Cover Copy
The West just got a whole lot wilder.
A woman on a mission... Scientific achievement isn’t enough for Violet Whitcomb. Life working alongside her renowned scientist father is filled with intellectual challenges, but what she truly craves is love and adventure. She’s resigned to a fate of academic pursuits–until a fateful trip across the American frontier changes everything. A rogue inventor known as the Iron Scorpion kidnaps Violet's father and she alone is left to plan his rescue.
A man with a secret... Logan McCoy knows firsthand going up against the Iron Scorpion is suicide, but he can’t let Violet waltz into the villain’s lair alone. She may be a stranger, but she’s also the most compelling woman he’s ever known.
A perilous quest... Their attraction is undeniable, but their alliance turns contentious when Violet insists on including a third partner on their mission: her father’s latest invention and the world’s most advanced automaton, Arthur. The reason for Logan’s resistance isn’t clear until Violet comes face-to-face with the Iron Scorpion’s diabolical devices, and by then, it’s far too late.
CONTENT WARNING: An irresistibly dangerous alpha hero, a heroine whose most prized accessory is her steam gun, an automaton gunslinger...and a villain whose lust for power drives him to evils beyond the scope of humanity.
A Lyrical Press Steampunk Romance
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Violet hit a wall of flesh. Two large, very warm hands grasped her waist and held her steady. Glancing up, she locked gazes with the man before her.
It was the stranger.
She froze, but from curiosity rather than fear. Why had he followed her here? She wanted an answer, but when he captured her gaze with rich brown eyes the color of chestnuts, her question lodged in her throat. At such an intimate distance, she noticed other details about him. The creases on his dark hat. His intense brows. A faded scar angled across his left temple–perhaps from a childhood accident?
Her gaze went lower. She noticed the playful smile upon his lips. She’d read about such lips in her weekly. They were the kind capable of pleasures infinitely divine…or hedonistically sinful.
The water closet wasn’t even large enough for one person, let alone two. Said fact made the stranger’s scent all the more noticeable–and alluring. Unable to resist, Violet inhaled deeply. He smelled of sun and desert and leather. Beneath that, she swore she detected the raw, masculine base of him. It roused a sharp, sweet stirring deep inside her.
Iron Guns, Blazing Hearts
By Heather Massey
Dedication
This book is dedicated first and foremost to the Galaxy Express passengers past, present, and future. Your enthusiasm for science fiction romance means the universe to me.
Secondly, I dedicate it to director Sergio Leone for blazing a spectacular path in the Western film genre.
And last but not least, I would also like to dedicate this book to automatons everywhere because they’re wicked awesome!
Acknowledgements
I wrote Iron Guns, Blazing Hearts with the goal of providing all the entertainment value I could muster, but I couldn’t have done it alone. Therefore, I’d like to acknowledge the following people for their contributions to this project:
Thanks to my publisher, Lyrical Press, for not only being devoted to steampunk romance, but for also taking a chance on an author whose middle names are “boundary-pushing” and “risk-taking.”
I’m much obliged to my editor, Dianne B., for helping me fine tune every nitty gritty detail, no matter how small.
My thanks to artist Christine Griffin for her work on the amazing cover.
Many thanks to Diane Dooley, Jody Wallace, and Pauline Baird Jones for their ongoing support regarding all things sci-fi romance.
Finally, thanks so very much to my husband for his tireless encouragement and support. Remember the time I tracked you down in the house and breathlessly described that one idea I had for Arthur? Y’know, the one that left us exchanging giddy smiles and feeling all goosebumpy? I love you for being there to listen, and so much more.
Author Foreword
While conducting research for Iron Guns, Blazing Hearts , I strove for historical accuracy to the best of my ability. However, given the fantastical nature of the story I took some creative licenses with the setting. Therefore, any inaccuracies or mistakes are entirely my own.
Chapter 1
In Which an Inventor’s Daughter Meets a Dashing Man of Mystery, a Villain Wreaks Havoc, and Tragedy Strikes
Wyoming Territory, 1875
Violet Whitcomb clutched the papers in her trembling hands. Black ink stained her fingertips, but she barely noticed. Her heart rate sped up while she contemplated her next move. Dare she continue reading? Could she continue reading? Anticipation–or was it dread?–drove a sharp spike into her spine.
She swallowed hard. Continue she must, or forever wallow in a pit of desperate yearning. With a deep, lung-bursting breath, Violet tightened her grasp upon the flimsy booklet and cast her gaze downward.
When we last left the story, Pinkerton agent John “Wild Wolf” Wallace had rescued Miss Henrietta Dearheart from the dastardly clutches of Mad Bull, the heinous outlaw and scourge of the West. Read on for the next Thrilling and Explosive chapter of Destiny Rides Again!
Wallace raised his Colt, ready to march Mad Bull directly to the local jailhouse. Justice demanded nothing less than this vermin’s eternal imprisonment. Miss Henrietta’s cousin, Charles Hammond, could rest in peace now that Wallace had brought his killer to light. He glanced at the angelic woman on his left. As for Miss Henrietta herself, she had become someone of whom Wallace had grown quite fond.
“Stop right there, Wallace!” boomed a male voice.
Marshal Adams pushed his way forward through the ogling crowd, wielding his signature shotgun. He directed a wary gaze toward the intrepid agent. “I have a witness here who places you at the scene of the murder of Charles Hammond!”
The marshal jerked his thumb toward a scraggly weasel of a man with a drooping eyelid. Said weasel nodded far too eagerly. Wallace frowned. Was he one of Mad Bull’s accomplices?
Miss Henrietta gasped. “How can that be?”
Wallace narrowed his eyes. Wasting words was not his way. But the so-called witness was lying. “Marshal, you know as well as I that men can be bought. If you don’t have any real evidence, then quit wasting my time. Mad Bull is the man you want.”
Adams shook his head. “You always were a stubborn ox.” The lawman unwrapped an item from a piece of dark cloth and held it forth. The bloodstained blade of a Bowie knife with a wooden handle and brass spacers gleamed in the sunlight.
Wallace clenched his teeth. His knife had been missing for months. Now he knew why.
“This item was found on the victim’s body by this here witness. I do believe these are your initials engraved on the handle. John Wallace, you’re under arrest for the murder of Charles Hammond. Drop your weapon–now.”
Wallace refused to comply. His body tensed as he gripped his Colt harder. Somehow, Mad Bull had found a way to frame him for murder. How else to explain this dastardly turn of events? There was only one solution to this new problem and it involved the use of raw violence.
He pushed the protesting Henrietta out of harm’s way and then swung his revolver in a glorious arc, aiming straight for his nemesis.
But he was too late. The marshal’s men leapt forward, surrounding him. A ring of glinting weapons pointed straight at his head. Miss Henrietta broke into sobs. Wallace felt a keen pang of regret. Was this how the mission was going to end, after everything they had been through together?
“Violet? Violet!”
Heart
pounding, Violet hastily dropped that week’s issue of The Lady’s Fireside Collection onto the red velvet seat beside her. She looked across the table at her father. The distinguished, gray-haired gentleman was waving for her attention.
“Yes?” she said breathlessly. “What’s wrong?”
Joseph Whitcomb chuckled. “Our breakfast has arrived.”
“Oh. How wonderful.” Violet watched the server arrange the dishes of steaming food upon the fine white linen. From the snatches of excited conversation and clinking silverware around her, she could tell the other diners felt equally enthusiastic about their own meals.
Her plate nearly overflowed with a mound of scrambled eggs, two generous slices of hot buttered toast, and a large, savory sausage dripping with juices. Even though it was half-past eight, she’d been so engrossed in Destiny Rides Again that her rumbling stomach had gone unnoticed, as had her surroundings.
Her goblet of orange juice vibrated, mesmerizing her with its dance. Outside the bustling dining car of the Golden Arrow Express, the raw autumn beauty of the Wyoming countryside drifted by, punctuated by occasional puffs of steam.
Joseph proceeded to stuff the corner of a cream-colored Irish linen napkin into his collar. “Honestly, my dear, is my company so horrid that you feel compelled to perpetually bury your nose in those outlandish tales?”
“Oh, Papa, of course not.” Horrid, no. Humdrum, yes . An enthusiastic smile escaped her even as she strove to maintain composure. “It’s simply that the stories I read are all so very exciting.”
Joseph frowned at her while adjusting his spectacles. “Hmmm,” he said pointedly, and not for the first time.
“I only crave a bit of distraction now and then, Papa. It’s quite harmless.”
And she believed that last part was true. But even as she spoke those words, Violet couldn’t help but feel that something was missing in her life. She deeply appreciated the exquisite surroundings her father’s profession afforded them. The most luxurious passenger train in existence since the launch of the Pacific Railroad, the Golden Arrow was equipped with numerous amenities, including game rooms, shops, a beauty salon, and even water closets. Like something out of a dream, the dining car walls sparkled with a gold petite fleur design while thick brocade curtains augmented the windows’ scenery.
Likewise, their work amply stimulated her mind. But where was the level of excitement in real life that The Lady’s Fireside Collection gave her in print? Was it too much to wish for?
Joseph regarded her more sternly. “Be that as it may, I can hardly think of anything more exciting than our…you know.” He cleared his throat to dismiss the hovering waiter and picked up his fork.
She dropped her gaze. Her smile died. Violet did know.
Their ultimate destination was San Francisco, California. In two weeks, they would be attending the Thirtieth Annual Symposium of Mechanical Engineers. Global in nature, the event attracted the very best minds in the field. Members came from America, Great Britain, Spain, Italy, Brazil, and even the Orient. Once there, her father–inventor, genius, visionary–would reveal the most astounding creation of the nineteenth century.
The event was going to revolutionize everything.
Funded by both private investors and government grants, Joseph Whitcomb’s greatest–and most secret–invention had taken almost twenty years of his life, and nearly half that of hers. Spurred by atrocities of industrial exploitation and abuse he’d witnessed as a child of poverty, Joseph was determined to apply his intellectual gifts toward the greater good.
Several days prior to their departure from Boston, he had announced his forthcoming unveiling before a group of prominent politicians and reporters. Hence, said invention resided in a highly secure location aboard one of the cars. Other than Joseph and her, the only other person to have witnessed the fruits of their labor was President Grant during a private showing at the White House.
While her father’s greatest accomplishment would undoubtedly introduce sweeping changes across the American continent–nay, the world–Violet couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever have a life outside of his Boston laboratory. Ever since her mother’s passing, her father had lost not only his greatest love, but also the greatest supporter of his work.
Once Elsa Whitcomb died in that tragic carriage accident seven years earlier, Violet had became her father’s full-time assistant and default confidante. While their various experiments involved engaging tasks, a rampant sense of loneliness made it unbearably stifling. Violet had two hobbies, of which The Lady’s Fireside Collection was one, but it was hardly a substitute for close friends–or a husband.
As soon as the server left, Joseph launched into another one of his monologues. She suppressed a sigh. The man would forget to eat if Violet weren’t there to remind him. Regardless, her own appetite emerged in full force in response to the delicious smells arising from the platters. She ingested the food with relish. The sausage was so thick she could barely wrap her mouth around each bite. Her lips quirked. At least the long train ride involved some measure of excitement.
As her father waxed on–and on, and on–Violet responded with appropriately timed responses, such as “Is that so?” or “Fascinating, indeed.” As was increasingly the case during these one-sided conversations, her mind drifted. Then her gaze followed suit. Her father’s voice faded into the background.
That’s when he appeared.
The handsome stranger entered the dining car as if driven by a sudden gust of wind. Once inside, he strolled forward with the confident prowl of a panther. Violet assessed the hard contours of his tall, lean form, one framed by broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. Her stomach fluttered with the wing beats of at least a thousand butterflies. Despite previous exposure to some of the world’s most prominent men, she’d never seen anyone like him. Power seemed to swirl around his body with every step he took.
As the man approached, more details became clear. The rakish tilt of his boss-of-the-plains. The butt of a weapon jutting proudly from its sleek holster. Seasoned leather boots that hinted of extensive–and perhaps exotic–travels. Bronze skin wrapped the chiseled features of his face with sensual abandon.
A commanding presence charged the very air around him, prompting her to surmise he was someone of great importance. Was he a marshal, or one of the train’s security personnel? She didn’t see a gold star on his brown vest, and his white shirt seemed more crisp and fashionable than what a frontier marshal could probably afford.
Violet speculated that he might be the latest in a line of prominent railroad tycoons or… She glanced down at her copy of The Lady’s Fireside Collection .
Or a hero materializing from the pages of her favorite weekly.
Don’t be such a ninny! You’re on official business with Father . Violet averted her gaze and resumed eating. Long ago, she’d surrendered any fantasy of a husband or even a scandalous fling, given the demands of her father’s work. Yet perhaps for that very reason, she still chafed at her restraints.
She had high hopes about the current trip and the mysteries it promised, like the proverbial forbidden fruit of yore. If she had to make a choice between her father’s endless monologue and this alluring specimen that put all other men to shame, well, the choice was clear. This kind of chance sighting surely only happened once in a lifetime. Violet wished she were an artist so she could capture the man’s arresting figure forever. Instead, she would have to settle for stolen glances between bites of food.
The steward arrived and, with a murmured prompt, showed the stranger to a seat two tables down and across the aisle from Violet’s. To her delight, he sat upon the seat facing her. The intervening tables were empty, so she had an unobstructed view. She reached to her plate of fruit. Plucking a plump, glistening red grape, she slid its smooth skin along her lower lip just before taking a fervent bite.
At that precise moment, the steward moved aside, and Violet discovered that the stranger was staring directly at her ! His relaxed,
open expression conveyed he hadn’t a care in the world. As the gaze of his deep brown eyes poured into hers, she drank in the nectar of his undivided attention. When he smiled warmly and tipped his hat, exhilaration coursed through her. She’d never seen a simple gesture executed so majestically.
Violet quickly swallowed her current mouthful, barely tasting the succulent fruit. Vain thoughts surfaced: why hadn’t she worn her scarlet silk bustle gown instead of her utilitarian mauve travel dress? She’d initially thought that her matching top hat, accented with brass goggles and perched jauntily against her forehead, had served as an eye-catching counterpoint. Now, the whole ensemble felt entirely drab.
She fingered the plain braid of dark hair pinned at her nape, wishing she had visited the Golden Arrow’s resident salon to achieve more flair. Well, what did it matter, anyway? She didn’t have time for any kind of dalliance.
Another stolen glance informed her that the stranger had removed his hat. The act revealed a head of tousled brown hair. Violet experienced a most unscientific desire to run her fingers through it. Beyond a doubt, he gave new meaning to the word intrigue.
Who was this man? Where had he come from? She didn’t recall seeing him since the journey had begun. Of course, there were dozens of people aboard the Golden Arrow. Perhaps he had–
“I say, Violet. What do you think?”
Thoughts as scrambled as her eggs, she snapped her gaze back to her father. “I think he boarded at the last station.”
Joseph’s brows clashed as his forkful of food paused halfway to his mouth. “I beg your pardon?”
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