Wild Cards and Iron Horses (13 page)

Looking up, he spotted the military scout. The thin blades barely kept the craft aloft as the child ducked and weaved in and out of the clouds. In the back of his mind, he remembered a deal his father had closed, just before Jon left, with the American military for some sort of long-term investment in some type of hardware. Guess being on the wrong side in a war didn’t matter so much when it came to money.

The gloomy thoughts clouded his senses, so much that he almost tripped over the young street urchin yet again. The boy sat cross-legged on the splintered wooden sidewalk, his hands on his knees, studying the passersby.

“Gil,” Jon exclaimed, catching himself before he tumbled off the steps. “I’m definitely going to have to put a bell on you. You’re a street hazard. What are you doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on things.” Rising to his full height of four feet, the child hitched his thumbs in his suspenders. His dirt-stained face held more wrinkles than Jon remembered seeing on any child at that age, even in the darkest streets of London. “Don’t want any trouble happening in my town.”

Jon arched an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Really?”

“Sure.” The boy grinned, showing a slight gap between his two front teeth. “Bad for business.”

“Ah.” Jon looked around, his eyes adjusting to the late-afternoon haze. A rickety old horseless carriage rumbled by, the driver frantically grinding the gears with much screeching on both sides, human and machine. The disturbance was ignored by the residents who moved discreetly out of the way without any fanfare.

“Then, since this is your town, where would a man go for a bit of a small snack, something to tide him over until the evening meal?” His stomach moaned again. Jon’s left hand went to his midsection, pressing lightly on the waistcoat in an effort to quell the noise.

Gil tapped his lower lip with one finger, the small forehead creased with deep thought. “Well, I’d head on over to the Cocoa Café. They’ve got some mighty excellent pastries.”

“Hmm.” Jon let out a loud sigh. “I guess you’ll have to show me the way. And help me figure out what’s best to order, of course. This being your town and all.”

The young boy’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir.” He trotted up beside Jon, his hands tucked deep in his pockets. “The café’s one of the places Miss Sam likes to visit, you know.”

“Really,” Jon replied. “Is it?” He slowed his pace, allowing the young boy to keep up. “Then I guess we’ll have to try all of her favorites.”

Gil’s excited giggle signaled Jon’s success in pleasing the young boy. As they walked along the creaking boards, Jon wondered how much progress his lady engineer had made while he had been playing cards.

Sam wiped her sweaty forehead with the last of the rags on the table, ignoring the fact that it had just helped sop up an oily leak from a puddle nearby.

“There,” she pronounced. “Done!” The triumphant shout echoed around the workshop.

Twisting the brace so it lay as flat as possible on the workbench, she slid her own bare arm into the apparatus. Sam shivered, feeling the copper bands and springs tighten on her skin as she pushed her fingers to the ends of the prosthetic. Some of the connections fell short of gripping her arm, due to her petite form, but the majority of the bands and wires managed to make contact, embracing her as it had Jon earlier in the day. The clasps and fasteners flipped down with little resistance, completing the process.

“Sam, is that wise?” Her father appeared at her side, frowning. “You could hurt yourself.”

“That’s highly unlikely. This isn’t supposed to increase one’s strength, just to allow the hand to mimic the natural movements it had before the injury. If anything, it’ll decrease your natural strength, which is probably why Mr. Handleston is in such fine physical condition.” She flexed her fingers, the long, slender digits struggling to meet the sides and edges of the larger, thicker skeletons. The little finger moved in synchronicity with the others, curling up towards her palm.

“It took a bit of work, but the spring works just fine. And a bit of wax, steel and soldering to keep it all together.” She lifted the hand up, fingers wriggling slowly. “I’d say it’s better than new. I doubt anyone in London could have done such a good job in such a brief time.”

“Pride is a sin, you know.” He chortled. “But I have to agree with you on this. A fine piece of work, Sam. A fine piece of work.”

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Her father never gave praise lightly. “How are you doing with the equimech?” Sam flexed the fingers once more, studying the little finger as it rose and fell.

“Excellent.” Her father nodded towards his own workbench. “I’ve got the darned thing consistently running, finally. I’m not sure about how far it’ll run on a single jaunt, but it’ll be faster than any horse.

Took out the fifth gear—it wasn’t doing anything other than jamming the works. Unnecessary addition to the darned engine, other than helping sell more spare parts for more repairs.”

“Hmm.” Turning around, Sam studied the iron horse from across the room. “I still say it should run just a bit slower, for longer. Less stress on the parts will keep it from breaking down too often. As long as it can outrun the horses distance-wise, it’ll be a success.”

“I’ll take your comments under advisement. As it is, we’re lucky to have it ready before the representative arrives. Remember, we’re not the only ones working on this. And if we’ve figured out something that the others haven’t, it’ll give us a step up on the competition. They’ll need repair shops all along the line. And they could easily bypass us for Red River or Stettleston. They’ve got the larger population and the new airship towers.”

Sam nodded. Her attention was already back on the intricate movements as she curled the metal hand into a fist. “They could, but they won’t. Neither town has a railway station, never mind a major hub like Prosperity Ridge. I think they’ll give us the contract.” She looked up, smiling. “If we’re good enough to be kept on retainer for the railways, we’re good enough for the iron horses. It’s been awhile since we got called up to fix an engine at the depot, but we’re still listed on the records as the repairmen on call.” Sam touched her forehead with the metal finger. “We’ve got experience in producing results, quickly and without fail. Those other shops don’t.”

“From your lips to the Lord’s ears.” His lone hand moved up to scratch his nose. “I don’t know what else we can do to prove ourselves to the man when he arrives. Maybe we should have taken on an apprentice, start teaching someone else to help out. Losing Bill was bad, but I never thought he had the knack. He was here to make his father happy, not for himself.” The words trailed off as he stared at his calloused fingers. “I know my limits, Sam. And I’m getting there a lot faster than I thought I would.”

“We can still take on an apprentice, if you wish.” She began stripping off the metal prosthetic, unfastening the clamps and pulling her hand free. “I was thinking of Gil, to tell you the truth.” Sam tossed off the sentence lightly, as if she hadn’t had the thought in her mind for weeks now.

“Gil?” Her father walked over to the water tank and drew himself a cool drink. Standing up, he winced. He put the cup down and arched his back as his hand pressed against the base of his spine. “He’s a wee bit young for this sort of thing, isn’t he?”

Sam rolled down her sleeves and buttoned them at the cuffs. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you tell me stories about you teething on a wrench in your father’s shop?”

“It was a crowbar, but yes, I was young. So were you. But Gil…” He rubbed his chin. “The boy’s a bit of a wild one.” The approving tone had Sam smiling. This wasn’t going to be as hard of a sell as she’d thought it’d be.

“True, but he’s interested in learning, more of a hands-on learner than a bookworm. And they’re not going to be able to keep him in school with his attitude.”

“Or his breeding.” He turned to one side, spitting into a brass spittoon placed specifically for that purpose.

“Father.” She shook her head. “We don’t know anything about his family. Only rumors, and not very nice ones at that.”

“Yes, but…you can see it in his eyes. The way he creeps into the shadows, his ability to stay hidden.

A born tracker and hunter, he is. Ain’t no shame in being part Indian. Only shame in not accepting who you are.”

Sam let out a sigh. “I guess so.” She tilted her head to one side, adding the smile that had won her so many arguments in the past. “So you’ll think about it?”

“I’ll take it under consideration.” He moved to sit back down at the worktable. “If nothing else, we’ll know everything about everyone’s business in town. Might not be a bad thing. Let me think on it for a day or so.”

Sam nodded. “Fine, then. Shall we draw up the bill for Mr. Handleston?”

“That would be the next step, and then wait for his return, unless you want to rush out right away and find your young man.”

“He’s not my young man,” Sam snapped back before seeing the playful expression on the old mechanic’s face. He always knew how to get under her skin, tweak her nonexistent pigtails. And make her, once again, show her hand.

Her cheeks burned and she turned away, pretending to study the diagrams and schematics on the scattered papers nearby. “Besides, he’ll be back soon enough. I’m surprised he hasn’t been here already, breathing down my neck.” The warmth in her face scattered down her spine at the memory of Jon’s last visit.

“Is that what you want?” Her father laughed. “I’m not sure you’d be doing much of anything with him around the shop.”

Sam opened her mouth to respond, deciding at the last minute to say nothing and stay out of even more trouble.

Walking over, he leaned on the edge of the desk. A serious look came over her father’s face as he studied the brace, his eyes raking over every inch of the metal. “You did find nothing…special about this construct, correct?”

“Mr. Morton is an ass.” Sam put up one hand, seeing her father’s jaw drop in reaction to her choice of words. “Don’t begin to lecture me on using strong language. There’s nothing else that can describe that man. That he came in here, demanding that we destroy this beautiful creation because of his unfounded fears is just…just barbaric,” she sputtered.

“And it’s just a brace,” he prodded her, a softer tone in his voice.

“Father, you can examine it, take it apart if you’d like, but there’s no more about this than you can see. It’s a marvel of engineering, but there is nothing about it that would aid a man to cheat at cards or any game of chance. No hidden spring-loaded levers, no compartments to hide extra cards in, nothing.” She stroked one of the long metal rods with her fingers. “Jon is just a good player, that’s all there is to it.”

Her father had an impish smile on his face now. “Ah, now it’s ‘Jon’, is it?” He chortled as he moved away from the table. “I’ll write up the bill for your young gentleman and then you check my handiwork on that iron horse. I’m not proud enough to think that I can’t make an error, and I don’t want to see anyone get hurt trying to ride that thing.”

Sam tried hard not to look at the loose sleeve in her father’s work coat, pinned to the leather to keep it out of the way. It called to her, demanding her attention.

Her father turned around. “And what shall we say when Morton returns? And you know he will. Men like him do not make idle threats.” He glanced at the far wall where the wrenches were neatly hung. “I have no doubt that he’s got a blade inside that cane and he’s not afraid to use it.”

“We tell him the truth.” Sam looked up at the clock, noting the time. “That there’s nothing about the brace that’s special, nothing to justify his fears about Jon. And that we notified the sheriff, just in case he decides to cause any trouble.” She shook her head, the braided hair bouncing around her shoulders. “I’m not going to be scared of a bully. Especially a big blowhard bully like Victor Morton.” Sam pulled her fingers into a fist and swung around, punching the air. “So there!” She giggled, feeling the strength in her blow. Most unladylike, but this was the frontier, after all.

“That’s the attitude.” Her father thumped his hand on the table with a roar, startling her. “Your mother would be proud of you.” His eyes narrowed. “Mind you, she’d be prouder if you were courting some nice man, like, say, that Handleston fellow.”

Sam let out a sigh. Her newfound feeling of independence and power vanished in the floodwaters of customs and what was expected of a woman. “Please, Father.” After reaching for a bundle of brown paper on a shelf, she began to wrap up the brace. “Now finish that bill so that we can get paid.”

“Paid? You want to be paid?” The familiar voice startled the two mechanics. Sam spun around, still holding the device. The coarse paper sprawled over her hands, stretching almost to the ground as the exposed prosthetic gleamed in the light.

Victor Morton stood in the open doorway, a grim look on his face. Clutching the cane in both hands, he scowled at the two engineers. “You want to be paid? I can arrange that.”

“So which one do you think tasted better?” Jon asked.

Gil glanced up from his plate, his lips covered in chocolate. A brown dab on his cheek showed that his efforts to contain the damage had been unsuccessful. “I’m not sure.” He leaned back, a pensive look on his face. “The raspberry tart was good too.”

“Hmm.” Jon waved over the waitress, trying to sound as serious as possible. “I think we need two more of those raspberry tarts, and two more of these chocolate creampuffs, if you please.” He lowered his voice. “For further inspection, you see.”

The young woman laughed, seeing the urchin’s face light up. “As you wish, sir.” After delivering a slight curtsey, she gathered the plates and returned to the counter. The baker matched their smiles, preparing another plate of pastries for their only customers. The two women whispered behind the glass display case, wondering at the strange pair who had strutted in and started ordering sweet treat after sweet treat.

“Now, Miss Sam would like this.” Gil rubbed his stomach, leaving dark streaks across the linen shirt.

“Her dad’s always saying that she needs to eat more.” His face scrunched into a frown. “Says she’s too thin and no man wants a thin woman.”