Wild Cards and Iron Horses (3 page)

Chamber of Commerce had a discussion on mailing out notices to the other train stations, giving out more maps and all that, but decided against it. Be bad for business, don’t you know.” The businesswoman walked into the parlor, waving a hand behind her for him to follow.

Mrs. McGuire sat on the sofa and neatly folded the towel into a tight little square on her lap. “I’d have sent a runner, but everyone’s busy getting ready for the games and I figured you’d be smart enough to find your own way here.” She eyed him warily, her hair falling into her face from the remains of the tightly wound bun. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Handleston. I’m a God-fearing woman who doesn’t like your sort. The Lord put us here to do work, not play with cards and take people’s money.”

“I understand completely.” Jon smiled, sitting in the chair opposite her. “My father feels the same way.” Except for the working part, of course.

“Good. I don’t mean to lose your business, but I don’t want to be misleading to you. I just want us to understand each other before we start. As long as you keep your affairs, business or otherwise, out of my household, we’ll be just fine.” She brushed imaginary dust from her lap before getting to her feet. “I run a respectable place, the best in Prosperity Ridge. Dinner is at six, breakfast at six and lunch at noon, no exceptions. If you miss it, you go hungry. I don’t have an open kitchen and there are plenty of places that will feed you if you don’t like my fare.” The robust older woman wagged her finger at him. “And no women. I’ll not have rumors about my establishment. There are plenty of other places that will…” The words trailed off as she searched for the right phrase, her cheeks turning a slight reddish hue.

“I totally understand.” Jon stood and offered his left hand. “I’m sure the accommodations will be perfect. And I have no plans for female company either here or elsewhere.” The ten-dollar bill in his palm slid into her hand, a silent trade. One of her eyebrows rose slightly, then the paper vanished into an apron pocket.

She smiled, her fingers pushing it farther down and out of sight. “That’ll be fine, then. Your room is number eight on the second floor at the end of the hallway.” She handed him a key, the edges well worn from use. “Three days, you said?”

“Yes.” Three days to make or break a year’s worth of work. He shook his head again, dismissing the thought. Thinking like that was bad luck, to say the least. “Thank you.” Jon gave a slight bow to the innkeeper. He walked up the stairs, his mind turning to the delicate piece of metal still tucked inside his pocket.

If this Sam could repair the spring, or at least do some sort of adjustments, maybe winning the competition was still within his grasp. The dwindling roll of dollars in his pocketbook reminded him of the importance of his cause. If he won the entire pot here, he would be able to sleep easy for the first time in months, maybe years. If he lost, well…it would be a setback he might not recover from.

The room was like a hundred others he had visited in his trips cross-country. As usual, a single bed, the mattress paper-thin, and you could probably get a nasty paper cut from the starched dingy grey sheets covering it. The pillow might have held feathers once, but what was left couldn’t have covered a duckling.

Still, there was no sign of bedbugs, or worse, gnaw bites on the wooden dresser legs or the night table. The small desk had seen better days, the cheap white paint peeling in spots and the mismatched chair a raw, unvarnished piece of rough wood. A small blue and white ceramic basin and matching pitcher completed the scene. A small gas lamp sat on the table, lit and turned up to a reasonable degree. The wallpaper design might have been flowers, once, but had faded into caricatures of themselves, washed out and drooping into the light green background. For a minute he peered through the soot-stained window above the desk and then turned towards the bed.

Jon dropped the bag onto the mattress, noting the lack of bounce under the weight. He stripped the black gloves from his hands, folding them and placing them on the bed. The steel skeleton on his right hand shone in the dim light. He poured some of the lukewarm water into the basin and washed his face, using only his left hand. The water darkened considerably. Jon dried off his face and hands on the hand towel,checking the small metal bands and rods delicately embracing each finger on his right hand to make sure they were dry. The towel was bright yellow, a startling contrast to the other colors in the room. Of course, after his washing it darkened considerably, more evidence that Prosperity Ridge was well on its way to matching or surpassing the sootiness of the larger cities back East, if not overseas.

The black gloves went back on easily, the fabric soft and comforting. The gloves had come through the war with him, their latest assignment nothing more than providing protection and comfort to his hand.

A quick check that the derringer was still hidden, a brush of his fingers through the thick black hair that defied combs and gravity, and he bounded down the steps, key in hand, ready to continue searching for a solution to his spring problem.

The urchin hopped off a wooden crate near the entrance, snapping to attention again as if he’d never moved. “Sir, I waited for you like you said.” He touched his forehead with an index finger. “I forgot to introduce myself earlier. Gil Grassfeathers, at your service, sir.”

“And I am Jon Handleston.” He shook the hand of the young boy, leaning down to make the connection. “Now then, please take me to this engineer.” Jon smiled. “I’m looking forward to meeting this woman of yours.”

“All the men usually do.” Gil allowed himself a smirk as he led Jon down the sidewalk.

The dense air, spotted with dark flakes floating in all directions, began to clear as they traveled outward along the spokes towards the fringes. Fewer smokestacks spitting out darkness, more wooden buildings that reminded him of all those newspaper drawings of what the American West was supposed to look like. The pedestrian traffic continued to ebb and flow, everyone on their way to or from someplace with the same sense of urgency. It was as if everyone had a timetable to keep and they kept falling behind.

The only people Jon saw strolling along the wooden sidewalks with any ease were seniors, and most of them, he suspected, were only held back by their infirmities from bounding along like the rest of the town’s inhabitants.

“Why does everything lead back to the station?” Jon asked Gil. The kid skipped ahead of him on the sidewalk, deftly sidestepping the pools of spit and saliva on the rough wood. “I understand the town’s design, sort of, but why make the train station the center of activity?”

“Well, some towns got the railway to build by them. We got built on the railway instead.” He jumped over a large puddle with a laugh. “So we’re built around the station ’cause that’s how we all got here.”

“Ah. I see.” Jon shook his head at the shaky logic, but he couldn’t deny the truth of the matter. While other towns had raced to seduce the railroads into laying down tracks nearby and expanded to the stations, Prosperity Ridge had literally been born out of a single train station and an airship tower.

“Here we are.”

The brick building stood out from the other wooden structures, the double chimney spewing dark smoke into the air. A set of large double doors heralded the entrance instead of the usual single shop door, both firmly closed. The sign over the door read “Weatherly” and nothing else, no title or description of what lay within. Two windows sat on each side of the doors, covered with soot and dirt. There was no chance of light getting in through that mess and no hope of anyone spying what was going on inside the mysterious shop.

Gil lightly knocked on the left door first, waited a minute, and then pounded with the side of his fist.

“Sam? Sam? I got you a customer here.”

A small slot in the first door slid open, revealing a pair of dark blue eyes surrounded by black. “Gil?

You in trouble again?” The gruff voice reminded Jon of his own father berating his son after yet another argument.

“I’m fine. This gentleman here…” a sooty thumb jerked over his shoulder at Jon, “…wants to see Sam.”

“Hmph.” The grunt was loud and unforgiving. “Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested.” His eyes raked over Jon’s fine waistcoat and jacket, right down to the new shoes now stained with various fluids. “Not. Interested.”

“Sir…” Stepping past the kid, Jon peered into the slot. “I wish to engage your daughter’s services in a delicate matter.”

The dark eyes widened.

“I mean…I need a piece of machinery repaired. A very sensitive and delicate piece that is rather unique.” Jon lowered his voice. “I will pay handsomely for the work.”

“Hmph.” The eyes blinked rapidly for a second before the lid slammed down.

The door edged open slowly, just enough to allow Jon in. A meaty hand pointed down the street over the child’s head.

“You, go get us some more coal. And food. One of Mrs. Kettishire’s pies, and be quick about it. Tell

’em to put it on our bill, as usual.”

“Yessir!” Gil looked up at Jon, his right hand outstretched. The thin fingers curled up slightly, twitching with energy “The rest of my payment?” His lower lip trembled for a second before standing firm.

“Please?”

“As I promised.” The coins dropped into the tiny palm. The child grinned, making the pay vanish like the best street magician.

“I’ll be around if you need any more help, sir.” Before Jon could respond, Gil melted into one of the dark alleyways bordering the street.

“He’ll be back. After he buys some sweets, gets sick and then decides to get our items.” The hand gestured him in. “Don’t be wasting our time standing out here, man. The air’s horrible today.”

Jon stepped inside the building, his eyes slow to adjust to the different lighting of the workshop. The thick wooden door swung shut behind him with a resounding thud. His imagination brought up the image of a gladiator walking into the Roman arena about to meet his doom.

Squinting as his eyes watered yet again, he could just make out the man standing by a table. He waved Jon over with his left hand. As Jon got closer he saw the empty right sleeve pinned down on the heavy leather coat. A cold chill ran down his arm at the sight, the wartime memory of a hundred men crippled in the same way rising and falling in his mind’s eye. Forcing his thoughts back to the present, Jon looked around the workshop, using the exercise to anchor himself.

The large room seemed to be a mixture of a blacksmith’s shop and a mechanic’s storeroom with gears of various sizes and shapes spread across some of the many worktables set against the walls. A heavy black anvil stood by a well-fed fire, the hammer and tongs ready to be used. The large air scrubber sat against the far wall, wired into what had to be the local electrical grid. It chugged away, adding the whir of the fan to the rumbling noise of the fire. The man waved him over again more frantically, as if he wanted Jon out of the way of any possible explosion.

“Don’t be afraid. We don’t bite.” He laughed at his own joke.

Another person worked nearby, upper half hidden while he bent over and into a huge piece of machinery, devoured by the metal monster. Handleston gazed at the large mechanical horse.

It was a disfigured stallion, the metal head and neck remaining the same as its natural ancestor, the rest of the body deformed and reshaped to a cylinder. The hooves had been replaced by four huge wheels.

Each metal wheel had small spikes imbedded around the rim and in the tire itself, enabling it to travel across rough terrain. Where the saddle would be, a hatch stood open with the worker’s top half tucked inside the darkness. Up on the neck sat a series of gauges and dials, the small metal hands twitching and moving back and forth.

The body itself coughed and belched dark smoke both out of the horse’s mouth and the rear area, the latter discreetly covered by a limp tail made of horsehair. As Jon watched, the eyes of the creature turned a brilliant orange and then dimmed.

“Darned thing doesn’t want to go into first gear.” A mumbled curse echoed around the insides of the metal equine, the hollow voice rumbling through any open port. “We’re going to need to take it apart again and check the gears by hand. Damned…” A blonde head popped out of the intestines, past the pipes and gears, and stared at Jon.

“Oh. My.” Dropping whatever tool she had in her hand into the innards of the horse, the woman straightened up. Her free hand wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead and cheek. Jon’s mouth went dry as he studied the woman—no, the engineer—who he hoped would be able to save him.

She stood all of five feet tall, her blonde hair braided and tucked into the front of her off-white shirt.

The leather coat buttoned up around her neck hung loosely on her small frame, letting the shirt collar hang out at the top. Her hands were hidden inside a pair of thick leather gloves, the oversized gauntlets almost up to her elbows. Her blue eyes were rimmed with soot and dirt, making her look more like a raccoon than a young woman and much more like an engineer and inventor than any woman he had ever met, on either side of the pond. The fair-skinned cheeks went scarlet as she stared at him, her face damp with sweat.

Jon bowed. He had no other idea what to do. “Madam.” He glanced at the one-armed man. The resemblance between father and daughter was impossible to miss, which partially explained the abrupt reception at the front door. “As I was just telling your father, I need some delicate work done. Repairs, as it were. On a piece of equipment I own. Which is broken. And needs repairs.” In a flash of embarrassment, he realized he was babbling like a fool.

“All right. Let’s take a look.” She looked back at the iron horse with longing.

After stripping the gloves off, she tossed them onto a nearby workbench. The woman strode over to stand in front of him, hands on hips. The jeans poking out from the bottom of the leather coat were well worn and almost white with wear, the work boots on the verge of surrendering any protection they could have offered in the past. “Let me guess, a broken pocket watch.”