Morton snapped back with an answering snarl. “Don’t get started with me, child. I was playing poker when you were a scratch in your daddy’s crotch.” He rubbed his ear. “I like women just fine, thank you very much. But I like them to know their place. Not right having them fixing things up, doing a man’s work.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at Jon. “Too much of a chance of them getting hurt. Crippled.
Killed.”
Jon didn’t react, focusing on the coins. His pulse increased, jumping at the mental image of Samantha in danger. The implied threat hung in the air between the two men, even if no one else caught it.
Jon picked his words carefully, as if dealing a hand of glass playing cards. “That would be a shame if she came to any harm, I think.” He frowned as he glanced around the table. “Does anyone smell anything…odd?” Getting to his feet, Jon sniffed the air, exaggerating the movement with his hand brushing back and forth. “I do believe it’s coming from your side of the table, Victor.”
He locked eyes with the gambler, the steely blue of his own drilling into the dark brown of his opponent. “Smells like someone looking for a reason for his losing streak.”
Drummond bit down hard on his cigar, crunching between his few teeth. Tannetum let out a low whistle, lips pressed together in a mock kiss. The two showgirls on each side of Tannetum glanced at each other, a mixture of fear and excitement on their painted faces.
Morton remained seated. “In another time and place, sir, I would call you out for a duel for that comment.” The slightest touch of a Southern drawl entered his words.
Jon didn’t flinch. “In another time and place, sir, I would see you dead for threatening the life of an innocent woman.”
The standoff continued for a long minute, neither man giving an inch. Jon wondered briefly if he could outdraw Morton, if he could get to the derringer sitting in the pocket of his waistcoat before the older man could reach the weapon he surely had hidden on his person somewhere, and if he could actually pull the trigger to end another man’s life.
“Sirs,” Drummond drawled. He turned his head to the side, spitting on the floor. “I’d like to get a few more hands in before dinner, if you don’t mind.” He reached for the deck of cards sitting in the middle of the table and began to shuffle. “As my daddy used to say, crap or get off the pot.” He nodded towards Tannetum, catching the young man’s attention. “Would you mind sending one of those lovelies my way?
An old man like me needs all the encouragement I can get.”
Tannetum laughed, “Sure, Doggie. I’m not a greedy man. And my mama always taught me to share with those less fortunate than myself.” He tugged on the long blonde tresses draped over one of his shoulders. “Go be nice to the old man, hmm?”
Blowing Tannetum a kiss, the woman strode over to Drummond, waving her red feather boa. She had to be in her late twenties, the thick makeup trying to hide the tough years of living and keep her youthful.
What passed for a dress shifted on her thin body, the red fabric barely covering enough to keep her legal.
With a light peck on Drummond’s cheek, she perched on the edge of his chair, snuggling close.
Drummond let out an exaggerated weary sigh, turning his head to bury his face in the ample cleavage for a second before turning back to the game with a wide grin. “Now that I’ve been revived from the brink of death, gentlemen…shall we play a hand?”
Jon laughed and sat down, joining the rest of the spectators as the tension disappeared, snapped like a rubber band stretched too far for too long. The only one who wasn’t laughing was Victor, still growling under his breath, staring at Jon across the table.
Jon tilted his head to one side. “Toss me something sweet, Harry. Take the bad taste out of my mouth.” Victor could wait. Right now he had to focus on the game.
An hour later, Drummond rapped his knuckles on the scratched wood. “I’m done for the day, gentlemen.” Gathering the coins in front of him, he nodded to the lady beside him. She hadn’t wavered, her red boa still draped across the old man’s shoulders. “For your time, attention and luck.” After caressing a few of the dollar coins, the elderly man dropped them between the ample bosoms, letting them disappear into the darkness.
She giggled, causing the coins to jingle.
Jon rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help smiling at the outrageous flirting. The old man knew how to work a room and a woman. Rumor had it that he’d been married twice. At the same time.
Drummond got to his feet. “I’m an old man and I need my beauty sleep. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
He winked at the woman beside him. “And maybe you as well, hmm?”
Using his right hand to brush his own lowly stack of coins into a small purse held by his good hand, Jon got to his feet. He’d made a profit, but nothing to brag about. “Ladies, gentlemen, I have to follow my illustrious elder. I’ll see you tomorrow for the competition.”
Victor let out a snort. “With or without your hand?” He glanced down at the few silver dollars he had left after a last-minute losing streak, most of which had been to Jon’s benefit. “Be a pity if you had to play without it. Seems it’s your lucky charm.” The last two words were drawn out, leaving no doubt that other words were intended. The invisible rubber band snapped taut between them, yanking at Jon’s nerves.
Jon ignored him, addressing the other gamblers with a slight bow. “Good afternoon.” Moving away from the table, he drew a sharp breath, feeling the nervous pangs in his stomach increase. He couldn’t afford to play like this tomorrow. He couldn’t afford to lose any more money.
Or the exoskeleton.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was well into the afternoon. While Mrs. McGuire had laid out a delicious breakfast there was no way he could continue on much longer without something a bit more substantial than the pieces of beef jerky he had purchased in the saloon. Selling alcohol was their business, not food.
Pushing the purse into one pocket, he headed for the door. The few spectators left moved away from him, as they usually did. Gamblers had their own reputation about them, much like the fabled gunslingers he’d yet to see any of.
The dreary gray smog hadn’t lifted an inch since Jon had entered the saloon earlier in the day. In fact, he swore it was actually worse. A familiar sound filled the air, that of a small engine coughing and groaning.
Looking up, he spotted the military scout. The thin blades barely kept the craft aloft as the child ducked and weaved in and out of the clouds. In the back of his mind, he remembered a deal his father had closed, just before Jon left, with the American military for some sort of long-term investment in some type of hardware. Guess being on the wrong side in a war didn’t matter so much when it came to money.
The gloomy thoughts clouded his senses, so much that he almost tripped over the young street urchin yet again. The boy sat cross-legged on the splintered wooden sidewalk, his hands on his knees, studying the passersby.
“Gil,” Jon exclaimed, catching himself before he tumbled off the steps. “I’m definitely going to have to put a bell on you. You’re a street hazard. What are you doing here?”
“Keeping an eye on things.” Rising to his full height of four feet, the child hitched his thumbs in his suspenders. His dirt-stained face held more wrinkles than Jon remembered seeing on any child at that age, even in the darkest streets of London. “Don’t want any trouble happening in my town.”
Jon arched an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Really?”
“Sure.” The boy grinned, showing a slight gap between his two front teeth. “Bad for business.”
“Ah.” Jon looked around, his eyes adjusting to the late-afternoon haze. A rickety old horseless carriage rumbled by, the driver frantically grinding the gears with much screeching on both sides, human and machine. The disturbance was ignored by the residents who moved discreetly out of the way without any fanfare.
“Then, since this is your town, where w
ould a man go for a bit of a small snack, something to tide him over until the evening meal?” His stomach moaned again. Jon’s left hand went to his midsection, pressing lightly on the waistcoat in an effort to quell the noise.
Gil tapped his lower lip with one finger, the small forehead creased with deep thought. “Well, I’d head on over to the Cocoa Café. They’ve got some mighty excellent pastries.”
“Hmm.” Jon let out a loud sigh. “I guess you’ll have to show me the way. And help me figure out what’s best to order, of course. This being your town and all.”
The young boy’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir.” He trotted up beside Jon, his hands tucked deep in his pockets. “The café’s one of the places Miss Sam likes to visit, you know.”
“Really,” Jon replied. “Is it?” He slowed his pace, allowing the young boy to keep up. “Then I guess we’ll have to try all of her favorites.”
Gil’s excited giggle signaled Jon’s success in pleasing the young boy. As they walked along the creaking boards, Jon wondered how much progress his lady engineer had made while he had been playing cards.
Chapter Eleven
Sam wiped her sweaty forehead with the last of the rags on the table, ignoring the fact that it had just helped sop up an oily leak from a puddle nearby.
“There,” she pronounced. “Done!” The triumphant shout echoed around the workshop.
Twisting the brace so it lay as flat as possible on the workbench, she slid her own bare arm into the apparatus. Sam shivered, feeling the copper bands and springs tighten on her skin as she pushed her fingers to the ends of the prosthetic. Some of the connections fell short of gripping her arm, due to her petite form, but the majority of the bands and wires managed to make contact, embracing her as it had Jon earlier in the day. The clasps and fasteners flipped down with little resistance, completing the process.
“Sam, is that wise?” Her father appeared at her side, frowning. “You could hurt yourself.”
“That’s highly unlikely. This isn’t supposed to increase one’s strength, just to allow the hand to mimic the natural movements it had before the injury. If anything, it’ll decrease your natural strength, which is probably why Mr. Handleston is in such fine physical condition.” She flexed her fingers, the long, slender digits struggling to meet the sides and edges of the larger, thicker skeletons. The little finger moved in synchronicity with the others, curling up towards her palm.
“It took a bit of work, but the spring works just fine. And a bit of wax, steel and soldering to keep it all together.” She lifted the hand up, fingers wriggling slowly. “I’d say it’s better than new. I doubt anyone in London could have done such a good job in such a brief time.”
“Pride is a sin, you know.” He chortled. “But I have to agree with you on this. A fine piece of work, Sam. A fine piece of work.”
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Her father never gave praise lightly. “How are you doing with the equimech?” Sam flexed the fingers once more, studying the little finger as it rose and fell.
“Excellent.” Her father nodded towards his own workbench. “I’ve got the darned thing consistently running, finally. I’m not sure about how far it’ll run on a single jaunt, but it’ll be faster than any horse.
Took out the fifth gear—it wasn’t doing anything other than jamming the works. Unnecessary addition to the darned engine, other than helping sell more spare parts for more repairs.”
“Hmm.” Turning around, Sam studied the iron horse from across the room. “I still say it should run just a bit slower, for longer. Less stress on the parts will keep it from breaking down too often. As long as it can outrun the horses distance-wise, it’ll be a success.”
“I’ll take your comments under advisement. As it is, we’re lucky to have it ready before the representative arrives. Remember, we’re not the only ones working on this. And if we’ve figured out something that the others haven’t, it’ll give us a step up on the competition. They’ll need repair shops all along the line. And they could easily bypass us for Red River or Stettleston. They’ve got the larger population and the new airship towers.”
Sam nodded. Her attention was already back on the intricate movements as she curled the metal hand into a fist. “They could, but they won’t. Neither town has a railway station, never mind a major hub like Prosperity Ridge. I think they’ll give us the contract.” She looked up, smiling. “If we’re good enough to be kept on retainer for the railways, we’re good enough for the iron horses. It’s been awhile since we got called up to fix an engine at the depot, but we’re still listed on the records as the repairmen on call.” Sam touched her forehead with the metal finger. “We’ve got experience in producing results, quickly and without fail. Those other shops don’t.”
“From your lips to the Lord’s ears.” His lone hand moved up to scratch his nose. “I don’t know what else we can do to prove ourselves to the man when he arrives. Maybe we should have taken on an apprentice, start teaching someone else to help out. Losing Bill was bad, but I never thought he had the knack. He was here to make his father happy, not for himself.” The words trailed off as he stared at his calloused fingers. “I know my limits, Sam. And I’m getting there a lot faster than I thought I would.”
“We can still take on an apprentice, if you wish.” She began stripping off the metal prosthetic, unfastening the clamps and pulling her hand free. “I was thinking of Gil, to tell you the truth.” Sam tossed off the sentence lightly, as if she hadn’t had the thought in her mind for weeks now.
“Gil?” Her father walked over to the water tank and drew himself a cool drink. Standing up, he winced. He put the cup down and arched his back as his hand pressed against the base of his spine. “He’s a wee bit young for this sort of thing, isn’t he?”
Sam rolled down her sleeves and buttoned them at the cuffs. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you tell me stories about you teething on a wrench in your father’s shop?”
“It was a crowbar, but yes, I was young. So were you. But Gil…” He rubbed his chin. “The boy’s a bit of a wild one.” The approving tone had Sam smiling. This wasn’t going to be as hard of a sell as she’d thought it’d be.
“True, but he’s interested in learning, more of a hands-on learner than a bookworm. And they’re not going to be able to keep him in school with his attitude.”
“Or his breeding.” He turned to one side, spitting into a brass spittoon placed specifically for that purpose.
“Father.” She shook her head. “We don’t know anything about his family. Only rumors, and not very nice ones at that.”
“Yes, but…you can see it in his eyes. The way he creeps into the shadows, his ability to stay hidden.
A born tracker and hunter, he is. Ain’t no shame in being part Indian. Only shame in not accepting who you are.”
Sam let out a sigh. “I guess so.” She tilted her head to one side, adding the smile that had won her so many arguments in the past. “So you’ll think about it?”
“I’ll take it under consideration.” He moved to sit back down at the worktable. “If nothing else, we’ll know everything about everyone’s business in town. Might not be a bad thing. Let me think on it for a day or so.”
Sam nodded. “Fine, then. Shall we draw up the bill for Mr. Handleston?”
“That would be the next step, and then wait for his return, unless you want to rush out right away and find your young man.”
“He’s not my young man,” Sam snapped back before seeing the playful expression on the old mechanic’s face. He always knew how to get under her skin, tweak her nonexistent pigtails. And make her, once again, show her hand.
Her cheeks burned and she turned away, pretending to study the diagrams and schematics on the scattered papers nearby. “Besides, he’ll be back soon enough. I’m surprised he hasn’t been here already, breathing down my neck.” The warmth in her face scattered down her spine at the memory of Jon’s last visit.
“Is that what you want?”
Her father laughed. “I’m not sure you’d be doing much of anything with him around the shop.”
Sam opened her mouth to respond, deciding at the last minute to say nothing and stay out of even more trouble.
Walking over, he leaned on the edge of the desk. A serious look came over her father’s face as he studied the brace, his eyes raking over every inch of the metal. “You did find nothing…special about this construct, correct?”
“Mr. Morton is an ass.” Sam put up one hand, seeing her father’s jaw drop in reaction to her choice of words. “Don’t begin to lecture me on using strong language. There’s nothing else that can describe that man. That he came in here, demanding that we destroy this beautiful creation because of his unfounded fears is just…just barbaric,” she sputtered.
“And it’s just a brace,” he prodded her, a softer tone in his voice.
“Father, you can examine it, take it apart if you’d like, but there’s no more about this than you can see. It’s a marvel of engineering, but there is nothing about it that would aid a man to cheat at cards or any game of chance. No hidden spring-loaded levers, no compartments to hide extra cards in, nothing.” She stroked one of the long metal rods with her fingers. “Jon is just a good player, that’s all there is to it.”
Her father had an impish smile on his face now. “Ah, now it’s ‘Jon’, is it?” He chortled as he moved away from the table. “I’ll write up the bill for your young gentleman and then you check my handiwork on that iron horse. I’m not proud enough to think that I can’t make an error, and I don’t want to see anyone get hurt trying to ride that thing.”
Sam tried hard not to look at the loose sleeve in her father’s work coat, pinned to the leather to keep it out of the way. It called to her, demanding her attention.
Her father turned around. “And what shall we say when Morton returns? And you know he will. Men like him do not make idle threats.” He glanced at the far wall where the wrenches were neatly hung. “I have no doubt that he’s got a blade inside that cane and he’s not afraid to use it.”
Wild Cards and Iron Horses Page 10