by Nico Rosso
She stepped out of the shadows. “That thing ready to fly?”
“Yep.” He swung into the saddle and she followed behind him.
Talking hadn’t helped. She seemed further away than ever.
The trees drifted past as the charger rose up. They were soon heading south again. At least the trouble up ahead was simple. Shoot or get shot. Things could get real bloody real fast with the Whisperers.
“I’ve ridden into combat green as a river fern and barely made it out alive.” He hooked a thumb toward her pistol. “You handle that forty-five nice at short range, and I see you know what you’re doing with a rifle.”
She was proud, but didn’t boast too hard. “I keep the peace in Thornville.”
“But you ever kill a man?”
Absently rubbing her trigger finger with her thumb, she took a long breath.
“It’s all right,” he told her. Everyone dealt with it differently. “You can check your gun if you have to.”
She slid the Colt quickly from her holster, a practiced move. She half cocked it, flipped open the gate, and spun the cylinder. Her eyes remained on the pistol.
Talking about killing wasn’t always simple. He understood. Handling the gun was an easy way of distracting oneself. It was a reminder that the gun was a tool and sometimes killing was necessary.
She started speaking slowly. “Alvin Bonner came through Thornville on his way to the coast. They said he had a boat there to take him to Mexico.”
News of bank robber “Bonny” Bonner’s death had flicked through the frontline camps like a darting sparrow. “That was you? All we heard was a California sheriff gunned him down.”
“There’s a no-gun policy in Thornville,” she said. “He came through, and wouldn’t take his off. Pretended like he didn’t hear me, headed straight into Francis’s saloon.” She clicked through each notch in the Colt’s cylinder, making sure it was loaded. “I followed him in, told him I was the law and he had to surrender the weapon. Then I recognized him. He didn’t take kindly to a woman telling him what to do. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let a female sheriff lock him up. So he drew on me.”
“His last mistake.”
“At first Francis was steaming mad, but he changed his tune when everyone had to have a drink at the saloon where a famous outlaw was killed.” She snapped the gun shut, uncocked it and slipped it back in its holster. “So now it’s just a barroom tale.”
“I know it ain’t.” He’d never imagined what kind of woman she would become. She always had a spark, but it could’ve turned into anything. A forest fire that leveled the world or home fires for one man. He was in awe of this new Rosa he’d met, standing so strong, willing to fight alone.
Her distant eyes came back to him. “Won’t be that bad with these Crandall men. Show them my star, have a little talk, and send them on their way.”
He patted his pistol, knowing it was loaded. “They might whisper, but they won’t talk.”
“Then it’ll be their last mistake, right?” She tried a little smile, but it faded quickly.
He held up his left hand, showing her the cartridge ring. “Before I was in the Upland Rangers. I was just a soldier with a rifle, shaking in my boots. Hapsburg centipede rolled through the battlefield one day.” The screech of the iron wheels on the hard soil still rang in his ears. “Ever see one of them?”
“Illustrations in the paper.”
“Won’t do those beasts justice. Six round segments that can snake through almost any territory. Tetrol engines and bristling with guns. It came right at us. Only reason I didn’t run was I didn’t want you to get the news that I died with a bullet in the back.”
“You weren’t thinking about me.”
“I was.” None of the other men in the cavalry knew about her. He’d kept her memory locked away, but never buried. “Every damn minute. As if you were watching. Dark-haired angel up above.”
“Don’t play me, Tom.”
“Ain’t playing.” He brought the charger next to a high hill, where a dry wind rustled tall brown grass. Turning in the saddle, he faced her. “Shouting sergeants and commanding officers couldn’t motivate me like knowing you were watching.”
“I wasn’t.” She pulled off her goggles to fix him with her serious eyes. “I was getting as far away from you as I could.”
He tugged his goggles down and stared back at her. “Doesn’t matter, does it? You still helped me get these stripes on my shoulder. You helped me through every battle. Even if you didn’t know it.”
“Last thing I wanted to do was help you.”
“Rather see me dead?”
Her eyes darkened as she searched over him. “No.”
A small victory. “Just returning the favor. You helped me, now I’m helping you.” A ridge of hills separated them from where he had seen the Crandall machine. He pulled his canteen and offered it to Rosa. She shook her head, so he unscrewed the cap and drank some of the still cool river water. He tapped his ring against the metal rim of the canteen. “This soldier came leaping out of a centipede, throwing lit grenades like he was handing out candy at a parade. I didn’t think, I just pulled the trigger. Saved a lot of lives with one bullet.” He offered the canteen again. This time she put out her hand.
Watching her drink from where his lips had been was a new kind of torture.
She handed the canteen back. He couldn’t resist taking another swig, just to get a taste of her. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he swore the water was laced with ripe blackberries. Her eyes never left him as he drank. The anger hadn’t gone away, but there was something else there, potent and dangerous. He screwed the canteen shut, sealing away what might be their last kiss.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Let’s get this done.” Her goggles quickly obscured whatever emotion was in her eyes. But he still felt the energy of her body. So close, and he couldn’t have her.
He pulled his goggles on and turned the charger back on their path. Get it done, indeed. Then what? She could arrest him for horse theft. Shoot him for wearing a gun in Thornville. She wouldn’t forgive him. Any apology he made would be worth less than a dead fly on a windowsill. What the hell would an apology matter after what he’d done?
Three years ago, he couldn’t make himself into an upright citizen for Rosa. Or a husband. Her folks made it absolutely clear they wouldn’t accept him. Ever. He’d run instead of standing up to them and fighting to keep Rosa in his life. Stupid kid. If he could go back in time, Tom would give his old self a whupping to remember. But nothing could be undone. If he couldn’t apologize with words, he’d do it with bullets.
They came over the last ridge and dipped into a valley. High mountains stood to the left and rolling hills spread to the right. Straight ahead the Crandall mining machine rumbled forward.
IF FLYING THROUGH the air wasn’t wild enough, talking with this new Tom, filling in those three years of silence, turned out to be a tornado that scattered the horizon. Nothing seemed the same anymore. They’d both changed, even in the course of the last few minutes. The anger she’d held so close, her constant companion that had replaced Tom, seemed to waver. Yes, he’d run, but he was right to call her out on not standing up to her parents with him. Only thirty-six months had passed, but they’d both seemed so much younger then. What had they grown into? Her horizon tilted and she didn’t know how to right it.
But she had to pull herself together fast. The Crandall mining machine stood in stark contrast to its natural surroundings. Hard angles and iron fittings had no place in these rolling hills. Waves of heat rippled out of exhaust pipes, distorting the serenity of this remote area.
“Dios mio.” She’d never seen a single machine so big. At fifty feet, it was taller than any building in Thornville except the clock tower. The other mobile mining devices that had passed through town were just a little bigger than a wagon and team of six horses. This was a beast with pulleys and conveyer belts and rolling toothed wheels that could
consume the local chapel without slowing down.
Tom slowed the charger, giving them time to assess the machine. She only caught glimpses of the men around it from this distance. But as Tom’s posture straightened and he adjusted his pistol in its holster, her own tension increased.
“You know what they say.” He spoke without turning to her. “God made man. Man made tetrol. Tetrol made man God.”
As complicated as things were, she was glad to be with him for whatever was coming next. Even if she hadn’t needed help as the sheriff of Thornville, having someone close who at least understood the danger and excitement would’ve made the world a little more tolerable. And it was clear that Tom knew just what they were getting into. As a youth, he was filled with wild abandon. Always looking for the next piece of trouble. Now he had calm confidence. But he wasn’t completely stoic.
He flashed a grin, turning back toward her. “If I take out more of the Whisperers than you, you owe me a bottle of applejack. The good stuff that Harriet makes.” He winked from behind the goggles.
Bravado crushed any nervousness that crept into her joints. “If it comes to it, I’ll knock down more Whisperers than you. What then?”
“Name your price.”
Leave and never come back. Stay and give me everything I lost when you left. “Bottle of prime tequila.”
“Deal.” Tom pinched the brim of his hat. “But one condition.”
“There’s always something with you.”
“Whoever wins has to share the bottle with the other.”
They stared at each other for a moment, both knowing what that meant. There were a lot of possibilities once the cork was pulled. Might be some blood spilled. Or some wild nights, days and everything in between. She wasn’t forgiving him, but she wasn’t locking him out either. Not when it felt like he was the only person in the world who understood who she was and didn’t try to make her into anything else.
“Deal.”
Tom twisted further around in the saddle and put out his hand. She shook it. Even the leather of her gloves couldn’t separate her from his vitality. He felt it, too. Like they’d both gripped a lightning rod. His nostrils flared, and the muscles of his jaw twitched.
Something wicked glimmered in his blue eyes. He still held her hand, and she didn’t try to pull away. “There’s something I haven’t done before a battle.”
Tom’s eyes heated as he searched over her face, his gaze finally stopping on her mouth. She felt a warm electricity pour through her. Their hands locked together. She could slap him, push him from the charger, or shoot him. She leaned forward and met his kiss.
The history of their bodies flared bright, then burned away like an old barn. This was a new fire. Their mouths joined in a searching kiss that quickly turned deeper. They breathed each other in. She felt the rasp of his stubble, tasted fresh river water. She knew his need as he pressed toward her, knew her own as she pushed back.
This fire could consume her, burning her to the ground. She might want that. Start all over with Tom. Rebuild themselves. But not now. Not with a fight looming. And maybe not ever, once her blood stopped rushing so fast and her head cleared.
She started to pull away. He broke off the kiss with her. Their hands separated. Never had she seen his face more serious. Then a slow smile grew on his mouth.
“Blackberries.”
She still didn’t have a sense of a stable horizon around her. “I don’t know what you think this means.”
“I just want to get this fight over with so I can get into that”—he looked her face over, still smiling but with his eyes revealing a hungry need—“bottle.”
She understood his hunger. “There might not be a fight after all.”
He angled the charger down toward the Crandall machine. The trees whipped past them. The mining device’s tetrol engines hummed high, like distant coyotes.
Tom rolled his shoulders, preparing himself. “Just keep your gun hand ready.”
Flying only ten feet above the ground along a wooded path, they lost sight of the machine for a moment. Then the trees cleared and the monster loomed. Soil crunched under the heavy iron treads. Wood creaked as the whole machine swayed, lumbering forward. The armed men stationed around its perimeter walked calmly at a steady pace. They tensed, on alert, when they spotted Rosa and Tom riding toward them.
Details of the machine and the men emerged as she and Tom neared. The wood of the mining device seemed to be waxed or sealed with something that gave it a strange reptilian sheen. The men carried blackened rotary shotguns, twelve rounds to the cylinder. Ether pistols were ready in holsters. But as she and Tom came closer, the men’s faces remained dark and unreadable.
Leather and brass masks obscured any features they had. Glass eyes stared blankly at Rosa. The muscles of their necks moved slightly as they whispered to one another.
Tom brought the charger close to the man in the front and tracked along with him. The Whisperer ignored them, staring straight ahead, shotgun comfortable in the crook of his arm.
“I’m the sheriff of this territory.” She hitched her thumb toward the star on her vest. “I need to talk to the man in charge.”
The man responded only with whispers within his mask. The other guards shifted as they walked, responding almost silently.
She tried to keep her temper level. “Obviously you’re strangers, because everyone around these parts knows that I’m not to be trifled with, amigo.”
Tom didn’t seem as interested in maintaining calm. “Listen to what she says, children. She got through the roughnecks you hired without a scratch. That counts for plenty.”
Only whispers came from the guards.
“Who’s your gang boss? Bring him out right now,” she demanded.
The Whisperers fixed their goggled eyes on her.
Tom’s hand flexed over his pistol. “There’s a war on and all you ore mongers care about is profits. You best take this machine somewhere else.”
Rosa felt the situation could snap faster than a hammer falling on a firing pin. “I need to see your claim. You have to show me a legitimate claim, or I will turn you back.”
More whispering. Their pace slowed, all walking in step. The front Whisperer’s hand slipped toward the grip of his rotary shotgun. The others immediately had their fingers on triggers.
Her pistol slipped easily from its holster, cocked and ready. “Try it and all you’ll be is dinner for the turkey vultures.”
Tom yanked the charger to one side and drew his Rattler. “Talking’s done. Lady Lead’s come a-courtin’.”
The Whisperer swung the barrel of his shotgun toward them and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Four
THE SHOTGUN ROARED. Heat washed past Rosa, but thanks to Tom’s quick maneuvering, the buckshot missed its mark. The Whisperer twisted the grip of his shotgun sideways, rotating the cylinder to a fresh shell and fired again. She tried to aim her revolver at him, but Tom swung the charger around and put his spurs to the machine.
The charger was fast. Faster than anything she’d ever been on. She gripped Tom’s shirt with one hand, the other on her pistol. They rose higher as more Whisperers opened fire. Buckshot crisscrossed the air. Her legs were tight around the charger, her jaw clamped shut. But Tom stayed loose, almost calm, as he flew. This kind of combat was not new to him.
He shouted over the din of the shotguns. “Give ’em some back!”
She tried to aim, but her barrel jumped wildly as Tom continued his evasive flying. “How can you shoot from this?”
“Don’t fight it.” He stole a quick glance back. “Like we’re loose with cider on a summer night. Dance with me.”
The last time they’d waltzed together was in a grange hall outside of Thornville. A piano, a fiddle and a guitar had strung out the melody for their bodies to spin and glide together. Today, the only rhythm was the jarring gun blasts. But Rosa understood what Tom meant. She fell in with him, feeling how he balanced on the charger, turning his h
ips and shoulders.
The ride smoothed and her joints unlocked. The Colt swung in her hand, searching for a target. Still cranking the grip on his shotgun, the front Whisperer seemed determined to take them down. He was the first to fire, and he would be the first to pay.
She fired, cocked the pistol and fired again. The first bullet kicked up dirt next to the Whisperer. The next one caught him in the shoulder and sent him staggering backward into the mining machine.
Tom smiled, impressed. “Hell of a shot with a short barrel.”
They wheeled in the air. The wind whistled by, cut by buckshot. It truly was like a dance. Tom aimed his Rattler with one hand while controlling the charger with the other. At just the right moment in a sweeping arc through the sky, he fired three booming shots from his revolver. One guard fell to the dirt, clutching a wounded leg.
A high whine pierced the air. Two of the Whisperers had drawn their ether pistols and fired screaming shots at Rosa and Tom. It was enough to have the sky ripped apart by those bullets—she hated to think what a direct hit would do to their bodies.
With the long range of the ether pistols against the normal reach of her and Tom’s guns, the odds tipped far against them.
Tom made a wide circle around the machine, zigzagging to avoid the gunfire. “Told you these guys wouldn’t talk.”
“But they’ll listen.” Rosa holstered her pistol and drew the Gatling rifle from the scabbard.
Tom fired a couple more shots. “Belts are in those pouches behind the left saddlebag. Unhook one and feed the rounds from it.”
She yanked one of the heavy waxed canvas bags from the saddle and pulled the lead end of the cartridge belt from it. Flipping open the top of the Gatling rifle, she fed the belt into the breech, making sure all the teeth were lined up with the fabric. The gun snapped shut like a predator on prey. She wound the clockwork tight and brought the weapon to her shoulder.
Tom called back, “She kicks like a mustang.”
Pulling the stock hard against her shoulder, she aimed at the Whisperers below and eased the trigger. The barrels spun, drawing the rounds in, and the first cartridge went off. It was like holding rolling thunder. Bullets sprayed. The rifle jumped in her hands. Her whole body shook, but she kept her aim steady and drove the Whisperers to cover.