Wild Cards and Iron Horses (25 page)

His hand had slipped a fraction of an inch forward.

Jon’s fingers were now curving over the top of the concrete block, the result of a minute shift with the bouncing of the wagon over the rough terrain, and now the brace itself was trapped between the brake pad and the wheel, the metal frame grinding against the wooden wheel. A swift tug showed the futility of trying to pull free. If he did pull away, it would mean certain death for the two of them. He let out another cry, trying to steel himself against the pain.

The metal fingers sparked and flared bright in the dying moonlight, now caught in a horrible ménage a trois between the brake pad and the wooden wheel, which was dragging Jon’s hand down.

All Jon could think of was that this had to be what those men had felt on the battlefield, the pain of having your arm slowly torn off, be it by a cannonball or by a surgeon’s saw. He could have pulled it free at any time, just yanked it out, but that would condemn them both to certain death, and if the alternative was to sacrifice his arm, well…perhaps it was Fate dealing him a final hand of cards. His strength was failing him—it would be only another few minutes before he gave in to the pull of the wheel and flew out of the wagon to his death. The only thing protecting him right now was, ironically enough, the exoskeleton as it slowly ground down and disappeared under the unrelenting friction. The sparks blinded him as the metal bands and steel bars shredded and broke, his flesh moving to fill that gap.

“Jump!” Jon roared at Sam, the sweat pouring off his face. “Jump!”

“No!” Sam looked around the wagon. The eagle-head sword cane rolled against her feet, the golden eye staring upward. She snatched it up and tossed away the scabbard, exposing the long thin blade. “Don’t move.”

“What?” Jon flinched as the cold metal slid down his back, easily slicing away his shirt and waistcoat.

The last of his clothing fell forward into the bottom of the wagon. He groaned, feeling the pressure increase. A quick look to his side showed that the buckboard may have slowed enough for them to jump, but they were coming closer and closer to the canyon.

Sam screamed as she tossed the sword away, wrapping her arms around Jon. Her nimble fingers found the buckle on his chest, working the leather quickly to undo the brace.

“Sam, you’ve got to jump,
now.
” Jon gritted his teeth, feeling the tug of war beginning to end, and not favorably.

Suddenly the exoskeleton came loose, the leather belt that held it firm across his shoulders and chest flying free. Then Sam’s hands were on him, fingers pulling away the bands and rods, her skilled hands breaking the device in just the right spots for it to disintegrate fully. He couldn’t have done it, wouldn’t have done it. He didn’t have the skill or the nerve to do such a thing.

Jon moaned as the thin wires and bands around his fingers pulled away and fell under the wheel, disappearing in the dust as the wagon bounced over the remains. His hand itself was still safe and pressing against the brake pad, but without the added structure of the brace the effort was wasted. He pulled back his limp fingers, feeling the lack of strength and control. A handful of wires and metal pegs remained fluttering in the wind. The wagon began to speed up, free of any restrictions.

“We’ve got to jump now.” Sam grabbed Jon around the waist. “Now!”

He turned and looked at her as the last pieces of the prosthetic broke free of his arm. For a wild moment he considered not jumping, going over the edge with the wagon. Then Jon saw the love, the affection in her eyes, and knew it was for more than just the brace, it was for him—the man.

“Jon!” Sam glanced behind them at the retreating ground. She threw her arms around his chest, and he pushed off the back of the wagon with both feet, closing his eyes. At the last second he spun, turning towards the ground to take the brunt of the fall on his back.

The buckboard careened off the cliff, the shrieking sound of metal and wood splintering on the jagged rocks below filling the early morning air.

Sam blinked away the dust in her eyes. Her vision cleared to see the light blue sky overhead, the last vestiges of night being chased away by bright sunlight. Coughing out a mouthful of dirt, she stared down at the man beneath her as she straddled him in a most unladylike way, her hands firmly pressed against his naked chest for balance. They were only a handful of feet from the edge of the chasm.

“I think I need another repair job,” Jon mumbled, “and some more of Mrs. Carver’s tea.”

Samantha reached for his right hand. Pulling it up in front of her, she inspected the raw flesh that had only a few seconds ago been ensconced in a steel skeleton.

Deep red markings scarred Jon’s right arm and hand, small cuts trickling blood where the sharper edges of the brace had ripped free. But the hand was still attached to Jon, and Jon was still alive. She clutched the hand to her chest and closed her eyes tight, letting out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a cry of relief.

“You stupid, stupid man.” Her relief disappeared into an angry rant. “You could have gotten yourself killed. Or your arm torn off.”

He pulled his arm free of her embrace, shifting to prop himself up on both elbows. “Well, I’m glad that you’re feeling good enough to complain about the way I saved you. Now—”

She leaned down, pressing her lips to his and cutting off any further conversation.

His arms went around her, his right hand slipping under her leather coat and tucking itself into the small of her back as he pulled her closer, devouring her mouth like a starving man seeking water. He shifted restlessly under her weight.

Despite what people may have thought about her, Samantha was not totally naïve when it came to men. She read the romance novels; she listened to the local gossip about who was bedding whom and under what circumstances. But she never thought the feelings would be so intense—her head spinning, her heart pounding so loud she was sure Annette could hear it back in town, the heat rising between them to the point that spontaneous combustion was a definite possibility.

Finally Jon broke the kiss. “I’m sorry to mention this, but you’re making it difficult for me to breathe.

And my arm really, really aches.”

“Oh!” Sam leapt up, feet firmly planted on each side of his waist.

He grinned. “Nice view.”

She jumped to one side with a loud snort, attempting to restore some sort of dignity. “Men.” Her hands moved to brush the dirt from her pants, nervously rubbing the tops of her thighs. “You, sir, are a lousy rescuer.”

“True. I do need more practice.” He staggered to his feet. “The sun’s coming up.”

Sam let her breath out slowly. “And the tournament starts at dawn.”

“No,” Jon replied. “Tribiolte put it off until eight o’clock.” He looked up at the blazing ball moving skyward. “I still won’t make it back to town in time.”

“You shouldn’t have come.” Sam took his hand, squeezing lightly. “You’ve lost it all.”

Jon turned and faced her. “I would have if I hadn’t come.”

A roaring filled the air, a loud drumming and shaking of the ground, reminding Sam of the fabled buffalo stampede she had heard so much about. Jon moved closer to Sam, standing in front of her.

Sam watched, her mouth hanging open, as the mechanical horse charged along the wagon path, kicking up a mighty dust cloud as the wheels dug into the ground and spat it back at the world.

Her father sat atop the equimech’s back, yelling at the top of his lungs as he maneuvered the beast.

The four thick wheels made easy work of the rough terrain with the wide axle offering almost perfect balance. Steam billowed out of the beast’s nostrils, matched by an equal amount rising from the hindquarters. His single hand sat firmly on a stick set where the pommel of a saddle would be, his fingers wrapped tightly around the control. The metal creature rolled to an uneasy stop, the last dark wisps of smoke emanating from the beast’s mouth with a wheezy cough. A grinding of gears and squealing of metal signaled the equimech’s reluctant rest.

“Sam!” After throwing the equimech into some neutral gear with the control stick, he half-hopped, half-fell off the beast and staggered towards the couple. The long dark brown leather coat flapped around him, the right sleeve still pinned up out of the way. “Samantha!”

She met him on the way, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug that had them both kneeling on the ground in seconds. Burying her face in her father’s worn old coat, Sam started to sob uncontrollably, finally breaking down from the night’s events.

He stroked her loose blonde hair, looking up at Jon with reddened eyes. “Thank you.”

Jon nodded. There was nothing to say, nothing to add. Leaving the pair to their reunion, he set out to retrace the wagon tracks.

A bolt here, a copper band there. Each piece he picked up, he carefully cleaned off and put into his pockets, the numbness climbing up from his crippled hand to his bare chest. There was no way to finish his honor debt now. No way to complete his task. He’d have to go back to the beginning, start off with the smaller games, build up his reputation again and make another run at the golden ring in maybe another year.

“Jon.” He turned around to see Jake approaching, still holding his daughter close. “Thank you.” He nodded towards the town, a dim silhouette on the horizon. “The deputies are on their way, along with a military airship. Guess I shamed them a bit by taking out the old iron horse while they sat and waited for the sunrise.”

“I didn’t think it was that ready for a field test.” Sam glanced over at the metal beast, studying the machine.

“Neither did I. But the opportunity presented itself and, well…” He kissed his daughter’s forehead. “I couldn’t leave you to that madman’s whims.”

“Victor.” Jon glanced around. He’d forgotten about the man who had nearly killed them both. “Where is…?”

Jake put up his hand. “He’s bound and gagged back in the clearing, with Gil ready to put a bullet in him if he moves. I followed the smoke trail the boy put up—built that fire as large as he could and tossed enough leaves and stuff on it to signal New York City, if they were looking in the right direction. Told him to hold fast and wait for the authorities to arrive.” He looked at Sam. “Morton’s got one helluva gash in his head, two of them to be precise. But he’ll live to see justice.”

Sam shook her head. “He’s a sad man, he is.”

“And Gil, well…” Jake scuffed the ground with one foot, a thoughtful expression on his face. “That boy’s got a lot of energy. Might be good to channel that into something more useful than chasing criminals and avoiding schools.” He glanced at Sam. “Could put that to good use in the workshop.”

Sam nodded, but her attention was on the equimech standing nearby. “Jon, you could still make it.”

“Make it?” He frowned.

“You could make it to the tournament on time.” She turned to her father. “Couldn’t he? The tournament starts at eight. Can he make it back to town in time?”

Jake pressed his lips together, his eyes focusing on a distant dying star on the horizon. “Well, with a full head of steam and if he doesn’t shift gears down, sticks to the trail I dug up. I came out with ’er full, didn’t plan on walking back.” He dug in one of the numerous pockets of his leather coat, pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time on the small pale clock face. His head began to bob, a wide grin spreading from ear to ear. “He could make it to town by eight o’clock. With a bit o’ luck and the wind at his back.”

Jon looked from one Weatherly to the other, not moving. His heart still hammered, the pounding in his ears almost deafening him.

“Jon, you could play. And win.” Sam walked over to him. “You can still play.”

He shook his head, holding up his right hand, the limp fingers dangling free. “My brace…it’s destroyed.” His left hand tugged a warped copper band out of his pocket. “I can’t play.”

“Yes, yes you can.” Sam drew him close, cupping his face in her hands. “You’re much more than a prosthetic brace, Jon Handleston. You’re a gifted card player with a destiny to fulfill.” Leaning in, she kissed him deeply. Her hands dropped to rest on his waist, settling on his leather belt.

Jon’s reaction was automatic. His hands went around her, drawing her closer, prolonging the kiss far beyond their first brief excursion. A warm surge ran through his tired body, reviving his battered soul.

Finally she pulled back. “Now get on that beast and go win that prize. Then look for me standing right beside you at that table.” Another quick kiss bruised his lips. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Jon looked from her eager expression to her father’s, wincing inwardly as he studied Jake’s reaction to their embrace. “May I?” He paused, seeing the confusion on Jake’s face as to what he was actually asking. “May I use this machine? And then, afterwards, we can discuss my courtship of your daughter?”

Jake nodded. “Get in the saddle and I’ll give you the fastest tutorial in the world. Either that or you’re going to be the first one this thing outright kills. As for the other, well, we’ll see how you survive the first before you try the second.”

Jon’s head spun as he listened to Jake’s words, his attention half on the metal beast under him and half on the woman he wanted under him.

Finally Jake shook his head. “That’s all I can do for you. If only we had another hour, but we don’t.”

He coughed as he turned around, his back to the couple. “I’m going to walk over here for a minute or two.”

Sam blushed, stepping up to the iron horse. “I hope you were concentrating on the instructions.”

“I was concentrating more on you.” Jon leaned over as far as he could without falling. “See you in town.”

“Yes.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. Drawing back, Sam pressed her fingers to her lips. “Go.”

The equimech sprang to life, dark smoke blasting from the nostrils. It spun around, almost dislodging Jon as it aligned itself for the return trip. Lurching forward, it began racing back along the wagon tracks and into the rising sun, the four wheels spinning and screaming as it kicked up dirt and stones.