his device if the man persisted in hovering over her at every turn. She fell silent, seeing the stranger silhouetted in the doorway.

The man was dressed mostly in black, a trace of gold on his waistcoat that sparkled in the morning light. He filled out the jacket to the point of almost needing another size up, his belly threatening to push free of the bottom buttons. The top hat was a plain one, but Sam knew from her frequent visits to the shops that it was an expensive one, made more so by the lack of ornamentation. Another blast of chilly air touched her skin, raising goose bumps.

“Hello.” The tall man tipped his hat to her father. “My name is Victor Morton and I have an offer I’d like to discuss with you.”

Without invitation the man strode into the workshop, swinging an ebony cane capped with what appeared to be an eagle’s head covered in faux gold. He slammed the door shut behind him. “As I said, I have an offer for you.”

Sam’s gaze darted to the chain tucked in the black and gold waistcoat and the lump hidden in the fabric. It could be a watch or it could be a small pistol. She’d heard tales of derringers and pepper-pot revolvers so small that they barely garnered notice. Until they blew a hole in someone, that is.

Her father hopped off the stool. He grabbed a large wrench off the small cart next to his workbench.

“I don’t believe I invited you in, sir.” He strode towards the stranger, halting only a few feet from the robust man. “Even out here on the frontier, we have manners.” The steel bar pointed at the door. “Out.”

Morton held up one hand, a shocked look on his face. “Sir, please. I found the door unlocked and assumed that it was perfectly fine to walk in. Please forgive my error.” His eyes narrowed as he spotted Sam. “I come in peace.”

Sam moved to stand beside her father, wiping her hands with a rag. “Father.” She nodded towards the stranger. “We should hear him out.” Her eyes locked with Victor’s. “It would be good manners, after all.

And good business.”

Her father let out a snort, shaking his head. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr…Morton, is it?”

“Yes.” The man dropped his hands and offered a handshake, clutching the cane in his right hand.

“Again, my apologies.”

After handing the wrench to Sam, her father managed an awkward exchange. “We’re not used to having a lot of company,” he mumbled in response.

Sam stepped forward. “May I ask the reason for your visit?” She studied the man. Well-dressed, from the jacket down to the matching pants, the salt-and-pepper beard and hair neatly groomed. Even his fingernails were cut and trimmed, the sign of a gentleman. A shiver ran up her spine as she recognized who Morton reminded her of. Jon Handleston.

The appearance of two professional gamblers in the Weatherly workshop within minutes of each other could not be mere coincidence.

“I have come to discuss Mr. Handleston and his dealings with you.” Victor scratched his chin. “It has come to my attention that his…item is in this workshop for repair.”

“Yes.” Sam spoke first. “I’m working on it right now. Not that it’s any of your business.” There was no use in lying. The gossip train in town ran faster than the airships hovering over them. Not to mention that it lay a scant twenty feet from where they stood. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to race over and cover the brace with a cloth, her body, anything to protect it from this man who seemed like Jon’s evil doppelganger.

“Yes, well…I have come to discuss terms with you, then, regarding his prosthetic and the technology therein.” Morton licked his lips. “Have you discovered anything odd, shall we say, about the harness?”

“It’s a fine piece of work and one we’re happy to be taking care of,” her father announced. He glanced at Sam before continuing. “Our business with Mr. Handleston is our business, and none of yours.”

Morton gripped the cane tightly, his knuckles going white. He pressed his lips together for a long minute before he spoke, the thin lips curling back to expose tobacco-stained teeth. “Sir, I respect your professionalism and your devotion to your client. However, I am willing to compensate you for your knowledge of the prosthetic and perhaps, shall we say, modifying it further?”

Sam frowned. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You want us to break it,” her father snapped back at Morton.

The gambler waved the cane in the air. “Break is a very strong word, Mr. Weatherly.” He let out a melodramatic sigh. “Mr. Handleston is my competition, he has been for many a tournament. I do not believe his claims that he is not cheating. Indeed, I think that his device somehow gives him the upper hand.”

Sam opened her mouth, ready to rebut this intruder’s accusation, and then spotted her father’s hand motion. It was the slightest wave, but it was unmistakably a signal to let the man continue his ramblings.

Oblivious to her reaction, Morton continued to talk, directing his words to her father and ignoring Sam. “I would be willing to pay a pretty penny for it to be removed from the scene. Balance the scales.

Give us all a fair chance against the boy. Surely you don’t want to be known as a town where cheaters do prosper?”

Her father shook his head, his face scarlet. “I don’t know much about where you come from or what sort of people you’ve dealt with in the past, but we do not betray our customers. We are honest, hardworking men and women who do not sell our morals out for a few pieces of gold.”

The side of Morton’s mouth twitched, the white and black whiskers sliding to and fro. He glared at the two engineers, his focus darting between father and daughter.

Sam lifted the wrench in one hand, balancing the heavy metal rod on her shoulder in a less-than-subtle threat. “My father is correct. We will not damage our reputation for your petty grievances. If you wish to settle your dispute with Mr. Handleston, perhaps you should become a better poker player.” She couldn’t help smiling at the last sentence.

The gambler’s nostrils flared wide for a second, the only indication of his temper. “Miss Weatherly, I do not make this offer lightly or without good reason. You would be doing the world a service by smashing that device into a thousand parts and tossing the remains into a smelter.”

“I doubt that,” Sam replied in a low, calm tone. “That device is not only a wonderful piece of engineering, but also a precursor of things to come. There are people around the world who would love to have such a thing and for us to destroy one so rare because of your petty squabble with Jon…” She shook her head. “It is not an option I would consider under any circumstance.”

“Please leave us,” her father said. “Your business here is concluded, sir.”

Another twitch of the whiskers signaled Morton’s response. He glared at her father for a long minute, and then moved his attention to Samantha, who just hefted the wrench higher on her shoulder. Neither Weatherly moved, standing their ground. Sam had dealt with bullies before and so had her father. She knew they were all cowards in the end. Her attention darted to the bulge in the waistcoat, looking for any sign that he would move towards pulling out a weapon.

Finally he took a step backwards towards the door. A forced smile appeared on his face.

“You need some time to think about it, I understand. I’ll be back at the end of the day to see if you’ve changed your mind.” He scratched his chin. “If you know what’s good for you, I’ll find a pile of smashed parts, for which I’ll pay a decent amount, enough to make it worth your while and then some. Tell Handleston whatever story you want, whatever lie you think he’ll believe, but don’t mention my name. Not if you expect to keep doing business in this town. The end of the day.” A brisk nod finished the conversation. Turning his back on the two, Morton stomped towards the door. He grabbed the handle and yanked the door open before strutting into the daylight.

Her father let out a low whistle as the heavy oak door slammed shut. “Well, that was an interesting way to start the day.” He laughed. “Remind me to make that door automatically lock upon closing. That’s long overdue, given the events of the past few days.”

Sam didn’t move, still holding the large metal tool. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She swallowed, coughed, and then cleared her throat with another cough. “I don’t understand. Why would he be that worried about Jon…Mr. Handleston?”

Her father walked over to the door and slid the thick locking bolt home. “Because men are men and we believe that if we lose, it is not because of our own failings, but the fault of someone else.” He gestured towards the worktable where the metal brace lay. “In his mind, there is something about that hand support that enables Mr. Handleston to win over him, and he wants to know what.”

“But there’s nothing there.” Sam shook her head. “There’s nothing at all other than very advanced mechanics, from what I can see. Besides, how could it possibly affect a poker game?”

He took the wrench from her hands and walked over to place it in its proper slot on a wall rack filled with various tools. It slipped easily into the metal bracket beside the larger and smaller versions of itself, completing the set.

“There are many ways to cheat in gambling, Sam. He could be marking the cards with one of the fingers, roughing up the edges. Or maybe he’s using the reflective surface on those bands in some way, something along those lines. I’m no gambler, but I’ve heard of various ways to do these things.” He sat on the stool. Taking a relatively clean rag from his pocket, her father wiped the sweat from his face. “I do know that this Mr. Morton will be trouble.” A calloused finger tapped the side of his nose. “He’s too clean for my liking.”

“Shall I send Gil for the sheriff?” Sam walked over to the water barrel resting on the far table. She twisted the tap to let the cool water fill a steel cup waiting patiently beside it. The pipes gave an annoyed squeal at having to chill yet more water, the refrigeration unit being one of their newest acquisitions. She took a deep drink, cupping the metal mug in both hands before offering it to her father. The cold water helped clear her head.

He waved it off. “I think that may be a good idea. It can’t hurt to tell them to keep an eye on Mr. Morton while this tournament’s going on.” His focus strayed to the brace, which was still on the table.

“Although the decision is yours, of course. If you wish to take the money or not.”

“Father.” The word came out like a curse, sharper than she had intended. “I would never compromise this business by taking money to destroy such a beautiful creation.” After putting the cup back by the water tank, she walked over to the worktable. She picked up the metal skeleton and cradled it in her arms like a baby. “And the work that went into this… I can’t just smash it to bits.”

Her father nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought you’d say. But I had to ask, and you’re sure there’s nothing odd about it?” He touched his temple twice, tapping it with his index finger. “Don’t make the same mistake I made with that beast.” He gestured towards the steel equine, still silent in the corner. “Don’t underestimate its power. Or the power of any invention.” The last word came out in a low sigh. Closing his eyes, he fell silent. His head bowed onto his chest, a rattling sigh escaping from his body.

“Father…” Sam put the exoskeleton down, moving to stand by him. “I…” She paused. There was nothing to say, nothing she could say.

“I’m fine, dear.” He patted her hand. “Allow an old man a few minutes every now and then to feel sorry for himself.” She could tell that his grin was forced. “Besides, now we save money on shirts. I’ll just turn them around when I wear out one sleeve.”

Sam let out an exaggerated sigh of annoyance, allowing him to change the mood. “Men.”

“Why, yes…” he chuckled, “…men.” His attention returned to the brace. “But are you sure there’s nothing there? No hidden levers, no switches, anything?”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing about this that makes it special. It’s only a creation, under the power of the man who uses it.” A warm shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the bare skin, the heat radiating off Jon’s hand and arms.

Her father frowned. He picked up a spare spring from the worktable next to him and started to rotate it between his fingers. “Everything has power, Sam. Whether it’s hooked up to an engine or not, everything has power. Everything and everyone.” He put the spring down on his own table, pushing the stack of gears and bars and springs into a small pile. “Now, let’s both of us get back to work before your young Mr. Handleston returns. Gil’ll be back soon enough and then we’ll talk to the sheriff. Until then, we still have to make some money.”

Sam returned to her worktable. Putting on a pair of glasses, she began fiddling with the multiple lenses. It took only a few seconds before finding the proper setting. Picking up a pair of tiny tweezers, she focused on the minute spring, holding her breath as she maneuvered it towards the small opening. An errant thought entered her mind. What did gamblers do for fun, for relaxation? Did they read books or visit museums? Did they study architecture or did they just hang out in saloons, looking for easy prey?

What was Mr. Handleston going to do without his brace? Could he still play? Would he still play, bereft of his device? Was he sitting at a table right now, fumbling with the cards and worried about whether she could repair this brace?