“Thank you,” Jon said, trying to dampen the burning in his face.
Jake pulled up one of the few stools and sat down with a wheezing noise. He watched Jon pull on his shirt, the loose sleeves flopping around over the brace. “A fine piece of craftsmanship, it is. Must have cost a pretty penny.”
Jon continued to dress. He fumbled with the buttons. “My father was a very determined man. He decided to do what he thought was best.”
“Ah. And a rich one.” Jake coughed, pulling out a dirty handkerchief to cover his mouth. “Pardon me.” He turned his head to one side and spat towards the fire, the saliva popping from the heat as it landed near the stone hearth. “British, yes?”
Jon adjusted the sleeves on his jacket with sharp tugs. The gloves were back on his hands, hiding his deformity. “Yes, sir. London, to be precise.”
“Hmph.” The older man wiped his mouth. He folded the grey fabric into a neat, tidy square and put it back in his pocket. “And what brings you to Prosperity Ridge? Not a whole lot of England out here.”
“Father…” Coming from the petite woman, the warning tone startled Jon. She advanced on the pair.
“Leave our customer alone. His personal business is exactly that, his business.” She turned her attention away from her father, back to Jon. “Give me one or two days to see what I can come up with.”
His right eyebrow arched sharply. “One or two days?” The competition would be over or nearly over by then. And without his hand up to full strength, Jon doubted he could accomplish his task.
“Yes, two days.” Her right hand shot up before he could respond. “And don’t even ask me the cost right now. I’ll draw you up a receipt after we figure out whether we can modify a spring or whatever. I don’t like to give estimates because they always tend to undercut our costs and we are not running a charity here.” Stepping over to another desk, Sam pulled out a fresh, clean sheet of paper from a tray underneath the table. Placing it on the surface, she smoothed out the wrinkles. “Now, please—the broken spring. It’ll make it easier for me to find or make your replacement.”
After gently drawing the fabric bundle from his pocket, Jon retrieved the two pieces and placed them on the blank page in front of her, then pocketed the handkerchief again. “I’m staying at Mrs. McGuire’s rooming house, if you need to contact me.”
She waved him away, eyes on the small spring. A pencil appeared in her hand, scribbling madly on the empty paper. “Thank you.”
Jon felt a tugging at his sleeve. Turning his head, he saw Jake smiling at him. “Best to leave her be.
Come on.” The old man led him to another workbench where the remains of an old grandfather clock were spread across the scarred and burnt wood. The gears and springs were laid out with precision, the mechanical autopsy almost beautiful in the presentation.
“When she gets an idea in her mind, she grabs onto it like one of your old English bulldogs. Shakes it, twists it, and then comes up with something that I’d never think of. It’s part of what makes her so good at what she does.” A small door on the wall opened to reveal a bottle of whiskey, or what appeared to be whiskey—there was no label. Without asking, Jake pulled out two relatively clean shot glasses and placed them on the table. After wrenching the cork out of the narrow opening of the bottle with his one good hand, he filled the glasses with the amber liquid. He motioned for Jon to sit on the stool opposite his, pushing the glass across the bumpy surface.
“Are you here for the tournament, then?”
“Yes.” Jon knew that lying wasn’t an option.
“And you cheat using this apparatus?” The question was asked in a monotone, as if he was used to dealing with this sort of behavior all the time. Jon resisted the urge to match the man’s knowing smile.
“No.” He took a sip of the whiskey. Clenching his jaw tight, Jon tried not to flinch as the alcohol burned down his throat. “I don’t cheat.”
“An honest gambler? That would make you rarer than that equimech over there.” Jake gestured towards the iron horse in the corner. He downed the contents of his own glass in a single gulp before refilling both glasses. “I’m asking you directly, man to man, because I don’t want us to be involved if that thing’s helping you cheat. We don’t need the work that badly.” Jake gave a quick glance towards his daughter drawing across the paper, the pencil flying off in different directions as the pictures took shape.
“We live here. This is our livelihood. You can just move on.” He took another sip of whiskey. “People tend to hold grudges for a long time out here. Especially over money. Sam, there, she doesn’t care. She just wants to build and repair things. Me, I worry about the world out there.” He stared at Jon. “And you and I know how cruel the world can be, especially on those who cheat. In more than just cards.”
Jon nodded, holding the shot glass in his left hand. “I understand. And on my honor as a gentleman, I promise you that the brace does nothing other than help me control my hand and fingers, letting me hold the cards. There’s nothing else special about it. Your own daughter took a look.” He grinned. “I don’t think she’d let much get by her.”
“That is true.” Finishing up his drink, he reached over and plucked the shot glass from Jon’s fingers.
He downed the remaining liquid before speaking. “‘As a gentleman’. Don’t hear that much around here.
I’m just warning you.” Jake glanced at the gloved fingers and then at his own sleeve still neatly pinned to the leather coat. “In regards to your arm—I’m not sure if I should envy you or pity you.” His hand rose to scratch the tip of his nose, the thick pudgy fingers stained dark with unknown chemicals.
Before Jon could answer, Jake got to his feet. He placed the bottle and glasses back into the cupboard, pushing them into the alcove and shutting the door. “I’ll send the boy around when we’re ready to see you for a fitting. No use leaving the brace here right now. You might as well keep using it until we need to see it again.” He laughed. “Gil’s a good one, but don’t leave your coins unguarded. Just saying.”
“Thank you.” Jon gave a hesitant nod towards the woman, who sat hunched over the table. She remained oblivious to his presence, muttering to herself. “Good day.” Walking to the door, Jon turned one last time to see the two engineers. Jake stood at Sam’s side, shaking his head as he pointed out details on her paper. His fingers scraped across the rough page, smearing a line. In response Samantha shook her head. She started tapping the edge of the pencil so hard that it punched through the page. Jon turned away, smiling as he took a deep breath of the clear air just as he had done upon leaving the rooming house. He opened the door and walked out into the street.
Samantha hardly noticed the man leaving, her attention on the carbon lines now crisscrossing the coarse paper. True, the time factor made it impossible to send for a replacement, but she could possibly adapt one of the coils from the hind end of the steam horse. Perhaps the gear shifter could spare one for the time being since it wasn’t really doing anything and was part of the backup system that was redundant, in her opinion, and totally unnecessary other than a reason to charge more.
“You need to be more careful.” Her father settled onto the stool. He rapped his knuckles on the tabletop to break her concentration, as was his routine. “Stripping our customers bare may not be the best way to keep our business.”
Sam glanced sideways. “And what business would that be, Father?” She pointed the pencil in her right hand at the copper-colored beast standing in the shadows. “You and I both know that it’s only a matter of time before we, ourselves, are replaced.” The blunt pencil tip returned to the paper, grinding across the page. “The stagecoach owners wouldn’t want just anyone working on their creatures. There’ll be engineers coming from the East, specialists in their top hats and fancy degrees. They won’t want self-trained people, especially women, working on their lovelies. They’ll look at our repair job and find it inadequate even though what we’re doing makes it more efficie
nt. You’ve heard the rumors, the larger shops putting in bids for the maintenance and repair of these beasts. They won’t want the smaller stops, like Prosperity Ridge, to get any business.” She spat the words out as if they were poison. “Right now, any work is good work.”
“True.” Her father leaned back in the chair, reaching into one pocket for his tobacco pouch. “But you don’t have to undress the poor boy like that. I’m sure he’s got plenty of women at the poker games that’ll do it for him with a gentler touch.”
“A gambler. What a waste.” Sam huffed, scribbling heavily over one section and blacking it out. “I’m not totally blind to the outside world, Father. He should get a real job. Honest work that’ll turn those soft hands into something worthwhile.” Her mind, unbidden, ran back over her inspection of Jon Handleston’s crippled body. Soft, supple skin that had probably been washed with dainty soaps and perfumed water since birth, probably never lifted more than a silver spoon to his mouth, to those lips that would be…
“Then why did you agree to fix it?”
Sam snapped back into reality with a thud that she swore her father could hear. “Because we need the money.”
“Ah.” After unrolling the pouch with his one hand, he dug inside. He slipped a wad of tobacco into his mouth, pressing it into his cheek. “That’s good. I’d hate to think that you liked the fellow and all. The way you were pawing him over, it was sort of frightening me. Made me think about you going out courting.” Her father folded up the supple leather, wrestling with the small sinews to tie it shut.
“Father!” Her face went scarlet. She leaned over the desk, attempting to focus on the drawing. “It was merely professional curiosity. You don’t find handiwork like that every day. I found it very stimulating.
Mentally. From a professional point of view, you know.” Sam stammered through the last sentence, feeling the burning in her cheeks.
“True,” he replied, “very true.” The tobacco pouch went back into his pocket.
“I hope he finds his way back to Mary’s place without getting too lost,” Sam murmured, almost too low for her father to hear. “Be a shame to do all this work and never see the man again.”
Chapter Four
There was no sign of Gil on the way back to the hotel. Jon stumbled along, the handkerchief providing little help as he walked through the thick, choking smoke. He glanced at the crumpled map every few minutes despite its uselessness, before finally stuffing it into his pocket. He didn’t dare go back into the dark alleys even though he was armed. The last thing he needed was to start a brawl with some ruffian looking for a fight.
A horseless carriage rumbled by. Standing on the wooden sidewalk, Jon watched the vehicle twist and turn down the street, a small group of street kids running behind it. The smoke cloud expelled from the back of the carriage merged with the hovering cloud over the town. It gave the scene an eerie ghostly visage as the small crowd vanished from sight.
A glance at the street sign indicated that he was, indeed, headed in the right direction, albeit at a much slower pace than on the way out. He sucked in another breath through his handkerchief, fighting back the urge to cough.
Prosperity Ridge, for all intents and purposes, was well on its way to becoming a successful Western town far ahead of schedule, from what Jon could see. The railroad was in place, the postal service already expanding in order to deal with the extra parcels and luggage being sent both to the town and forward into the unsettled West, and the stagecoaches were shuffling their schedules to meet an ever-increasing demand.
Jon walked by the new post office under construction, a temporary sign advertising the renovation of the adjacent buildings to become larger, finer places of business. He ultimately gave up trying to filter the air, folding the handkerchief up and tucking it into his pocket. It wasn’t so bad, really, once you got used to the idea of breathing soot. In some ways, it was just like home. Including the pickpockets he saw eyeing him, looking for a chance to grab his money.
A half-hour later, after having to retrace his steps three times, he walked in the front door of the bed and breakfast. Mrs. McGuire’s front carpet’s original color might have been green, but it was long gone under the smudges and sooty footprints of hundreds of visitors, the only indication that the outside world was anything but as spotless as the interior of her business. Jon added his own contribution, shuffling his feet back and forth. The scrubber in the corner groaned under the intrusion, chugging away.
Mrs. McGuire popped out of the kitchen into the hallway, wiping her hands on an apron. “Oh, Mr. Handleston. I was wondering where you were.” Her gaze darted to the closed door. “Thank you for shutting the door so quickly. There’s always someone who figures that the air’ll clean itself, and I’m not planning to filter the entire town.”
“I do my best.” Jon smiled, stepping off the mat. “Good day.” He moved towards the stairs, climbing them as quickly as he could. His chest ached and he felt nauseous. At least he’d have a little time to clean up and hopefully cleanse his lungs before he had to venture out again into that vile air.
“Don’t be late for dinner,” Mrs. McGuire called. “I don’t keep extra food around for stragglers.”
After closing the door, Jon stripped down again. It wasn’t necessary, but he needed to inspect his brace just to make sure everything was fine. It wasn’t likely that this Weatherly woman had damaged it during her inspection, but he couldn’t afford to let it go without checking to make sure the connections were secure and the framework in perfect shape. The buckle gave way easily, the leather strap going loose around his chest. After pulling his arm free, he placed the prosthetic on the bed atop the thin quilt.
He withdrew a small box from his well-worn valise. The box unfolded to reveal a series of small vials, all safely ensconced in padded slots. Jon placed it on the night table beside the bed. Sitting down, he began a self-inspection. The daily routine had been drilled into him by the doctors, the surgeons and nurses pointing out that his biggest risk was infection from parts of the metal and leather implement scratching and digging into his skin. He winced, poking at one dry spot just under the belt buckle on his chest. The skin was rough there, almost to the point of breaking open. Reaching into the box, Jon chose a small squat cylinder. He flipped the lid up and dipped his index finger into the lavender-scented mixture. A dab of cream went onto the inflamed area, rubbed in with gentle circles.
Not all of the vials held lotion. Some held special oils, specifically mixed to anoint the leather parts of his brace. Father had insisted on nothing but the most expensive ointments to keep everything in fine working condition.
Maybe keeping his hand had been the wrong decision. But he hadn’t been able to stand up to his father at the time, demand that he be treated like the other poor bastards lying in the medical tent, screaming for help while the doctors sawed off their hands and legs without any anesthesia. Instead he had been attended to by some officer’s personal physician, taken away from the common soldiers lying and dying and bleeding on the wooden tables.
Jon shuddered. He hadn’t been able to get the smell of blood and gunpowder out of his nose for weeks, not even after the trip back home and the thick smog of London filled his mouth and throat. While his father had bragged and raved about the brave deeds of the soldiers they had camped with, Jon had remained silent.
After closing up the container, he put it back into his suitcase. A push with his foot sent it under the bed, out of sight. It only took him a few minutes to slip his arm back into the brace and a few more to tighten the leather strap.
He studied his right hand. It twisted up into a fist on his command, the little finger hanging off to the side, limp and unresponsive. He stared at it, willing the finger to break free of the enticing metal grasp and rebel. Jon ordered it to curl up with the other fingers and make him a whole man once again, to make the prosthetic the true useless appendage.
It lay there cradled in the copper and iron, impotent.
Jon glared at the finger until sweat dotted his forehead. All the finger had to do was move an inch, half an inch, a quarter of an inch, just enough to show some sign of independence.
Ten minutes later he let out a sigh. He pulled his shirt back on, leaving the buttons undone and the tails flopping onto his lap. Every night he performed the same routine, rotating through all of his fingers to give each digit the chance to rise up and be free. And every night so far he suffered the same result.
He wasn’t a religious man, but sometimes Jon thought that perhaps there was something in that bit about the sins of the fathers being visited on the sons.
But mulling over old mental arguments wasn’t about to get the job done here in Prosperity Ridge. Jon shook his head and started his next routine before he began to think too much about the beautiful Samantha Weatherly and her lovely hands, weathered from a lifetime of hard labor, tracing circles over his bare skin.
If he had to have anyone rub lotion into his aching muscles and chapped skin, it would be her.
Jon extracted a well-worn deck of cards from his suitcase and pushed the battered luggage back out of sight. He sat at the small desk. He could have stayed at the saloon where the tournament was held, Deadeye’s Dodge. But he’d wanted to stay elsewhere, away from prying eyes and questions about him and his disability.
The Ridge Rocket Stakes wasn’t the biggest poker tourney he’d been to, but the one he felt he had the best odds of walking away with the entire pot. And, if nothing else, being a professional poker player was all about getting the odds in your favor as much as possible, legally.
Lifting the slender cards in his left hand, he began to shuffle them single-handed. The well-worn cardboard squares slid together, mixing well without resistance. His right hand lay on the table, waiting palm-up for a command. He tossed down the first five cards and flipped them over.
Wild Cards and Iron Horses Page 4
