Wild Cards and Iron Horses, Page 6

  “All waiting for the winner of the Ridge Rocket Stakes. Which, of course, will be myself.” Finishing off the last few drops of whiskey, Victor got to his feet. “And don’t you worry, I’ll be watching you. You and that infernal contraption of yours. I don’t know how you cheat, but I’ll catch you at it this time. And when I do…” his Cheshire cat smile spread across his face, “…you won’t be able to find a decent game anywhere in the world.” A flash of anger lit his eyes. “And you’ll be finished.”

  Jon didn’t move as the older man strode by, brushing hard against the chair and Jon’s right shoulder.

  He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, waiting to see if he would dare call out Victor, challenge him to a duel or a shootout or whatever they called it out here on the frontier.

  The small derringer in his vest pocket felt heavier than the cannonballs he’d slept near during the war.

  He turned away from the table and strolled towards the door, allowing Victor to leave first. No one spoke to him on the way. A man scowled at him, but since he was missing an eye and an ear, Jon considered it more of a compliment than a reprimand.

  The door slammed behind him with a crash. Victor was nowhere in sight; the streets were deserted.

  The harsh night air was cool, but was still a thick gel settling in his lungs. It stuck to his face, mixing with the sweat on his upper lip. Jon willed his pulse to settle. There was no use letting Victor get under his skin before the tournament started.

  “Bastard,” Jon murmured to the darkness.

  “Sir?” Gil appeared at his side.

  Jon jumped, just a fraction of an inch. “What? What?” His right hand twitched, automatically preparing to reach for the derringer.

  “Sorry, sir. Don’t mean to scare ya. Miss Sam sent me to find you, said she needed to see you right fast.” The youngster scratched his knee, rubbing through a gap in the thin linen pants. “She seemed quite excited, she did.”

  Without waiting for the kid, Jon trotted along the wooden sidewalk. Victor could wait, the fascinating woman engineer could not. Not to mention she was much more pleasing on the eyes.

  His long legs moved faster and faster, outpacing the street urchin until he was practically running towards the garage. He unerringly plotted the fastest route and avoided the alleyways, even with the youngster by his side. Coming to a skittering stop at the workshop door, he pounded on it with his left fist.

  Gil peered at him, chewing on his lower lip before disappearing back into an alleyway.

  The door opened a crack, then all the way in response to his knocking. Jake grinned, silhouetted against the interior’s bright lights. He waved him inside.

  “Ah, then. The child found you. I was afraid that you’d turned in for the night. Not that we wouldn’t have woken you up, you understand, but Mrs. McGuire would never let me hear the end of it.” He pointed towards the workbench. “Sam forgot to take some measurements and she isn’t going to sleep a wink tonight until she gets a handle on this problem, so if you don’t mind…”

  Jon stepped inside the workshop, wiping his forehead with one sleeve. The dark blue sleeve came away with a black stain on it, absorbing both the sweat and soot of the town. Jake motioned him onward, returning to his position at another table where he fidgeted with a series of gears. “Just over there, if you please. She’ll be with you in a minute. You’ll have to forgive me, we’re on a deadline with this particular project and I can’t spare time to chat.”

  Trying to slow his racing heart, Jon adjusted his jacket before walking over to the far table. The workshop took on a new, much more sinister appearance at night. Shadows extended far across and up the brick walls, images of giant gears and springs and wires strung around the room. In the corner, the once-harmless silhouette of the iron horse now breathed darkness and danger, the metal head with eyeless sockets staring at him. Candles offered the slightest of illumination, with a few of the newfangled electrical bulbs spread out around the workshop, flickering with the attempt to deliver a stable light to work by. A fireplace set in the back wall roared with enthusiasm, the burning logs determined to throw off more light than the pretenders.

  Samantha stood by the drafting table, still scribbling on the paper, which was almost filled with calculations and drawings. The stool stood nearby, unused. Her leather coat hung on a small hook set in the wall. The white men’s shirt she had been wearing on his previous visit hung off her slender figure, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. A small nub of a pencil sat in her right hand, dashing across the page as she wrote mathematical equations he couldn’t hope to understand.

  She looked up at his approach, her mouth open. “Oh!” The woman gave a sideways glance at her father, almost scowling at the older man. “I didn’t think you’d be here so quickly.”

  A half-eaten slice of chicken pot pie sat next to an inch-high stack of paper, threatening to sprawl crumbs across the worktable.

  Jon frowned. “I’m sorry. Did I disturb your dinner?”

  Jake laughed as he walked by. His lone hand slapped Jon on the back. “Ah, it’s a miracle she eats anything. Besides, she can’t cook worth a darn. We order in from the shops when she gets a fire going in her belly.” This earned him another scowl from his daughter.

  “I need to see your device again.” The pencil scratched the rough paper. “I think we may have something we can adapt to your needs. There’s no way I can create a metal spring like this in the time you have. But I need more exact measurements to make sure.”

  Without hesitating, Jon stripped off his clothing. This was no time to be shy about his body, and she’d already seen him without his shirt. At the back of his mind a small voice mumbled something about reversing the situation. Grinding his teeth together, Jon placed the shirt and jacket over the same chair he had used the last time. Leaning over, he laid his forearm across the drawing table. The offending little finger flopped against the metal brace, daring him to try and move it.

  “Hmm.” Sam ran a long, thin measuring tape along the narrow copper band leading down the small finger to the main connection. “Hmm.” A second measurement across the palm of his hand. “Hmm.” A third check of the hole the spring originally came from, this time with a pair of small calipers. “Was there a cover on this? Something to keep the spring actually in?”

  “Ah…” Jon frowned, pressing his lips tightly together. “I don’t really remember.”

  “There must have been,” she announced. “There’s no way it would have just stayed in there. You were lucky it worked for as long as it did without the cork.” One long, slender finger tapped the open hole.

  “From looking at the others it was a metal plug, sealed with wax. Candle wax, I wager, from the little bit I can still see around the edges. Enough to hold it in place and bear the flexing back and forth.”

  “Ah.” The response wasn’t much, but it was all he could muster. “So you can fix it?” The words came out with a bit of an upwards lilt, betraying his desperation. If it couldn’t be repaired, then he would have to either withdraw from the tournament or risk losing it all, months of work tossed to the side like a dirty rag in the garbage.

  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.”

  Chapter Six

  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 yo
u 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.