Wild Cards and Iron Horses (6 page)

Maybe keeping his hand had been the wrong decision. But he hadn’t been able to stand up to his father at the time, demand that he be treated like the other poor bastards lying in the medical tent, screaming for help while the doctors sawed off their hands and legs without any anesthesia. Instead he had been attended to by some officer’s personal physician, taken away from the common soldiers lying and dying and bleeding on the wooden tables.

Jon shuddered. He hadn’t been able to get the smell of blood and gunpowder out of his nose for weeks, not even after the trip back home and the thick smog of London filled his mouth and throat. While his father had bragged and raved about the brave deeds of the soldiers they had camped with, Jon had remained silent.

After closing up the container, he put it back into his suitcase. A push with his foot sent it under the bed, out of sight. It only took him a few minutes to slip his arm back into the brace and a few more to tighten the leather strap.

He studied his right hand. It twisted up into a fist on his command, the little finger hanging off to the side, limp and unresponsive. He stared at it, willing the finger to break free of the enticing metal grasp and rebel. Jon ordered it to curl up with the other fingers and make him a whole man once again, to make the prosthetic the true useless appendage.

It lay there cradled in the copper and iron, impotent.

Jon glared at the finger until sweat dotted his forehead. All the finger had to do was move an inch, half an inch, a quarter of an inch, just enough to show some sign of independence.

Ten minutes later he let out a sigh. He pulled his shirt back on, leaving the buttons undone and the tails flopping onto his lap. Every night he performed the same routine, rotating through all of his fingers to give each digit the chance to rise up and be free. And every night so far he suffered the same result.

He wasn’t a religious man, but sometimes Jon thought that perhaps there was something in that bit about the sins of the fathers being visited on the sons.

But mulling over old mental arguments wasn’t about to get the job done here in Prosperity Ridge. Jon shook his head and started his next routine before he began to think too much about the beautiful Samantha Weatherly and her lovely hands, weathered from a lifetime of hard labor, tracing circles over his bare skin.

If he had to have anyone rub lotion into his aching muscles and chapped skin, it would be her.

Jon extracted a well-worn deck of cards from his suitcase and pushed the battered luggage back out of sight. He sat at the small desk. He could have stayed at the saloon where the tournament was held, Deadeye’s Dodge. But he’d wanted to stay elsewhere, away from prying eyes and questions about him and his disability.

The Ridge Rocket Stakes wasn’t the biggest poker tourney he’d been to, but the one he felt he had the best odds of walking away with the entire pot. And, if nothing else, being a professional poker player was all about getting the odds in your favor as much as possible, legally.

Lifting the slender cards in his left hand, he began to shuffle them single-handed. The well-worn cardboard squares slid together, mixing well without resistance. His right hand lay on the table, waiting palm-up for a command. He tossed down the first five cards and flipped them over.

King of Clubs. Jack of Hearts. Three of Spades. Four of Hearts. Three of Clubs.

Jon rolled off the possibilities in his mind. A pair of threes. Two face cards. A possible straight with the jack and king, the three and four. No single set dominated the hand and chances of a flush were very low unless he pulled three clubs or three hearts, which meant he’d have to destroy the pair he already had.

Not a great hand, but something he could work with. He tucked the cards into his right hand, jamming them into formation between his fingers. Jon scowled as the cards shifted and fell to one side, exposing them. Without the little finger curling up, the rest of his hand had become unstable, unable to grip the cards as tightly as he needed to maintain control and keep them hidden. If there had been no brace, no exoskeleton pulling his finger back and forth, it wouldn’t have been an issue. He could waggle his pinky at the other players with a wink and a grin, drawling something in a thick London accent to annoy the Colonists.

But because the wires and bars were so interconnected, so intimately woven together, it was impossible to have any one digit malfunction without the others suffering a lack of stability. It was a design flaw no one had ever anticipated, because no one had ever worried about playing professional poker and having a finger-brace malfunction.

Spilling cards onto the table during a casual game didn’t usually matter. Polite eyes would dart to one side while the embarrassed player gathered them up. But at this level of competition any flaw, any mistake, could give the entire game away. It was one thing to draw attention because of a disability, another to shake like a child, unable to hold the cards out of sight. He reshuffled and dealt another five cards to the tabletop, studying them.

Fifty-two cards to a deck. Four suits. Thirteen cards to a suit. Full house, straight, flush, one pair, two pairs, royal flush, four of a kind, three of a kind. Jon scooped the cards up and shuffled them again before putting them in the small wooden box and repacking it in the suitcase.

He buttoned up his shirt and then picked up the gloves, pulling them back on over his bare hands. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything since a sandwich bought on the train, and that hadn’t been all that edible. Hopefully Mrs. McGuire’s cooking was as good as she claimed. Pulling the waistcoat and jacket back on, he checked his hair. Relatively presentable, if he did say so. He’d had his fair share of coy glances from women, usually a wink and a giggle and a nod towards a shadowed doorway. But that was in the past, before he’d found a more important use of his time. He opened the door and headed downstairs, following the succulent aromas drifting up to him.

A brief hour later Jon sat back in his chair, suppressing a satisfied moan. If a man could die from being too happy, then he was halfway there.

Dinner consisted of roast chicken that melted in his mouth, the skin exploding with seasonings he’d never even heard of before. Mashed potatoes and peas completed a trio of delicious food. The meal ended with hot fresh apple pie, the succulent slice bubbling with sprinkled cinnamon on the top. Patting his bulging stomach, Jon smiled at the woman sitting at the head of the table.

“A finer dinner I don’t think I’ve ever had, ma’am.” He looked around the table. No one else had shown up, leaving him and Mrs. McGuire as the sole diners. Either the other residents had better offers or, as Jon suspected, the house rules may have been too strict for the wilder visitors to Prosperity Ridge.

“Thank you.” She tucked a white wisp of hair behind one ear. “I apologize for the lack of dinner conversation. People seem to be too busy these days to sit and eat a proper meal without rambling on about something or someone. I’d rather eat and then talk afterwards.”

He dabbed at the edge of his mouth with the cloth napkin. “I understand completely.” A nearly stripped chicken bone sat in the middle of his plate, tempting him with one last long string of white meat.

“The pace of technology has us all running to catch up, it seems.”

“Yes.” She fumbled with her fork and knife. “If I may enquire, Mr. Handleston…”

Jon waited. He had a pretty good bet on what she was about to ask.

“Why gambling? A fine man like yourself must have many skills that could be put to better use. And certainly more…moral.” She folded her napkin neatly and placed it on the edge of her plate. “I do hope I am not overstepping my boundaries as your hostess, but…” Mrs. McGuire shook her head. “I apologize in advance for my curtness. But surely your mother does not approve of your activities.”

Jon looked down at the table. This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to justify his particular line of work. Usually accompanied by curses and swearing, the question always hung in the air over him, like Damocles’ sword. Silently he pulled off his right glove, letting the brass and copper metal shine in the dim electric lights of the dining room.

Her eyes went wide. Biting down on her lower lip, she stared at the useless fingers caught in the metal embrace.

“A reminder of how cruel man can be to man.” He picked up the fork with his left hand, pushing the chicken bone around the empty plate. “There are always circumstances beyond our control that demand us to make decisions that others may not agree with. And debts that must be repaid.” His mind flew back to London and the night before his departure.

“You cannot just…go West.” Daniel Handleston waved his hand in the air, spittle flying from his lips.

“I will not allow it.”

“Why?” Jon paced around the room. “You have William to run the estate and Edward right behind him. You don’t need me.”

“Is that what you think? That I don’t need you?” His father placed one hand on the bald pate of a sculptured head, the bust itself resting on a cherry oak pedestal. “I need you to be active in the family business, Jon. I need all of my sons to be knowledgeable in the ways of the business world.”

“Which is how we ended up in the Americas. In the South.” Jon held up his right hand, the metal brace roughly gripping his fingers. “We put our money on the wrong horse, Father. It’s time to admit that and move on. For me to move on.”

The loud snort echoed through the room. “Son, maybe when you get a bit older you’ll see that time tends to shift all things. Our investments haven’t been lost, just delayed.” Striding over to the window, the older man looked out onto the finely manicured lawns. Overhead, an airship headed towards the Great City in the distance, rising slowly through the grey, smoggy clouds to clear a smaller, faster aircraft that dipped and weaved towards the landing area near the house. The single-wing craft puttered along, the lone propeller keeping the plane aloft. Finally the ship bounced to a rough stop along the brown strip, the engine spewing white smoke as it shut down. Servants ran to the rear of the plane, starting to unload the baggage tied to the luggage rack. The female pilot undid the straps holding her in place and stepped off the machine, taking off her leather helmet and goggles. She looked towards the house and waved a hand in the air, smiling.

“Your mother is home.” Turning back, his father shook his head. “My decision is final. I did not put all that money into your…ailment to have you run off like a common thief.”

“You talk to me of honor and yet deny me this?” Jon shot back, his voice rising in intensity. “I will not pay off this debt with your tainted money. I cannot.” He opened and closed his right hand, wincing as the raw skin protested the action. “I cannot play here. Too many people know me, know us. I need to go to the Americas where no one knows of us and thus I have no fear of gaining my victories dishonestly.” Jon sighed. “I know you would pay others to lose intentionally for me to complete this task. But it is something I must do by myself without aid of our name.” He straightened up. “You speak to me of honor, Father. This is something I must do.”

Daniel let out a grunt. “Son, I understand the principle. But you cannot expect to do the impossible.”

He glanced at the crippled hand. “You will not be able to. This is not something you learn from books, it’s something you use your heart and soul for.” The older man put his hand over his chest, pressing against the fine silk shirt. “I’ve seen too many men eaten up by the dream, gambling away their inheritance and leaving their families destitute. I shall not cut you off, not yet, but I urge you to reconsider this decision.”

“The decision is not yours to make. My transport leaves in three hours for New York City.” Jon tugged on the black gloves, almost ripping his hands through them in his rage. “I’ll send word to you and Mother to let you know I arrived safely.”

“A fool on a fool’s errand,” Daniel retorted. “If you won’t take our money to pay off this debt, at least promise your mother and I that you will take your allowance to live on, separate from this folly. I won’t have my son a derelict on the streets of America.”

And be a disgrace to the family.
The words remained unsaid, but they hung in the air between the two men.

Jon pressed his lips together, feeling the painful truth in his gut. “I shall, but only to live on. I will not touch the amount laid aside for my task.” He clenched his right hand, lifting his fist to stare at it. “I cannot.”

“Go then.” The elder Handleston turned his back on his son. “When you tire of this silly game, drop me a wire. I’ll find you a respectable job and a good wife.”

Jon snapped back to the present, noticing the odd stare Mrs. McGuire was giving him, her eyes wide with fear. He followed the path of her gaze down to his plate. The knife lay imbedded in the chicken bone, wedged in deep between shattered and splintered bones. “My apologies, ma’am. I tend to wander mentally at times. The war and all.” He added the last sentence almost as an afterthought.

“Understandable. Again, I apologize for any bad memories I have stirred up. I hope I have not offended.” She cleared her throat. “I shall expect you for breakfast, then?” Getting to her feet, she began collecting the dishes, snatching the broken bones from under his reach.

Jon folded his napkin and placed it on the table. He stood, stepping back from the table as she continued gathering the remains of dinner. “Most assuredly. And please, do not fret. You speak your mind, and I find that most refreshing. I’ll be stepping out for a few hours before retiring for the evening.” He bowed slightly at the hip, a playful grin on his face that he hoped would cheer the woman up. Thankfully, it did, as Mrs. McGuire blushed and nodded her own farewells.

Jon stepped out of the rooming house, taking a first hesitant sniff of the outside air. The door swung shut behind him as he took another deeper breath, pulling in the damp evening air. It wasn’t as bad as it had been before. Or perhaps he was getting used to it. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.