Iron Guns, Blazing Hearts

by Heather Massey

  Two more gunshots rang out. Immediately, the rumbling, hisses and pops slowed, eventually receding altogether. Should she stay or go investigate? The thought of Logan lying in a pool of blood was more than she could bear. But he had insisted that she stay. Given her complete lack of combat experience, his advice was logical. She would give him time, and hope it was enough.

  Thus began the longest wait of her life. It was all the more stressful given that she could see nothing, hear nothing beyond the general trappings of the strange landscape. In a most untimely fashion, the sheet of clouds above transformed into a menacing shade of gray. Before long, the sun seemed to have all but abandoned the area, while a strange murkiness soiled the air.

  One impudent fly seemed intent on burrowing into her nose. Swatting the dratted pest away, she almost envied Arthur’s immunity. Needing something to do, Violet alternated between staying hidden and checking the area for signs of Logan’s return. In her peripheral vision, every jutting rock seemed an attacker about to pounce. She wondered if the Iron Scorpion posted guards this far south. If she were captured, would they take her prisoner, or shoot her on sight?

  She fretted about Logan, checked her Schofield, and then fretted some more. Why had he vanished so abruptly? If someone had grabbed him… She clenched a fist hard enough to bruise her palm, awakening a profound resolve in the process. No matter what, she would find him–and rescue her father. She’d find a way. She’d have to. Yet the thought of approaching the dark fortress alone filled her with a dread so intense her stomach roiled.

  Fortunately–or perhaps less so–distraction came in the sound of quiet footfalls. Slowly, Violet eased her head above the top of the boulder. Narrowing her gaze, she spied a shadowy figure striding down a hill slightly northeast of her position. Oh no!

  She cocked her gun. “Arthur,” she murmured, “draw your Colt and prepare to fire if that person is anyone but Logan.”

  Behind her, the smooth slide of metal against leather answered her call. Squinting, Violet aimed the Schofield toward the figure. She wouldn’t fire until determining the figure’s identity, of course, but neither could she wait until danger stared her in the face. She swallowed past a rising lump of fear. Now the figure had reached level ground. A detail emerged: one of his arms appeared elongated and misshapen. He walked with obvious deliberation, like a predator stalking prey. Violet bit her lip. Had he seen her?

  The distance was closing fast. A bead of sweat rolled down her face. Perhaps she should fire a warning shot. She aimed at the ground near the figure’s feet and closed her finger upon the trigger.

  Then the figure waved.

  Violet moaned in relief. “Logan,” she croaked around the dust in her mouth. She turned to Arthur with a smile. “It’s Logan!”

  The automaton’s owlish eyes betrayed nothing of its thoughts on the matter.

  Regardless, Violet couldn’t help the fanfare of soaring music her imagination unleashed at the sight of Logan’s approach. His gait was brisk and powerful. The hard lines of his face made him seem like a mythic warrior emerging from a great battle. She sheathed her gun. If only she could throw her arms about his disheveled, dirt-streaked torso, the triumphant moment would be complete–worthy of anything The Lady’s Fireside Collection had to offer.

  Logan stopped a few feet away, dust billowing off to either side of him. In one hand, he held his gun, a few dying wisps of smoke leaking from the barrel. In the other, he gripped a twisted chunk of iron that sprouted a number of black filaments, their frayed ends trailing all the way to the ground. That explained the apparent misshapen limb.

  Violet hurried forward. “Are you all right? Is there trouble?”

  Logan dropped the chunk of iron at her feet. With a flick of his wrist, he jerked open the chamber of his Colt. The spent casings dropped to the hard ground. Then his lips formed a grim smile. “Not anymore.”

  Violet alternated her perplexed gaze between the metal at her feet and the enigmatic man before her. “What do you mean?”

  Logan quickly reloaded and with a second flick, the chamber clicked back into place. Then he grabbed her arm. “Hurry. There’s somethin’ I need you to see.”

  * * * *

  They ran toward the same hill Logan had descended moments earlier. Violet gulped in mouthfuls of the stagnant air as she struggled to keep pace. Above them, carrion birds circled in the air. Logan began ascending the slope as though driven by a pack of demons, his firm grip brooking no resistance. Not that she’d be inclined to resist anyway. What was he so eager to show her? Violet indulged in a brief, wild grin as a cool breeze rushed past her face.

  The hill reared about four stories above the road. By the time they crested it, Violet was panting. Fortuitously for her, Logan didn’t bother with a stealth approach this time. He simply pointed to a site on the road below. A ghastly vision marred the ground–one of the Iron Scorpion’s armored steam carriages.

  With its two appendages extended, it lay sprawled upon the road like an overfed spider. Steam sputtered from the black-as-midnight smokestack and also from a few places it probably shouldn’t have been. It appeared incapacitated.

  Violet’s lungs constricted painfully. Flashes of the attack on the train and her father’s abduction left her momentarily disoriented. Was it a trap? Had Logan meant to deliver her to the Iron Scorpion all along? She began edging away from him. A stone lodged itself under her boot and she stumbled backward. Then she lost her balance. Teetering dangerously, her world spun. She cried out and grabbed for a hold, but her fingers came up empty.

  Logan deftly blocked her fall. The surety of his protective embrace washed away her traitorous doubts. How could she ever have thought he would deceive her?

  “It’s all right,” he murmured. “I guess I should have warned you.” He eased away, but kept a supporting hand upon her elbow.

  Violet cleared her throat. “What happened here?”

  Logan smirked. “I watched it comin’ up the road. It was slowing down like it was having some kinda trouble. That might have been the sound we heard.” Raising a hand, he mimed the shape of a gun. “I had a few good shots, so I put it out of its misery. That’s what took me so long.” He squeezed her arm. “Quickly, now. Let’s get a closer look. We might be able to use it.”

  As they regained the crest, Violet glanced around. “What about the driver? Is he…?”

  Logan dropped his hand. “I took care of him.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Logan shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  But Violet wasn’t worried–she was curious. She studied the environs until she found what she sought. A trail of wet liquid, presumably blood, stretched from the left side of the iron carriage and across the road. It disappeared behind a large boulder situated many yards away. “Was there only one?”

  “Yep.” Logan headed right, where a steep incline afforded a gravel-encrusted path down to the road. He motioned for her to follow. “We don’t have much time.”

  Violet took one look at the treacherous path and promptly sat down to remove her boots. Logan obviously felt restless, but with her footwear she couldn’t afford to be. She’d be useless to her father if she fell and snapped her neck. Barefoot, she followed Logan, stockings be damned.

  At the bottom, she shoved her dirty feet back into her boots and proceeded to lace them up. Logan groaned and spun away, but whether his actions indicated impatience or something else, she wasn’t sure.

  After a few moments, his head gave a quarter turn. “When you’re done, I want you to take a look inside this thing, see if there’s anything of use.”

  Piqued, Violet nodded. When she stood, Logan positioned himself before a studded metal hatch that apparently served as the cab door. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dampened his shirt. He’s as nervous as I am , she marveled. A sudden thought chilled her. What manner of devices would they discover within this vehicle of atrocity?

  Muscles bunching admirably, Logan gripped the thick
handle. He wrenched open the hatch with a jarring screech. The cab spit out odors of grease, dirt, and the worst sort of offal. Violet backed instinctively away. Covering her mouth and nose, she glanced down, half-expecting an army of vermin to scurry forth from the dark depths of the interior.

  Logan stayed silent, but his face twisted in disgust. Grasping the edges of the opening, he propelled himself up. Violet reached for his extended hand, reveling in the brief contact with his warm, calloused palm She gasped when he hefted her inside, and then melted a little as his arms settled around her waist to steady her. All too soon, he released her.

  The air felt hot and stuffy. They were careful to avoid touching the ubiquitous levers and switches, not to mention anything else that looked important.

  At Logan’s urging, Violet left no detail unobserved. The carriage’s wretched design both repelled and fascinated her. Soot coated everything. She spied the driver’s seat, a cramped slab of iron upon which the former occupant had rigged a shredded, musty old blanket for padding. A bank of knobbed levers in front of the seat enabled the driver to control the carriage’s speed and direction.

  Violet threaded her way closer to the center of operations. Near the driver’s seat, something brushed her shoulder–a thick iron chain. She traced her hand upward along its length. It disappeared into a slit in the top about three inches wide. Within the recess, something shiny glinted back at her. Violet pulled on the chain. Nothing happened.

  “What are you doing?” Logan barked.

  “I have it under control–not to worry!” Nevertheless, Violet held her breath as she pulled harder.

  All at once, an intricate clockwork mechanism shot down from the ceiling. With a series of clinks the network of brass gears, springs, and rods expanded open, the way a crustacean spread its claws to capture prey.

  Quick as lightening, Logan drew his Colt. Unperturbed, Violet stayed him with an upraised hand. So that was how the driver manipulated the appendages. Clearly, he could only launch them while the carriage was at a stop.

  Gingerly, she placed her hands into the two claws, each a brass skeleton glove that extended to her upper arms. She lifted one arm, but met with incredible resistance. Not as easy as one might surmise, but the design itself was ingenious. Overall, the carriages were primitive yet undeniably crafty.

  After holstering his Colt, Logan ran his hand across an ugly slash of piping. “Bit of spit an’ polish, and we’ll have ourselves a ride fit for a barber’s clerk.” A sprinkle of humor underscored his words.

  Violet was puzzled by his vernacular, however. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What I’m sayin’ is, do you think you can fix it? It’d be a lot quicker if we can ride to the fortress.”

  He was serious. Elation coursed through her. Precious few men would have admitted a lack of skill in that area, let alone invite a woman to assert her own. Yet the doubt and fear in his eyes spoke volumes. The success of their mission depended acutely upon her answer. But instead of apprehension, the challenge stimulated her in more ways than she could count.

  She fingered a tarnished gear. “I don’t think I can fix it, Logan.” At his crestfallen expression, she shot him a sly gaze scandalous in its intensity. “I know I can.”

  A rapid play of emotions chased each other across his face–confusion, frustration, relief–all of which eventually gave way to surprise. Then he pushed back his hat and pointed at her. Did he mean to scold her?

  In a fit of impulsiveness, Violet pointed back. She touched the very tip of his index finger with the gloved tip of hers. Arched a brow purely for effect.

  Logan studied the point of contact while disbelief spread across his features. When he raised his gaze to hers, the tension of the last twenty-four hours gave way. At first, they simply grinned at each other. When Logan snorted, their smiles escalated to peals of laughter. They laughed so long and so hard that they had to clutch one another to keep from falling.

  As Logan wiped away the last tear of mirth, he said, “Surprise me like that again, Violet, and I might have to ask you to marry me.”

  Shock widened her eyes. Did he just say marry? “I…uh…”

  In the wake of her dumbfounded reaction, Logan yanked his hat down over his eyes. “It was a stupid joke,” he mumbled. “Forget I said anything.”

  Violet didn’t want to forget, but her father’s rescue demanded her complete concentration. She exhaled sharply. “Then I suppose I ought to begin the repairs.”

  Logan nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.” He exited the cab. “Come on, then. I’ll get the saddlebags. You round up that mechanical man of yours.”

  Poised at the opening, Violet stared at his retreating back for a few moments. A heavy sigh escaped. Her heart was unsure of which to trust more: his seemingly off-hand jokes, or what he wanted her to believe about them.

  * * * *

  Jammed between the rough ground and the underside of the steam carriage, Violet used a worn, dented wrench to tighten a stubborn nut into place. Logan’s sharp shooting, combined with the obvious lack of consistent maintenance, had made for an arduous repair endeavor. Numerous breakages and misalignments had demanded an equal number of creative solutions. Without fresh replacements, she’d had to frequently strip parts from one area and rebuild them elsewhere. Arthur had proven invaluable in his ability to reshape pipes or untangle fused elements. Luckily, the boiler had been the least of their concerns, requiring just several bucketfuls of coal to feed its ravenous belly.

  After a brief meal of shriveled apples, jerky, and tepid water, she continued her efforts for another hour. The silence of the surrounding countryside felt suffocating. Violet fought back unsavory visions of an Iron Scorpion ambush upon the open road. Anxious perspiration soaked her to the bone. But with the help of her companions, the repairs progressed rapidly. Commandeering Arthur’s brute strength, she’d even managed to retract the loose appendages.

  Violet gave the wrench a final shove and then cocked her head to study the fruits of her labor. Good enough , she decided. At the very least, the carriage would hold together until they reached the Iron Scorpion’s fortress.

  She eased herself out from beneath the iron behemoth. Glancing down, she noticed that her dress was tattered, torn, and streaked with grease. Her black lace gloves had long since shredded during her repair efforts and she’d been forced to discard them. As a result, her soot-blackened hands stung with too many reddened nicks to count. Violet took a deep, stimulating breath and rose to her feet. Despite the grime and discomfort, she’d never felt more alive.

  Clambering onto the driver’s seat, she made a few more adjustments to the control levers. Satisfied that all was in order, she exited the carriage, only to bump into Logan when she landed. Once again, he steadied her with a warm grip around her waist. She couldn’t help but grasp his steely biceps in the process. Of course, the light squeeze she gave them was executed on a purely scientific basis. Then he stepped back, inserting the inevitable canyon-wide gulf between them.

  Violet brushed her hands together in a useless attempt to wipe them clean. “Well,” she told him, “it’s about as operational as I can make it. I appreciate all of your assistance.” She glanced over his shoulder at the automaton, which for all intents and purposes might have been bird watching. “My thanks to you, too, Arthur.” Feeling her nape prickle, she shifted her gaze back to Logan. The man was staring at her, one corner of his mouth curled upward in clear amusement.

  Weariness fed her irritation that he’d decided to have fun at her expense. A flare of embarrassment heated her cheeks. Only her parents had ever seen her so grubby. Actually, this was the grubbiest she’d ever been in her life. Scowling, she propped both hands on her hips. “I know I look a fright. Laugh away and be done with it.”

  He ducked his head. “No…I mean, I was jus’ thinking. Takes more than nice hair and a pretty dress to make a woman beautiful.” Then it was his turn to look embarrassed. “Aw, hell. I shouldn’t’ve said that, either.”
>
  Violet’s heart fluttered. She studied her clasped hands. “I’m glad you did,” she said softly. She risked a glance upward. Logan stared back.

  They exchanged a round of shy, slow-burning smiles.

  A distant rumbling sound shattered the moment. Logan’s face mirrored her expression of alarm.

  “Another carriage is coming,” Violet cried out.

  Logan climbed to the top of the carriage and surveyed the area in all directions. “I think there’s more than one,” he announced while leaping down. “Hurry, now.”

  “What are we going to do?” Her rising panic threatened to cut off her breathing.

  He edged past her and ran toward the saddlebags. “Load up and get moving, that’s what.”

  They began stashing their supplies inside the carriage. After the final saddlebag landed inside, he helped Violet climb aboard. The cab accommodated them both, but barely.

  Violet gasped. She’d almost forgotten something very important! She turned back toward the door. “We can’t leave Arthur behind! He’ll have to ride on top.”

  Logan scowled. “We don’t have time for this,” he snapped.

  His resistance stunned her. Why can’t he understand? Arthur was her father’s most important achievement, not to mention the whole reason they were on a rescue mission to begin with. Then again, Logan had taken an intense disliking to the automaton from the beginning. But now his unfounded prejudice was making her impatient.

  “Fine! I’ll do it myself. You stay in the cab.” Fuming, Violet bolted outside, ignoring his mutterings about living on borrowed time.

  Surprisingly, only seconds passed before he followed her out the hatch.

  The rumbling grew louder. Violet instructed Arthur to ride outside the carriage. With Logan’s guidance, he wedged himself between the body of the carriage and the smokestack. If he kept still, his dark form could almost be mistaken for part of the carriage itself. Violet winced in anticipation of her father’s tirade upon learning about his greatest invention being exposed to the elements in such a careless fashion. Then again, she could think of no better field test.