Wild Cards and Iron Horses (17 page)

Sam leaned forward and poured the clear liquid into the china teacups before handing one to Jon. “I’m not sure if you want some water or not. I think you’ll probably decide after a sip.”

He took a sip. His eyes widened as he swallowed, gasping for air. The burning in his lungs lessened, but not by much as the cool air hit singed tissue with each breath.

This wasn’t tea.

“My Lord! What is this?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he recognized the taste, the familiar scorching of his tongue and throat dredging up memories of a moonlit battlefield. “Moonshine?”

“The finest.” Sam beamed, taking a dainty sip of her own drink. “Miss Carver tends to keep the good stuff behind the bar, if you know what I mean.” She waved one hand in front of her face, mimicking using a fan. “Not for the genteel women like Mrs. Jefferson, don’t you know.”

Jon laughed. “This reminds me of the concoctions the soldiers used to make out of…well, everything.

And anything.” He fell silent, his thoughts suddenly far, far away from the teahouse and Prosperity Ridge.

“I’m sorry.” Her hand landed atop his on the table, squeezing it through the black glove and brace. “I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.”

“They’re not all bad.” The smile was forced. He picked up one of the cucumber sandwiches and nibbled on the thick triangle. “My father, as you have already guessed, is a man of some social standing.”

The clear liquid didn’t burn as much on the second sip. Or the third. Although whether that was because he was getting used to the taste or it had cauterized his taste buds was up for argument. Either way, it made the story he had to tell her a bit easier to do. “He had the idea during the war that investing in the Southern cause might bring big profits when the war came to an end and the Confederacy won their freedom from the Union.”

Sam’s left eyebrow rose, but she stayed silent.

“I accompanied him on his tour of the battlefields, his visits to try and find investment opportunities to exploit. At that time I really had no idea what the war was all about, other than the usual petty grievances that men use to fight with each other. That, I’m afraid, transcends continents and nations.”

“Did he command a unit? Your father?” Her words held a note of dismay.

Jon let out a deep sigh. “Samantha, my father is a banker, not a warrior. My family has never been keen to fight anywhere but on the financial battlefield, brawling with stocks and bonds rather than sabers and cannons. But he had to play the role in order to win favor among certain men who saw something romantic and honorable in watching men die, thus our presence on the battlefields of your civil war. We played at being soldiers much as boys do with wooden rifles and tin figures. He had no rank, no command, but mingled with those who did—only those who could influence the buying and selling of supplies.”

He looked down at his hand, the metal brace hugging the dead fingers. “I mingled among the common men. Father hated that. If they weren’t officers and able to invest or influence those who could, then they weren’t worth talking to.”

The cucumbers were thinly sliced, just enough butter to make each bite crunchy and yet not dry. He may have had better in the London teahouses, but he couldn’t remember when or where.

“Sotherly liked to talk a lot. I guess he figured it was his duty to try and keep me safe. He shouldn’t have enlisted at all at his age, had no reason to other than to show his pride for his state. Already had a wife and three children back down South. He had a picture of them. Beautiful woman, sweet children. All boys.”

After draining the last few drops from the teacup, he reached for the pot with both hands.

“Sotherly ended up spending most nights on watch. I think he didn’t trust the youngsters around him to stay alert. Caught me one night on my way back to my tent so drunk that I almost stumbled into a ravine.

He pulled me up, forced some coffee down my throat and when I became coherent, berated me for not having more sense. Not about being drunk, but for not having the foresight to plan a safe route home.” He shifted his grip on the teapot, wrapping his fingers around the cool metal.

“A wise man.” Sam took a sip from her own cup. “Not too many of those in uniform.”

Jon nodded. “I became friends with him. He spoke plain truth, said that he was too old to know otherwise. He taught me how to play poker. Not that I didn’t know before, but how to really play poker.

How to watch the players, study their hand movements, their eyes, how they reacted to what they had in their card hand. I wasn’t reading their minds, but close to it.”

Jon lifted the pot. It lurched slightly to one side, dangerously close to falling. He clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on the two handles. He was not going to drop this, not here, not now.

Sam watched in silence, her hands in her lap, although she shifted in her seat.

Finally the pot drizzled out another cupful of white lightning, stopping just short of the cup’s brim. He put it down, letting it settle onto the cream-colored lace tablecloth. Jon pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face dry.

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Poker.” He smiled, trying to ignore the ache building in his right shoulder. “You should start on those scones before I do.”

She leaned forward, delicately cutting one thick pastry in half and spreading the jam on it. “Gil would have already eaten them and asked for more.” The second half, liberally covered with jam as well, landed on Jon’s plate.

“Of that I am certain. Thank you.”

The strawberry jam was sweet, cutting the burn of the moonshine just a bit as he nibbled on the scone.

Outside, a courier raced by on jumpboots. The boots stood on tall metal stilts, lengthening his stride three feet for every one. The young boy laughed as he pounced on the empty spaces in the street, narrowly missing both horses and humans alike. He disappeared from sight within a few seconds, bounding around a corner.

Jon frowned. “Aren’t those dangerous? I saw them on the battlefield and they were awfully difficult to use.” He stared into the teacup. “Very hard to control.”

“That they are.” Sam dabbed at the edge of her mouth with the cloth napkin. “But the street couriers make a point of training with them for hours before they are licensed by their companies to use them. Too many crashes with the pedestrians and you lose your certification.” Reaching over, she refilled her teacup.

“They work quite well here on flat ground. I assume that you saw them used on hills and such; it’s just not practical.”

“Hmm.” Jon rubbed his chin. “True. I saw quite a few fellows go head over heels trying to make them work. The scouts were the first to try them, and the first to eat grass almost every time.” Picking up the bread triangle, he studied the delicate creation. The bread was white and soft, chewy and moist with the cool crisp cucumber slice snapping under his teeth.

“We played a lot of games, most of which I lost. Sotherly didn’t keep track of the money I owed him, but I did. The games kept me busy and away from my father’s business, which I wasn’t ever going to inherit, due to having older brothers, and which I had little interest in. I knew I was along for the sole purpose of maintaining his image as a family man, a virile man with many sons.” He pushed a wayward cucumber slice back between the bread slices. “When Sotherly died, I figured I owed him close to ten thousand dollars. Well, more or less. We used Confederate money and I translated that into British pounds and then into your American dollars.”

“I see,” Sam said in a low voice.

Both his hands cradled the teacup, holding it secure. “The attack wasn’t a surprise. The shelling was.”

Jon took a sip. “We didn’t see the artillery lining up—the balloon scouts missed it. A major mistake.”

Tipping the delicate china upwards, he drained the cup.

“Sotherly couldn’t have seen the ball coming, no one could have. The cannonball fell into the field far short of our position, but there was so much speed, so much power still behind it, it spun up the hill towards us.” The empty teacup shivered in his grip, despite his attempt to stop it. “He jumped in front, pushed me to one side. The rest of the artillery crew ran, leapt out of the way, whatever you want to call it.”

“That’s how you were injured,” Sam said softly, refilling both cups.

Jon nodded. “The ball lost enough speed after…afterwards to smash my hand against the cannon. Or the carriage wheel, I don’t really remember what it was. All I know was that when I came to, my hand was crushed and Sotherly was dead.” The words caught in his throat. It’d been a long time since he’d talked about that fateful day. The few times he’d recited his story had been with friends and family, all of whom usually slapped him on the shoulder and mumbled something about bravery and honor and a glorious death before heading for the fine brandy and escaping from Jon’s presence. But the woman across from him wasn’t flinching, wasn’t shocked at the harsh truth of war.

He stared outside for a second before returning his attention to the silver tea tray and plucking a small cookie from the bottom row. “Shortbread. I can never get enough of this.” Jon cleared his throat.

“Makes it herself. It’s not a difficult recipe.” Sam finished off the last of her scone. “Although I’ve yet to get it from her.”

“When I found out that he was dead, I decided that I’d pay off the debt I owed him.” Jon nibbled on the cookie, relishing the way the pieces melted in his mouth. “And I wasn’t going to use Father’s money to do it. I lost the money to Sotherly playing poker, fair and square, man to man. I’d earn it back for his widow doing the same.”

“I see.” Sam moved a piece of shortbread onto her plate and snapped it into smaller pieces. “How far away are you from reaching that total?”

“The tournament tomorrow should do it.” Jon smiled, finally looking at her directly. “And then I’ll wire the money to his family. My debt will be paid off and honor satisfied.”

Sam chewed on her lower lip before speaking. “But if I may ask, what does Mr. Morton have against you?” Another shake of her head dislodged even more blonde strands from the dying braid.

“He wants to destroy me,” Jon answered. “Which is not usual behavior for professional gamblers, by the way.”

She rolled her eyes skyward. “Well, that’s good to hear. Here I was, thinking that you were just pretending to be civilized. Next thing you know, we’ll have organized shootouts in the street to decide who plays whom at these tournaments.”

Jon shrugged, the loose jacket shifting over his broad shoulders. “It’d add some variety to the games, certainly. Victor is upset because I took a large amount of money from him six months ago.” He popped the last bits of his cookie into his mouth.

“But aren’t gamblers used to losing?” She filled her cup with ice water.

“Yes.” Jon nodded. “But this was money put aside for his wedding. His family inheritance, all of it.”

Sam’s mouth formed a silent circle. Her eyes widened at the obvious truth.

“Exactly. Victor lost the money and thus could not marry the lady. The wedding arrangements had to be canceled, excuses made and apologies offered to those who would have them. Aside from the obvious embarrassment of being unable to fulfill his promise, it showed that he had little control over his gambling habit.” Jon raised his index finger into the air, counting off sins. “Addiction to gambling is as bad as it is to alcohol or morphine.”

She shook her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The poor woman. To have to live with that shame of her love leaving her for a hand of cards.”

“She didn’t.” The two words shocked them both into silence for a long minute. Jon studied the empty plate in front of him while Sam chewed on her lower lip. He drew a deep breath, pushing the images of the funeral procession away. Victor raging at the service, swearing revenge with the stale smell of whiskey on his breath, until pulled away by his embarrassed relatives.

Finally Sam spoke. “And he blames you for this?”

Jon picked up the small silver spoon and dipped it into what was left of the liquid in his teacup. It sang as he tapped around the edges, stirring the drink. “He does. And he believes wholeheartedly that I cheated him out of his money somehow, thus his crusade to best me both at cards and at life.”

“How horrible that he can’t accept the blame himself. But I can understand he’s blinded by his pride.

Can’t see anything other than what he wants to see.”

A couple walked by, the woman squinting to see through the windows. She spotted Sam and waved, tugging on her husband’s arm. He grinned at the pair, leading her along the sidewalk. “The Ellenbees,”

Sam explained. “They’ve booked passage to California on the new airship run leaving next month.”

“Hmm.” Jon plucked a few crumbs from his plate and dropped them into his mouth. He rubbed his gloved hands together, destroying any further evidence of his transgression. “That’ll be a long flight. But still better than doing it by wagon train, I wager.”

“As long as when you came over the Atlantic?” She leaned over, shaking the pot back and forth.

“Nothing left. Should I order us another?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no thank you. Depends on how fast the airship runs. I’ve heard of some military ships that go at full speed day and night.” Jon’s eyelids drooped for a second, and then shot up as he forced his eyes open. He felt like he could sleep for a week and then some. “That is quite the drink. I think I’ll have to take a nap right after dinner.” An errant hiccup escaped, surprising them both. He rolled his eyes. “Oh dear. A flaw in my spotless character for your friends to gossip about. Whatever shall I do?”

Sam giggled, covering her mouth with one hand. Jon reached over and gently pulled it down.

“Don’t hide your smile. I like it.” He smiled. “It’s a welcome sight when all I have to deal with are angry men all day, snarling and growling at each other.”

“Well, maybe you should be consorting with better folk,” she answered.

“I thought I already was,” Jon replied, feeling a little lightheaded. He wasn’t new to drinking liquor and definitely not moonshine, but a combination of excitement and exhaustion had worn him out. A yawn escaped before he could restrain himself.