Wild Cards and Iron Horses

  Their love rides on a spring and a prayer…

  During the recent Civil War, a soldier risked his life to save Jonathan Handleston—and lost. With the help of an advanced metal brace on his crippled hand, Jon now travels from one poker tournament to the next, determined to earn enough money to repay the man’s debt.

  Prosperity Ridge is supposed to be the last stop on his quest, but his brace is broken and he needs an engineer to repair the delicate mechanisms. The only one available is Samantha Weatherly, a beautiful anomaly in a world ruled by men.

  Sam is no fool. Jon is no different from any other gambler—except for his amazing prosthetic.

  Despite a demanding project to win a critical contract to develop an iron horse, she succumbs to the lure of working on the delicate mechanisms. And working with the handsome Englishman.

  Like a spring being coiled, Samantha and Jon are inexorably drawn together. Sam begins to realize honor wears many faces, and she becomes the light at the end of Jon’s journey to redemption. The only monkey wrench is Victor, a rival gambler who will stop at nothing to make sure Jon misses the tournament.

  Even destroy Jon’s and Sam’s lives.

  Warning: Contains crazed card games, gears and springs galore and a wild ride that’ll have you panting at the end of the book.

  eBooks are transferable.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Wild Cards and Iron Horses

  Copyright © 2010 by Sheryl Nantus

  ISBN: 978-1-60928-151-9

  Edited by Sasha Knight

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: August 2010

  Wild Cards and Iron Horses

  Sheryl Nantus

  Dedication

  For my husband who never loses faith in me, SK for her incredible patience, and for the City of New Babbage in Second Life—who took in a li’l clockwork dragon and gave her a home. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter One

  The two pieces of the small copper spring sat in the palm of his hand. Something so small, yet so important.

  Jonathan Handleston shook his head for the third time in two minutes. He wrapped the broken spring in a handkerchief and placed the cloth package in an inside pocket of his jacket, checking twice to make sure it was safe and secure.

  He brushed the hard, cool steel barrel of the derringer, hidden in his waistcoat pocket, and winced inside. He didn’t like to carry a weapon, but his profession made it necessary. And a two-shot derringer was much less visible than those six-shooters it seemed everyone here in the West wore, flapping out there in the open with their fancy gun belts and holsters.

  The competition began in two days. He’d have just enough time to settle into Prosperity Ridge, check out the other players and get some practice. It wouldn’t be possible to order another spring from overseas, even if he knew how to install it and had the tools at his disposal. No, he’d have to find some sort of local assistance, no matter how unlikely it seemed that a skilled engineer who could handle this sort of work would be in this small frontier town.

  The train jerked forward then back with a grinding of gears and screaming of metal on metal that set his nerves on edge. He glanced out the window, frowning. During his inspection of the spring, the broad, open prairies and blue sky had disappeared, suddenly replaced by the stern and sharp angles of buildings looming up on all sides of the passenger car. The air was thick and dark, as if he was back in the depths of industrial London, fighting his way between factories. Through the haze he saw moving silhouettes and a horse or two. The building solidified into a train platform, with which he was very familiar.

  “Prosperity Ridge! Prosperity Ridge!” The conductor stepped through the carriage, bellowing at the top of his lungs. The dark blue uniform barely held over his robust form, the buttons straining at the effort.

  His cap was slightly askew, giving the look of a man harried and rushed all the time. “Ten minute stop! Ten minutes!”

  He paused at Handleston’s side. “I believe you said this was your stop, sir.”

  Jonathan got up, reaching for the traveling bag under the seat. He didn’t need much and he’d lost too many suitcases to trust anything to the baggage cars. “Very dark outside, isn’t it?”

  The pudgy conductor grinned, his dark brown handlebar moustache quivering with laughter. “You’re new to these parts then, sir. This is a good day in Prosperity Ridge.” With a parting cough, he moved off down the aisle, roaring his announcement.

  Jon shook his head, making his way towards the door. A few people waited in front of him, all holding handkerchiefs in front of their faces as they passed through the hatch, one by one being burped out onto the platform with as little street air coming back into the car as possible. The scent of sulfur and burning wood filled his lungs with a startling quickness. He had heard rumors that the West had embraced the new technology wholeheartedly, but…

  It was his turn. Handleston stepped off the carriage into a sooty, dark world that might have come out of Dante’s Inferno. Stumbling along the platform, he grabbed a railing for support before he could fall over, or worse, onto the tracks. He flung his right arm over his face, filtering out the worst of the offending air through the thick jacket.

  “First time here, sir?” A gruff voice came out of the smog, and a hand gripped his left arm. “Here.”

  The thick piece of cloth pressed into his hand was wet, dripping, in fact. “Wipe your face with this and then put it to your nose and mouth.” The stationmaster’s image resolved itself in front of him, a short man dressed in a black uniform with a Harlequin-type mask hiding his features. The bright brass buttons that usually signified a stationmaster were tarnished and dull, the engraved name of “Munson” on his tag almost invisible. “You’ll be used to it in a minute. Let’s get you inside the office.”

  Jon followed where the figure pulled him in the grey smog, shuffling along the wooden planks.

  Finally he came up against a door with a brass handle shining in the darkness like an angel’s halo. The stationmaster gripped the handle with dark, tobacco-stained fingers and tugged. The pair stumbled inside the stationmaster’s office, the door slamming shut behind them. Tears running down his face, Jon coughed repeatedly, bent over with the effort. The sandwich and weak tea he had eaten on the train threatened to return in force and bring what little else he had in his stomach with them.

  The uniformed man strode to a small water tank set against the wall and twisted the faucet with a squeal of rusted metal. He pointed at a wooden chair sitting in front of the desk.

  “Sit down and take a few breaths. You’ll be fine.” The stationmaster passed over a cup of water. He walked around the desk and then sat with a loud sigh in his own chair, the cushion springs squeaking their annoyance.

  He pulled off his mask, showing an older and more tired man than Jon had expected. His face was leathery and dark, eyes a steely blue with the whites almost outnumbered by the bloodshot veins. “I keep telling the train conductors to warn the passengers to get a mask on, get a handkerchief prepared, do something to get ready. Most newcomers don’t prepare for Prosper
ity Ridge and then I have to deal with ’em.” He nodded to Jon. “No offense intended, sir.”

  “What…what is this place?” Jonathan rinsed his mouth out, spitting into the nearby brass cuspidor.

  “One of the levels of Hell?”

  “It is to some, I wager.” The toothy grin showed decayed teeth. “The train station’s the worst of it, really. You’ll be fine once you head for the outer rings.” The elderly man shook his head. “It’s not the train’s fault, you know. It’s all those other danged machines messing up the air, and those airships docking at the tower dump all their fumes down on us. And now that we’ve got those dratted metal horses on the coaches, it’ll be even worse.”

  “What?” Lifting his right hand, Jonathan tugged on the black glove, making sure the delicate machinery was protected as much as possible. He didn’t need the extra attention right now, not before having a chance to settle himself. “Metal horses? You mean the trains?”

  “No, sir. The horses themselves.” The man took back the now-soiled cloth from Jonathan. Turning to his left, he dropped it into a trash bin. A puff of hot air signaled the departure of the rag for parts unknown, probably to a central incinerator unit. “They’ve been replacing the real beasts with the mechanical ones for the stagecoaches, making it easier to reach those areas without trails, the new stations out in the wild.

  Supposed to be the wave of the future, they is. Except when they break down and make a mess,” he grumbled, taking the empty cup from Jonathan and putting it back on the desktop. “You’re here for the competition, ain’t you?”

  “How could you tell?” Jon bent over, coughing again.

  “Well, you’re not a local fellow with that accent.” The stationmaster’s eyes narrowed. “Definitely not a local fellow.”

  Jonathan stood up, gasping for air. His lungs were already beginning to compensate, the pain retreating into a dull rumble in his chest. “I’m from England, originally. And before you ask, no, I didn’t participate in your recent conflict.”

  Technically speaking, that was. There was no use in trying to explain the entire story. He wasn’t here to debate the merits of the North versus the South yet again. “I thought the new frontier was a friendly place for people to start fresh lives. Start anew and leave the past in the past.”

  “That it is, sir.” The elderly man touched the brim of his cap with two fingers. He held the iron mask in his other hand. “But old memories die hard, and people die fast out here, sir. You’d best remember that, if you’ll allow me to give you a piece of advice.” His tone changed. “If I may be asking, where are you staying for the competition? I can point you to a fine place…” The last word tilted upwards, hopeful.

  Obviously the man made a little money on the side directing newcomers to a specific inn or hotel, probably a relative’s. Whether you were in New York City or on the frontier, some things never changed.

  “I already have reservations with Mrs. McGuire, I do believe. But thank you for the recommendation.” Jon nodded, slipping two coins into the man’s hand. “If you could direct me towards her establishment, I’d be grateful.”

  The stationmaster looked down at the two silver coins in his hand. He smiled and pocketed the money. The iron mask slipped back onto his face easily. Lifting his hand, he jerked a thumb at the unseen world outside the office door. “Third street, two blocks down and to your left is Mary McGuire’s Bed & Breakfast. Woman makes a fine cherry pie. Welcome to Prosperity Ridge.” He grabbed a folded piece of paper from a stack on the desk and handed it to the man. “Here’s a map. Note the wheel-spoke system. It’s the newest thing. When they laid out the town they figured they’d give it a shot. You’ll get lost plenty of times before you figure it out, but once you do you’ll be just fine.” He glanced at the large clock mounted just over the doorway. “I’ve got an eastbound train to meet. Let yourself out when you feel up to it. Good day.” The man walked out the door, back into the smog, before Jonathan could reply.

  Jon opened the small brochure. It seemed that all roads began and ended in Prosperity Ridge at the train station and airship tower. Given that he was at the station, he had nowhere to go but outwards in his search for his room.

  Striding over to the opposite door, he drew a deep breath of relatively fresh air. Jon grabbed hold of the handle with his left hand and pulled the door open. He stepped out onto the street.

  Prosperity Ridge could have been one of a thousand small towns in England freshly recreated in the New World. If it hadn’t been for the obvious American influences in dress, he would have thought he was back home in London or one of the little villages dotting the English landscape.

  A thin dark mist hung in the streets, the most obvious source being the smokestacks piercing the sky from brick buildings nearby. Overhead he heard loud droning, most likely the transport and passenger airships moving in and out of the area—the military scouts scampering around to maintain airspace control and to keep an eye on the horizon, so to speak. There weren’t many routes running into the “wild, wild west” at the moment, and those were usually reserved for the wealthy and the military. He could have probably paid for the flight in, but it would be against the rules he had set for himself. Still…his mind wandered to the last flight, with the champagne and the women both flowing easily.

  Jon shook his head, pushing the memories away. He couldn’t afford to get distracted, not so close to the games. A rider on a horse trotted by, both animal and man wearing handkerchiefs over their faces. The horse whinnied as the pair pulled up at what had to be the local saloon. It took only a second to tether the beast to the post. The rider hopped off and disappeared into the tavern. The horse wandered a few feet to one side, then moved closer to the water trough, out of the main street. Obviously the horses had more common sense than many of the humans, who dawdled in the street despite the possible consequences.

  As if on cue with his thoughts, a horseless carriage rumbled by, spewing even more filth into the air.

  The driver blissfully waved at a group of young women gathered on the steps of a local store. His shiny goggles were brand new, the copper frames reflecting what little light managed to break through from the smog overhead. He drove away down a dimly lit street. His horn blared at some unfortunate soul who might or might not have been lucky enough to get out of his way.

  A group of men wandered down the wooden sidewalks, joking and laughing. Some of them adjusted metal masks over their faces much like the stationmaster wore—small slits for their eyes and mouth. The others kept stopping at nearby water troughs to wet their handkerchiefs. One or two, like Jon, wore nothing over their faces at all. Either they were permanent residents who had just gotten used to the air and forsook the masks, or newcomers who didn’t know better.

  He noticed a couple coming towards him, both wearing quite ornate masks. The woman’s covering had intricate golden swirls across her cheeks, mixing with the sparkling stones inset in the faux eyebrows.

  Her partner’s mask held to an animal theme, a wolf-like snout being added to the nose area along with grey and white fur painted on.

  Jon had seen their style before, but never such a variety of creative works. But, he mused while walking on, it was a booming industry. The masks seen here on the streets of Prosperity Ridge mirrored those being manufactured en masse in England and in even greater quantities on the Continent, what with the increasing concern about air quality. Strangely enough, one of the appeals of coming to America had been the promise of cleaner, fresher air. The edges of Jon’s mouth quirked upwards at the joke as he drew in a shallow breath.

  He could taste the grit in the air. Staying out here for too long would probably affect his health—one of the few things he had left. Jon began making his way through the streets to Mrs. McGuire’s Inn and relative safety, walking as fast as he could. He stopped and stared at the map again, moving out of the way of pedestrian traffic.

  Prosperity Ridge was laid out like a wagon wheel, the center of the town bein
g the train station and the airship docking tower. From there the streets ran outwards, getting farther and farther apart, until at the very end they would be miles from each other. A series of smaller roads ran circles around the center, linking the streets together. But if you turned at the wrong intersection as the streets ran outward, you could add valuable minutes to your traveling time. Hardly optimal for couriers or those racing to get somewhere.

  A street urchin ran out in front of him. “Carry your bag, sir?” The dark brown eyes poked out from under a long and unruly mop of black hair, his face speckled with coal dust. It didn’t take a genius to see the Native American blood in this boy, his ancestry a reminder that Jon and everyone else were really the immigrants to this new frontier.

  “I only have the one.” Jon couldn’t help smiling. “And I’m not that old that I can’t carry one bag.”

  “Gentlemen never carry their own bags, sir.” The child puffed out his chest, tugging on the threadbare suspenders holding up a pair of brown denim pants. The light blue shirt covering his frame was at least two sizes too large, the sleeves flopping around his tiny wrists. “Best to have your servant carrying it, you should.”

  “Really?” Jon replied. The pair continued to walk along the sidewalk, the young legs trotting at double speed to keep up with Handleston’s pace. “And if I gave this to you, what are the odds that I would see you disappear down one of these side alleys, never to be seen again?”

  “You hurt me, sir!” The youngster clutched at his chest, the linen shirt threads stretching to show light brown skin. “Here I am, offering to help out and all. Being friendly, I am.” He coughed, turning his head to spit into the street.

  “Yes, yes you are.” Jon kept a tight grip on the well-worn handle. “Actually, what you can tell me is if there’s a metalworker in town. Someone who deals with delicate things, can repair them.”

  “You mean like a watchmaker? There’s Jonesy over on Washington Street.” The boy raised his hands, ticking the names off on his fingers. “Or Mr. Downey, he’s always tinkering with the clocks. Wants to fix the clock tower next, but he’s afraid of heights, so that could be a problem.”