Wild Cards and Iron Horses

by Sheryl Nantus

  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 someth
ing 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.

  The sun had begun to set over the town, the light red beams struggling to break through the ever-present smog layers to announce its departure. Around him, people trotted along the wooden sidewalks, hustling by him in small groups of chattering women or mumbling men, a few brave couples sauntering along, arm in arm.

  The shops were starting to close, the shutters drawn over windows stained dark with soot, the shopkeepers shooing out the last few reluctant customers. The gas lamps were being lit by a short, fat man who seemed to be moving slower than molasses, if that were possible. Or, Jon mused as he strolled along the sidewalk, maybe he was moving at regular speed and everyone else in Prosperity Ridge just ran faster.

  Either way, he wasn’t going to stay in his room all night. He had a few hours to spare before sleep and there were always casual pick-up games that needed another player. There were only so many hands one could play by oneself, so to speak.

  Almost instinctively he headed towards the tournament saloon, navigating as best he could from his previous experiences. He had made it a priority for every match to scope out the competition, most of which should have arrived by now. They may not have chosen a fine establishment like Mrs. McGuire’s to stay in, but they would be as eager as he to begin playing. The odds were that they too would be looking for any opportunity to sharpen their skills before the actual tournament a day away.

  By the time he reached Deadeye’s Dodge, Jon’s eyes were burning and his lungs ached. The streets had emptied, with only a few stragglers wandering around. He suspected Gil would be one of them, disappearing into the shadows and somehow surviving in the town’s dark underbelly. He’d seen one or two small figures ducking in and out of the alleys. Jon shuddered inwardly, thinking of the lost children he’d seen in London. Some begged for spare change, setting themselves up on a corner and looking as sad as possible. Others tried their skills at pickpocketing, at least until the authorities caught them and shipped them off to one of the colonies to serve their time. Still others ended up offering their services to the men and women who wandered the night looking for companionship.

  Jon glanced into the darkness, searching a shadowy alley for the elusive Gil. Perhaps he could do something for the urchin before leaving Prosperity Ridge. The boy was intelligent and deserved better than running errands and the like.

  With one foot on the saloon’s front step, Jon paused. His thoughts wandered back to the workshop and the strangely enchanting Samantha Weatherly. It was too late to go back and disturb her, enquire about the status of his spring and the possible repair. But he couldn’t get her face out of his mind’s eye, or forget the soft, gentle touch of her fingers on his scarred skin.

  A man stumbled through the doors, reeking of cheap whiskey. He stared at Jonathan with bleary, bloodshot eyes and grinned.

  Returning the smile, Jon continued up the steps. The beautiful engineer could wait until morning.

  Right now he had to assess his competition and get ready for possibly the most important poker games of his life.

  Chapter Five

  A familiar voice split the air as Jon entered the saloon, destroying his inner peace and threatening to force the good food from his belly. “Ah, Jonathan. I thought I’d see you here.”

  The curses bubbled up in his throat when he recognized the voice’s owner. Victor Morton. Turning to the left, Jon spotted the older man sitting at a table in the back of the saloon. Victor laughed, rocking back and forth on the rickety wooden chair.

  The man wore the latest New York fashion, a black and gold braided waistcoat snug against his robust belly, a black suit jacket tight across his broad shoulders. A garish gold chain hung down and across the vest, attached to a family heirloom pocket watch that didn’t even work and which he had no intention of having repaired. He’d told Jon that once while taking yet another pot, scooping the coins off the table.

  “Useless as tits on a bull, but my mother would die if I didn’t wear it. And I won’t waste the money to have it fixed…” Morton laughed, “…and it’s not worth anything to pawn or sell, so I’m stuck wearing the damned thing.” At the time they had been friends.

  “Come on over here, we’ve got a spot open.” The long thin fingers waved in the air.

  Jon advanced towards the back of the room, making his way around the tables. Most of them were empty, the majority of the customers standing at the bar. The bartender, a bald man with only one eye, studied Jon for only a second before turning his attention back to his business. He grabbed another round of coins from the countertop and the eager customers waiting for their drinks.

  “So, what brings you to Prosperity Ridge?” Victor asked as Jon took the open chair opposite him.

  “The same as you.” Jon nodded to the other two men at the table. “The Ridge Rocket Stakes.”

  “Ah.” Victor pulled a cigar from an inside pocket. After biting off one edge, he spat the nub onto the floor. He struck a match and lit the open wound, sucking deep on the thick bundle. Tossing the spent stick over his shoulder, Victor took a deep puff on the fresh cigar. “Nothing like a good smoke.” He smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Cheaper than women and always there when you want one.”

  One of the men, an older man, got to his feet. “I know when I’m outmatched. Victor Morton and Jon
Handleston at one table.” He touched the brim of his dark blue cavalry hat. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll walk away now.” This was directed to the young man sitting opposite him.

  The remaining gambler looked around the table, his blue eyes sizing up the competition. Suddenly he grinned and got to his feet. “My mother didn’t raise any idiots.” Nodding to the two men, he scrambled to leave the saloon.

  “Thanks for scaring away the locals.” Victor scowled, scratching his thick grey beard. “Almost had it all.”

  “You had enough.” Jon looked at the stack of bills and coins in front of his competition. It added up to almost a hundred dollars, easily.

  The wooden chair moaned under Morton’s weight. “True, they’re hardly much of a challenge. But it occupies my time until I get the chance to take your money. Again.” He smiled. “And that’ll be soon enough.”

  “This is a good town. Filled with good people.” Jon pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “We’re just passing through. Don’t steal from them.”

  “Jon, you should know me by now. I never steal.” The gambler spread his hands, a sneer on his face.

  “Besides, it’s just another one-train town on the line. I’ve seen dozens of them, as you have. Or you will, in time. They may hate us, but we bring them business. We bring them the attention they want and need to survive.” He pointed towards the bar. “There’s already five reporters here to send the stories back East.”

  Jon followed his gaze. The familiar faces glanced his way and then turned back to their drinks. They must have come in on the train behind him, or perhaps the one before, all of them scoping out the competition and feeding the information to the bookies before filing their own stories. Even now the bookies would be collecting bets as they waited for the outcome to make and break other men’s fortunes. A long, unbroken chain of greed that stretched around the world.