Wild Cards and Iron Horses (8 page)

Sam studied the brace one more time, concentrating on the injured finger. She finally looked Jon in the face. “I’ll have something for you in the morning. Good night.” The woman swept the pages into her arms and walked into the back room without another word, leaving Jon behind. The door swung shut.

Jon stood there for a moment, stunned. He’d never met a woman with such focus, such single-mindedness on the task at hand. And to be so summarily dismissed, as if he were nothing more than a manservant, without even a proper goodbye…

“She’s enjoying this, just so you know.” Jake walked over to the table. Plucking the shirt off the chair, he handed it to Jon. “I know she’s not much of a talker, but this is a real challenge to her. And she lives for a challenge.”

“More of a challenge than that iron horse?” Jon gestured at the mechanical beast sitting not too far from where they stood. The brass and steel plates caught the flickering light from the fireplace, giving it an even more ominous look.

“That iron monster isn’t the future.” Jake looked towards the other room. “She is,” he said in a low, soft voice. His left hand opened and closed, as if he were trying to grab hold of something invisible.

Jon put his clothing back on. After fumbling with the buttons, he managed to do his shirt up and pull his waistcoat on. He glanced at the back room, waiting to see if Samantha would come rushing out and demand yet another measurement.

A few minutes later, he felt it was safe enough to leave. After a polite nod to the older man, he walked to the front door. “Please call on me if you need any further assistance…” the edges of his mouth twitched upwards into a smile, “…especially if she needs me to take my shirt off.”

Jake’s look flickered from that of a protective father to an old man remembering his own youth.

Finally giving in to the latter, he laughed. “Ah, to be a young man again.” He touched his temple with his index finger. “Just be careful, sir. My daughter’s not like other women, as you may have noticed. Good evening, Mr. Handleston.”

“Good evening, Mr. Weatherly.”

Samantha stared down at the two small pieces of the broken spring cradled in her hand. The twisted metal stained with oil and shattered almost exactly in the center weighed virtually nothing. So minute and yet so important to making the unique arm mechanism work.

The door opened, admitting her father. “Your customer has left. Again. And more confused than ever.” He took the seat next to the fire, wriggling down into the thick cushions spread across the old armchair and letting out a pleasurable sigh. “You’re driving him crazy, you know. It’s not good for a woman to tease a man like that. Touching him and all that. Gets the blood flowing, you know.” Her father chuckled. “You could do much worse, if you ask me.”

She ignored the obvious opening. They had discussed her single status many times, most recently within the last month. And, as usual, they had arrived at an impasse. She wasn’t going to sell herself to any man who didn’t accept her skills and encourage her in her chosen field of work, which ruled out most of the men of Prosperity Ridge.

“If he wants this fixed in time for his poker games, he’ll do as I ask.” Picking up a magnifying glass, Samantha examined the spring. “There may be a replacement that I can adapt, but I can’t guarantee that it’ll hold for as long as the original. This metal is of much higher quality than anything I’ve seen around here.”

“Hmph.” Her father crossed his arms, his lower lip jutting out in a fake pout. “You’re going to tell me that some British spring is tougher than our good American steel?” There was a hint of humor in his voice.

He picked up a dark blue blanket and pulled it onto his lap.

“Don’t start, Father.” She returned the two pieces to the center of the table, placing them exactly on their drawn image. “I believe my best option is to modify the spring from the inner core of the equimech—

the third gear, to be precise—cut off a small part of it. It’s too long anyway. I think the designer did that on purpose to increase the amount of money charged to the company. At that length it’s more likely to snap and require a replacement.” She shook her head. “Money. The root of all evil.”

“I don’t mind a little evil every now and then,” her father mumbled into his blanket.

She ignored him, concentrating on the metal coils. Her rough fingernail pushed the edge of the spring a fraction of an inch across the paper. “Taking a bit off the end should be enough, but I’ll have to measure the tension and modify it. And then adjust the original back on the equimech, make sure that we didn’t reset the parameters to the point that it won’t hold.” She didn’t look at her father. “Go to sleep, Father. I’ll be up late.”

“I know you enjoy a challenge, but you better make sure that beast is ready to go in time. I’ve already tweaked the gears as much as I dare. Now you’re going to pull out a spring? What are you going to tell Smithston when he asks why his horse isn’t running?” Jake stifled a yawn. “He said he’ll be by in a day or so. They want to get those beasts on the coaches as soon as possible. Get it out for a practice run, show it off to the investors, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll tell him it broke under the stress, if we need the extra time. Sort of the truth.” A sly smile twisted the edges of her mouth up. “Besides, I’d much rather be working on a man’s hand than a horse’s ass.”

“As long as the two aren’t the same.” His eyes strained to stay open. “Don’t stay up too late.” He rubbed the empty sleeve of his shirt at the shoulder. “Bad weather coming in. Don’t forget to check the air filters before the morning flush.” Adjusting the blanket over his lap, he stared into the flames. “I’ll give you a hand with the horse later on. After I get some rest.”

Sam looked up. Her mouth opened as if to respond, then she closed it, remaining silent. The argument over his working on the iron horse had been hashed and rehashed between them, her insisting that he not work on the beast and him pointing out that it was a two-person job. Unfortunately her emotions gave way to the cold logic of the truth, but she didn’t have to like it. Her father fell into a light sleep, smacking his lips every now and then. Pushing the spring to one side, she studied the rough drawings of the prosthetic.

How did Jon Handleston get hold of such a device? What would make a man choose to put on an obviously painful prosthetic and play cards? She nibbled on her bottom lip. Her index finger moved along the lines, blurring the charcoal image on the paper. There was more to this man than just a mechanical oddity.

“Everyone has something about ’im, something that’ll give away what they’re thinkin’.” The white-haired man poked another stick into the fire, sending sparks into the night sky. In theory they shouldn’t have fires; the enemy was too close. But men needed to eat and to drink, and Jon knew most of the soldiers didn’t give a damn by this point. “If you know what he’s thinking, you can figure out how to beat ’im.”

“Reading a man’s mind. It’s an interesting theory.” Jon looked down at his cards. Two jacks were the best of the lot. The worn cardboard was about to give out, the stained cards a reminder of how long he had been out here with his father. The set had been new and fresh from the printer when they had first sailed for the American South.

“No theory. Fact.” Picking up the stack of cards from the hard-packed ground, the sergeant smiled.

“How many you want?”

“Two.” Bluff him into thinking he had three good cards instead of two. That’d show the old man who was reading whose mind.

The thin cardboard squares landed a mere inch from his right hand. Picking them up, Jon added them to the mix. Nothing here. A two and a ten. Add in the three he had kept back and he only had the Jacks. But it’d be good enough to show this fellow he knew how to play cards.

“Ready to play?” The Southerner twirled a single silver coin between his fingers.

“Yep.” Handleston smirked.

Ten minutes later, he was down five dollars and still had no idea why. Jon tossed down his cards with a snort, leaving them in the dirt.

“You about ready to learn or you want to keep on losing?”

Delaying his answer, Jon turned and looked out over the battlefield. The dying fires from the enemy on the horizon matched their own, the distant shadows of the soldiers beginning to move. The cannon lay only a few feet from them, the metal balls ready to be loaded and fired. The rest of the team slept nearby, the smoldering campfire a pile of embers spewing dark smoke into the night air. “You’re supposed to be engaging the enemy at sunrise.”

“That’s what they say. They also say that we’re gonna lose.” He picked up the cards from the dirt and shuffled them back into the deck. “But I gave up listening to them a long, long time ago.” He chuckled.

“So, let me show you how to play poker while we wait for those boys to wake up.”

Jon woke up in a sweat, the soaked sheets clinging to his skin. Taking a deep breath, he swung his legs off the bed. He moved to stand up, swaying slightly in his thin white nightshirt for a second before regaining his balance. The small window across from him showed it was still night, or at least not early enough for the sun to fight through the smoggy air. The brace sat on the small night table, the leather straps hanging loose. He’d performed the evening rituals, rubbing the oil into the cordovan parts and dabbing the machine oil over the bands and bars with a fresh rag. It’d become a part of his regular bedtime routine, like changing his clothing and making sure the door was locked.

He reached for the blue ceramic pitcher with his left hand and poured some water into the bowl.

Splashing his face with the lukewarm liquid, Jon wondered if he’d ever be able to finish that dream. It always stalled at that point, never continued on a minute further. He never dreamed about that last battle where he had almost lost his hand.

A glance at the pocket watch sitting on the night table showed it was barely four o’clock, way too early to appear for breakfast. Any respectable establishment would be closed and he couldn’t risk wandering the streets of a strange town, no matter how confident he might feel. Jon walked over to the window and pushed aside the thin curtain.

The airship tower’s lights blinked to the west of him, the tall metal structure puncturing the night with the stark brightness. A rotating light illuminated two ships anchored to the tower. One was a small scout craft, a military unit of the United States Air Corps. They must be using the scouts to keep an eye on the new Indian Nation to the West.

The other was obviously a luxury transport, the gondola large enough to carry a decent crew and passengers, the observation portholes giving the travelers a scenic view of the American Frontier, or whatever it was being called these days.

It would have been lovely to travel over the wilderness on the weekly passenger run, but much too expensive. Jon’s allowance was generous, but it wouldn’t be proper for a gambler to travel by airship. Too many questioning looks, too many whispered slights behind hands held over mouths. Besides, he liked keeping his feet on the ground, smelling the fresh earth and the horses as they pulled the coaches from stop to stop, the rich loamy scent of fields of grass marked only with a pair of wheel tracks leading over the horizon.

Still, it would be nice to go airborne again, to see the fields spread out under the airship, sipping good port and dining on the fine foods each luxury line bragged about. And the women, ah, the women who lived aboard the ships, traveling from port to port under the auspices of being chroniclers for various magazines, when they were really entertainers whose company for the evening could be bought for the price of a good bottle of wine. There were women in the saloons on the ground as well, of course, who offered their services to weary travelers seeking a bit of solace for a few hours and a place to lie down, so to speak.

Jon shook his head. There would be none of that until he fulfilled his debt. Reaching for his clothing, he began to dress slowly, making sure that both the mechanical brace on his right arm was secure and the small derringer safe in his pocket. The white dress shirt was tucked into his black pants, the once-shiny shoes now speckled with various fluids he’d picked up along the way. He didn’t even consider cleaning them, not until he was done with Prosperity Ridge.

The dark green waistcoat slipped over his shoulders with room to spare. He had lost too much weight between his rehabilitation and his travels, replacing it with muscle so that none of his clothing fit as well as it should. Over the waistcoat went a matching jacket with a trio of handkerchiefs tucked into various pockets. He usually carried only one and a spare, but given the circumstances he’d be a fool to not prepare for the air quality. The laundries in the town should be making a good bit of coin, he mused, trying to keep up with the unfortunate aftereffects of technology.

Finally Jon sat on the edge of the bed and watched the sun struggle with the smog. The moon seemed to do rather well for itself, forcing the dim beams through holes in the clouds and illuminating the town in a ghostly grey while the sun sighed and moaned at having to rise and shine for yet another day.

His thoughts wandered to the young female engineer who might, even now, be working on a solution to his problem. She had some wits about her, that was for sure. He’d seen and danced with enough women who thought that wearing the newest fashion trend was enough to capture his attention, that all he wanted was a beautiful wife to complete his life. And here was a woman who didn’t seem to care how she looked, who dressed for comfort and efficiency at her chosen line of work, and who didn’t look to a man for approval. Maybe she slept in her leather coat, curled up with the scent of sweat and machine oil after a hard day’s work. Maybe she slept in one of those long nightshirts he had seen in the various catalogues, long and flowing and made of silk. Or perhaps nothing at all.

He yawned. Better that he not go back to sleep with these types of thoughts.

Samantha yawned as she extinguished the candle with a fat brass hat, watching the wispy trails spiral towards the ceiling. A glance at the large mantel clock sitting above the fireplace showed it was five o’clock. She picked up one of the iron pokers and worked over the dying embers before settling down in the rocking chair, wincing at the effort. Her back ached and her eyes felt as if they were about to pop out of her head, but she had the answers she needed.