by Nico Rosso
Hawkins still held her hand, but leaned away slightly. He took a steadying breath and she joined him. They stood like that for a moment, relearning how to be this close to someone without reaching for a knife.
The smallest smile curled his lips. His face grew serious again and he brought her close. She let herself melt into him. Their bodies fit together quite well. His muscles were hard and defined, even under his vest and shirt.
He leaned his mouth toward hers. She tilted up to meet him. No fear. Only hunger. Her eyes closed. The last thing she saw was his intense gaze, dark and burning.
Then their lips met. He tasted of whiskey, hints of the sugary dried date. The kiss wasn’t as reticent as their bodies were. She opened to him and he gave himself. They seemed to devour and be consumed by each other.
They held each other tight. On their own, they would’ve fallen. But they balanced, swaying as the kiss continued. It didn’t feel like a first test of their desire. They’d known each other. By name, by sight, for years. Even if they’d never spoken.
She remembered the theater, the little game they played, neither conceding. This kiss was no game. It was proof that the charge she’d felt when he was near wasn’t just because he was a rival. And there was still a lot to learn.
His stubble was rough. Her tongue flicked into his mouth. He chased her back, licking across her lips. His arms wound tighter around her. She dug her fingers into his shoulders.
Their bodies turned and he took a step. His boot clinked against the whiskey bottle.
She whispered, “Give me a drink.”
The bottle was instantly in her hand. She uncorked it, took a swig of the whiskey. It mixed with the taste of Hawkins’s kiss, spreading the heat further through her body.
He took the bottle, drank a swallow without taking his eyes off her.
Still holding the bottle, he wrapped that arm around her, drawing their bodies close again. His other hand was on her hip, flesh and metal fingers. She dropped the cork and pulled on his shoulders, resuming the kiss with more intensity.
His firm lips pressed on hers. This man wasn’t afraid to show how much he hungered. That strength inspired her. She could be fearless, too. Opening her mouth, she let the thrill of the kiss spread completely through her.
Tight against his chest, her breasts grew sensitive. Her nipples hardened, and she moaned into his mouth. A heat centered between her legs. She’d never felt a need like this. A need to set fire to the world so she could be alone with this man, to forge their bodies together in the blazes.
Running her hands across and down his chest, she felt the buttons of his vest. It would only take one to set things off. Simple and round like the primer in a bullet.
Her fingers hovered over the button. Her body told her to pull it, break it, tear it away. Beneath the fabric was Jack Hawkins, the man she’d seen for years. The one who’d heard her stories, shared his, and stood with her now. Needing her.
It might’ve been years of circling each other like wolves, but less than twenty-four hours had passed since they’d exchanged their first words. And that was with guns drawn.
She braced her hands on his chest, offering a slight resistance.
He instantly released his grip on her. Quick, hot breaths rose and fell in his chest. The intensity remained in his eyes.
Too fast. Too soon. She wanted what he wanted. But a raw edge remained in her from telling the stories of her past. She could only expose so much without feeling too vulnerable.
She gestured for the bottle and he handed it to her. The whiskey cooled her down. He took the bottle and drank. It would be so easy to light the fire again.
Her body was still sensitive from his touch, the potential of them together. She retrieved the bottle, brushing against his fingers. Even that made her pulse race faster. Reaching down, she found the cork in the dirt and dusted it off.
She stopped the bottle with it, adding a little emphasis with her palm.
Hawkins smiled and nodded. He still burned, she could see that, and felt it herself.
Taking the bottle from her, he placed it back on the ground, midway between where they’d sat.
They stepped backward, neither turning away from the other. It gave her a chance to see him completely in the firelight. The day’s riding had dusted his fine clothes, but he was still sharp. Pistols, buckles, and his metal hand shone in the dancing light. His eyes were dark and alive, taking her in, too.
The pounding of her heart slowed. She caught her breath. The night’s chill found her exposed flesh. She finally turned from him and pulled the buffalo cape over her shoulders.
He threw a log on the fire, bringing its dry heat back. Settling on the ground with his back to a low rock, he pulled his slicker over himself like a blanket.
She rolled back her log to do the same, reclining enough to grab some sleep. The ice of danger shot through her as she heard a gun being pulled from a holster. But it was only Hawkins settling in for the night. He held one of his .44s in his left hand, rested across his chest.
Despite the distance of a few feet, it still felt as if he was speaking in her ear, words resonating up and down her body. “’Night, Miss Blue.”
The Man O’ War detector was still in her front pocket. She drew her pistol and kept it in her hand as she wrapped the cape tighter around her.
“Anna.” She wished they were close enough to whisper. Instead she spoke in full voice. The fire died, and she hoped the night’s cold would descend to cool her thoughts. The metal plate would move if the Man O’ War came close. She had no device to tell her what was right with Hawkins. Her heart tried to speak, but she’d never learned to trust that voice. She was alone.
No. For the first time, there was someone else who understood. Five feet away and right next to her, closer than her own skin. He was her rival, her only equal. She was one touch away from feeding her hunger for him. But where would it end? Once she bit down on the strong cords of his neck, raked her fingers down his back, it didn’t seem as if it would ever be enough.
“Jack,” he replied.
Like a simple kiss. A little comfort in a harsh world.
She held on to it, wondering if it would be enough. The need hadn’t gone away. Could she give in without losing herself completely? It had taken too long to build herself. Maybe this was the next step, if she could just take it.
METAL ON SKIN, Jack touched her. Below her ear, down her throat. The enameled iron, steel, and brass of his finger absorbed her heat. He felt her, through the mechanisms. Metal came alive. Electric fire ran through his hand, up his arm, and swirled in his body.
He woke, still feeling the rush of blood from the dream. His heart pounded. He blinked open his eyes, adjusting to the hazy bright of morning. Anna was awake, watching him rouse himself. Luckily, his coat was wrapped around him, and the slicker over that, obscuring the erection that ached to be released.
He rasped, “’Morning.”
A small groan escaped her as she stretched her arms in front of her like a cat. “Yup.”
The fire was cold ash. Fog still hung low, glowing white with the new sun. Jack holstered his pistol and stood, getting the kinks out of his joints. “No time for coffee.”
It was impossible to keep his eyes off her. Standing, stretching again. Rearranging her blonde hair in its ponytail. He’d been aware of her all night.
She scanned the white sky and surrounding area. “Weather hasn’t lifted, but we can see enough to navigate.”
The trees were ghosts in the fog. Only Anna seemed to be real and solid in the world.
He dug in his saddlebag, finding the pemmican and handing her a piece. Their fingers did not touch. Watching her tear into it with her teeth, he marveled at how such a hard woman could burn that bright with a kiss.
Lord, he’d never forget that kiss.
She swallowed her food, chasing it with water from her canteen. “You sleep?”
“Enough.” There’d been fitful nights before. Hiding
from people while he was on the run as a child. Then chasing people as he’d made his living. Never lost sleep over a woman before. But she wasn’t like any other woman he’d known.
“What’s funny?” she asked, rolling her buffalo cape into a bundle.
He hadn’t realized he was laughing. It hit him again and he let out a louder chuckle. Having his rest ruined by Anna felt good. No strumming fool with a guitar could write a song about it, either. She was unique. A hunter, a formidable force. Whatever Jack shared with her was entirely between the two of them.
She stared at him, waiting for an answer.
“Dream I had. Standing on the stage of an opera house, no pants on.”
Her eyes looked up and down. Thoroughly. Seemed they could boil water for coffee with that look. Then she smirked to cool down, with a small nod toward his crotch. “Can see why that’d be funny.”
Last night’s kiss was real, but it didn’t offer an answer, just more questions.
“The kicker in the dream? There was only one person in the audience.” The dream had woken him, and between that and remembering the kiss, it took what seemed like hours to get back to sleep. “You.”
Her smirk disappeared.
He continued, “And you were giving me a standing ovation.”
She kicked through the dead fire, making sure there were no embers. “Definitely a dream.”
Daylight burned brighter. They were already losing time, but he couldn’t help but leisurely eat his small breakfast and watch Anna arrange her gear. The other women he’d known lately readied themselves in the morning with ribbons and lace.
Anna double-checked her pistol, straightened the knife in her boot.
After securing her bundled cape to her trike, she pulled her rifle, made sure it was loaded and the sights were clean, then replaced it in the scabbard. “You ready to roll?”
He took off his coat and bundled it with the slicker. “I never rode with a partner.”
She looked up from attending to her trike’s engine. Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. He knew exactly where she stood. Something needed puzzling out and she couldn’t find the first step. “We ain’t partners.”
Fair enough. “Ever ride with anyone?” They both knew what he meant.
“Not anyone who didn’t end up in shackles.” She sounded as cold as steel chain.
The path to his cycle took him right by her. Was last night a flash in the pan?
She adjusted the choke on her trike, grabbed her starter cable. As he passed she paused, straightened her posture. He slowed his pace. She faced him, turning as he went by. No, the charge wasn’t dying. The hunger remained in her eyes, on her lips and, goddamn, he felt it, too.
But this wasn’t the time or place. She’d corked that bottle last night. He kept walking. The cold engine turned but didn’t start with her first pull. A rumbling hum filled the area with her second try.
“Don’t leave without me.” He quickened his pace up the path.
Standing next to the trike, she turned the throttle to warm the engine. “Keep up.”
Progressing forward, the trees obscured his view of her as he glanced over his shoulder. A glimpse of her securing her goggles, her hat. Tightening down all her gear. She stalked off to some bushes for privacy and he stopped looking.
He took advantage of his own solitude to relieve himself of the morning, then found his cycle. Everything was trim and efficient. It only took a second to secure his coat and saddlebag. The engine turned over on the first try. No roads to this area, so he extended the ether tanks before mounting. The catalyst buzzed and the cycle rose under him. Cool air washed over his face. He pulled on his goggles, tugged his hat low. There’d be no dust up here, so he kept the bandanna around his neck.
After leaving the trees below, the hazy mountains and horizon stretched out around him. The coastline staggered north toward San Francisco. Cutting through the fog, Anna rose up on her trike to ride abreast.
“I’m not getting anything from the detection device.” The goggles obscured her brilliant blue eyes. He missed seeing their sharp edge.
“No signs. But there are plenty of places to hide.” The mountains to the east or the rocky bluffs at the ocean had hidden plenty of fugitives. He’d found a lot of them. Anna had taken care of the rest.
She nodded to the north. “San Francisco?”
“All the way.”
They opened up their throttles, cutting a path through the fog together.
He hadn’t lied to her. He’d never ridden with a partner, not even for a small stretch. People on the trail either sped up or slowed down to avoid him. Striking up a conversation in a saloon was easy; people didn’t want to leave a barroom. But there’d been no one to pass the time with during the miles and hours of travel.
A line of pelicans slipped below him and Anna. She watched the birds until the dwindling mist obscured them.
Because the engines were only turning the propeller fans, he could easily speak over their hum. “I started my career taking bounties on foot.”
“Same here. Put my money into guns. Bought a better piece with each job.”
“They teach you how to shoot at the orphanage?”
She smiled at the thought. “Learned on the job. You?”
“Fighting our way out of the South. I collected a lot of experience until we were north. Even then, too.” There wasn’t much welcome for a black family traveling through towns and neighborhoods looking for a new home.
The goggles obscured her eyes, but he felt her gaze. “Far as I’ve seen, people ain’t nice.”
“No, they ain’t.” Flying two hundred feet over the ground was incredible, but if they’d been on horses, he could’ve walked his close to hers, glancing his thigh against hers. “But you might change my mind.” If he wasn’t wearing goggles, he would’ve winked.
“I’ve never been accused of being nice.”
“Well, you’re certainly easy to ride next to.” Last night still shook him. That bubble of light in the dark, just the two of them. The kiss. That couldn’t be the end.
She didn’t give him a clue. “My first horse came from a bounty. That thief didn’t need it where he was going.”
“After I had my hand and a good gun, I bought a horse. I was nineteen years old. The rancher looked at me like I was crazy from sunstroke. Should’ve seen his eyes when I pulled out my wad of federal currency.” Jack laughed, still remembering how the man’s thin lips quivered. “Peeled off one bill for him and left with a fine piece of flesh.”
The warming day had burned off most of the fog. Only patches of clouds dissipated as Jack and Anna flew through them.
“I’ll admit,” she said, “I miss having a beast to talk to. But I don’t miss going that slow.” Her engine roared a little louder and she pulled ahead.
He pushed his cycle to catch up, revving high for show. “Tetrol giveth, tetrol taketh away.” Letting the throttle go, he held up his half-mechanical hand.
Instead of outpacing him, she slowed, staying at his side. He gripped the throttle so they didn’t lose too much speed.
“If it weren’t for the inventers and tinkerers out there, I wouldn’t have this hand. But they’re not all as skilled as they think they are. You seen them paintings in saloons, where something doesn’t look quite right?”
“Usually it’s the women. Breasts too big, too high.”
“But a bad painting’s just hard on the eyes and might even distract you from the rotgut. A bad machine—a bad ore separator in a mine, for example—is a mite more dangerous. Parts get jammed, metal eats away at itself, then spits out the shards.” There had been blood before the pain. Shock had hollowed him out, completely cold. The pain had come later when the doc cleaned up what remained of his hand and sewed it shut.
“I can’t imagine.”
“I bet you can. Seems you’ve lost plenty and made yourself again.”
“Seems so.” She spoke quietly, almost to herself. But his hearing was good. He w
asn’t going to miss a thing from her.
Quiet surrounded them. Land and sea passed beneath them. The sky seemed eternal. Wind tugged at his sleeves, but it couldn’t hold him back. He rode north with Anna at his side. Two hunters on the scent of prey they didn’t understand.
Freighter ships dotted the ocean, moving up and down the coast. Some had sails, others streamed black coal smoke and white steam vents. Ironclads were out there, too, pushed by side wheels powered by the latest tetrol engines. He’d never ridden on one of those. No appeal to be in a vehicle he didn’t control.
A dark shape cut through the air to the east. Both Jack and Anna drew their pistols and turned to face the threat. They instinctually staggered their rides, giving each a clear shot. Jack sighed and holstered his gun when he saw the shape was a three-car Sky Train.
The inventors got something right with that marvel. Each car had four ether tanks along the roof edge, just above the windows. The front engine had three huge propeller fans, the largest on top, as tall as a man. The smaller fans on the sides had louvers for steering. Slow and steady, it headed north, probably to San Francisco.
Jack turned back to Anna as she holstered her pistol. She tapped the front pocket of her shirt with relief. “For a second I thought it was that Man O’ Weasel coming back, but the device didn’t say anything.”
“She’s just a passenger wagon.” Each window was filled with a tiny silhouette. “Maybe a mail run in there.”
“That one’s army.” She pointed and he followed her finger.
Incredible. She had the eyes of a sky predator. It took him a second to make out the shape of the Sky Train in the distance. She was right. Four cars long. An engine at the front, a cannon car with a swivel gun second. The next two cars were armored wood with ether-powered Gatling guns and rifle slots. The whole beast arced up, probably from Fort Vantage.
“Heading east. To the front.”
She spoke to the distant train. “Drive those Hapsburgs out.” Her snarl gave him wicked thoughts. “Just leave that one Man O’ War to us.”
