The door opened. “Mr. Handleston, please, come in.” Sam stepped back as the pair entered. She still wore the men’s shirt and denim pants, but the leather coat fell open, allowing Jon to see a whisper of fair skin around her neck. “Gil, we have some trash that needs to go to the disposal area. Please see to it.”
The young boy nodded before disappearing into a back room.
Jon frowned. “Disposal area?”
“There’s a pit just outside of town that we send our garbage to.” She brushed a blonde strand of hair out of her eyes, tucking it back into her ponytail, which she then pushed inside her shirt, over her left shoulder. “The Town Council has it set afire every few weeks or so to get rid of the material. We have it taken out through the back door into the alley. We’re not allowed to parade our trash through the main street, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Jon repeated. “And I assume Gil gets paid a respectable amount for the task?”
She stopped walking. Turning towards him, Sam crossed her arms. “We take care of him, Mr. Handleston. Which is more than the town does on their best days.”
Jon held up his hands in mock surrender. “Please, Miss Weatherly, I meant no offense. I was just curious as to the arrangement you had with the boy. He’s enthusiastic to a fault, that is sure. I’m becoming quite attached to the rascal, to be honest.”
Her gaze softened. “We help him out, as much as he’ll let us. He gets a lot of teasing in school, so he doesn’t go as often as he should. But we’re keeping him off the street and out of trouble.” She shook her head. “As in the larger cities, there are criminal organizations that employ children. We do what we can to keep Gil clear of them.”
He nodded. “He’s a fine lad.” Jon looked skyward, his eyes stopping at the thick wooden beams overhead. “Just keep him out of the military. He deserves better.”
“Yes. Yes, he does.” Sam motioned with her hand. “If you please, then?”
Jon walked back to the workshop area, noticing that the metal equine was still in a state of disassemble in the far corner. Gears and springs spread out across the worktable, a set of shiny new cogs piled up neatly in the center. The head of the beast glared at him, daring him to compete with Samantha Weatherly for attention.
Jake walked out from a back room, a ceramic mug of coffee in his hand. The older Weatherly looked tired but still managed a smile. “Good morning,” he said to Jon. “I apologize if we interrupted your breakfast.” He sat at the worktable nearest to Jon, shifting his weight on the wooden stool. “Pardon my bad manners, but I’ve got work to do and can’t spare time to chat. Sam here will take care of you. Call me if you have any problems.” Jake turned partially away from Jon, picking up a clean gear. Leaning in, he began inspecting the small teeth, squinting at the minute cogwheel.
Jon moved to stand beside Sam at the opposite end of the room. “Is…is he going to work on that…thing? By himself?” he asked. The worktable was covered with blueprints, the thick pencil drawings covering the dingy white paper.
“He’ll be fine.” Sam shrugged off the heavy leather work coat and draped it over the office chair. She gave a shake, causing the oversized white shirt to ripple over her figure and the slight gap at the collar to open even more.
Jon pulled his eyes away from the enticing shadows and glanced back at Jake. “Are you sure? I mean, the thing ripped his arm off…” he said in a low whisper. The words trailed off as Sam focused her full attention on him. Her blue eyes locked with his.
“My father did not have his arm ripped off, for the record. What did happen was that he caught it in a series of gears that chewed it up so badly that they had to amputate because of the risk of infection. There really wasn’t any other option. Gil may have a more…colorful description of his injury, but that’s boys for you. And without both of us working, the business fails. And that’s the last we’ll talk about it, Mr. Handleston, please.” She undid the buttons at the cuffs, rolling up the shirt sleeves and bunching them at the elbows. “I need your apparatus again, if you don’t mind.”
Clearing his throat with a loud cough, Jon slowly disrobed. The cool air hit his skin with a rush, raising goose bumps along his exposed flesh until the answering heat of the nearby fireplace displaced the chill. The final piece of clothing was the white cotton shirt, which he carefully folded and laid atop the pile on the chair. Leaning forward, he placed his right hand palm up on the table, anchoring it for the unfastening process.
The metal frame stretched and bent as he moved. The copper bands flexed under the muscles as he undid the clips at his elbow and wrist, flipping them loose. Last to go, the leather strap running across his bare chest and over his back, the buckle leaving a red mark just over his heart. He flinched once as the well-worn leather slipped away from his left side, rubbing against the chafed skin under his left arm, then moved free of the mechanism, leaving the skeleton on the table. Jon took a step back. It was almost like pulling an internal organ out, revealing it to the world and exposing it to danger. His pulse raced for a second, then calmed. There was no peril here. Jon glanced at Sam, his pulse climbing again but for a very different reason.
Sam watched in silence. Her eyes were wide with delight and anticipation as she studied the device, momentarily ignoring the half-naked man standing beside her. It was a marvel of modern engineering and it was likely that only a handful of engineers could repair it. Only a handful would even consider trying.
A handful that she was determined to expand by one woman.
Her attention darted from the metallic wonder to the sleek, lean muscles of his arms then up to the lightly furred chest. A lone bead of nervous sweat rolled down his collarbone, sliding south over tense muscles before curling around his midriff. She winced at the red, raw skin under his arm, the buckle indentation on his chest.
“Miss Weatherly?” His right eyebrow rose, a questioning look. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes.” Clearing her throat, she turned back to the prosthetic brace and away from his naked skin.
“I can fit a small spring in here, cut from a larger piece, but I’ll have to experiment with different metal plugs to keep it in.”
Jon looked down at his bare skin, the useless hand limp and dangling at the end of his arm. “How long will it take?”
“Probably three, four hours at the least.” She tried to not stare at his long, slender fingers, the nails neatly manicured and not a hint of dirt on the soft white skin. Instinctively she compared them to her own leathered skin, the fingertips permanently stained with various oils and liquids, and inwardly grimaced. He was probably used to women with alabaster skin, pale and soft, who smelt of delicate flowers, not calloused, weathered skin with the aroma of machine oil. “I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do. It’s a delicate job and I can’t really rush it.”
Jon smiled. “Please. I’m thrilled that you can help me at all.” He reached for his shirt and shrugged back into the thin fabric, struggling slightly with the unresponsive right hand. “I have to admit that I was surprised that Prosperity Ridge had such highly trained people available. Where did you go to school?”
She resisted the urge to grab the flopping edges of his sleeve and help him pull it on. “Technically, I haven’t.” Sam moved the brace to the center of the table, forcing her attention away from Jon. “I graduated from high school.”
“Just high school?” Jon sputtered. “And now you’re an engineer?” He stopped struggling with the shirt.
“Well, this is a new era and a new country, Mr. Handleston.” She smiled, leaning over and examining the brace yet again. “My father encouraged my mechanical enthusiasm at an early age. And he actually has a degree, if that will alleviate your nervousness any. He oversees all of my projects from beginning to finish.” She recited the words as she had to other nervous clients. There was no point in telling them that almost every time her father had supported her decisions without question.
He finished dressing, pulling down the edges of his
waistcoat with his good hand. “Well, your knowledge is my gain. I didn’t want to leave this tournament if at all possible, and Gil gave you a glowing recommendation.”
“Well, he is one of our best salesmen.” She chuckled. “Which is why he hangs around the train station. Too many people come off the trains or airships and find out they’ve lost or broken something.”
Sam paused, cradling the delicate metal skeleton fingers in her hands. “If I may be so bold to ask, why do you gamble? It’s obvious to me that you come from a family who either has money or had money, if they could afford this device. Why waste your life playing cards? Isn’t there something better for you to do with your time, some sort of higher calling?”
“Everyone has a reason for what they do and the paths they choose.” Jon moved closer. “Some less clear than others.” He cleared his throat. “So you don’t think I’m a despicable, cheating gambler?” There was a hopeful lilt to his voice, as if he cared about what she thought of him.
Chapter Nine
Sam closed her eyes, standing as still as she could. Finally she heard a light creak of the floorboards nearby, signaling Jon’s retreat out of her personal space. She opened her eyes to see that he had, indeed, moved off to one side.
Exhaling slowly, she picked up a small magnifying glass and moved in to examine the miniscule chamber. “No, Mr. Handleston, because I am a fine judge of character. And I find you to be an interesting fellow, despite yourself.” Her cheeks burned with each word, her attempt to be stoic falling away under his intent gaze. Her pulse began racing with more than just excitement for the delicate creation under her fingers.
“It’s not a very exciting story, you know. Nothing about saving damsels in distress or grabbing the company colors and dashing for the high ground, or leading the charge against the overwhelming enemy forces.” His good hand landed on her right shoulder, sending a tremor through her body. “Not very dramatic, really.”
She smiled, not caring if he saw it or not. “That’s all right. I’m fine with a less dramatic life.” Sam gave a sideways glance to the other workbench. Her father clutched a dirty rag between his fingers, fumbling with a pair of gears.
Jon closed his eyes. “It’s a debt of honor.” The words were said quietly, without fanfare. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Oh.” Sam couldn’t hide the note of disapproval in her voice.
The fingers stiffened on her shoulder, working through the shirt with a flaring heat that threatened to leave burn marks on her skin. “You don’t think much of honor?”
Her eyes remained glued on the delicate parts under her control. “I don’t think much of anything that leads men to kill each other.”
“Hmm.”
The heavy silence lasted a minute before she spoke. “I mean, I don’t like men killing each other over anything. We saw enough of that during the war, and even now there are duels in the streets at times. Mrs.
Kettishire lost her husband over one of these ‘honor’ duels. Drunken idiot in a saloon mentioned something about her pies, her husband challenges him, the drunk turns out to be an expert shot with war medals.” Her fingers tightened on the copper elbow joint, turning it from side to side. “Now she has naught to warm her bed at night but her honor. A poor exchange.”
Jon dropped his hand to his side, moving away again. “A man’s honor is everything to him. Without it, he cannot survive.” His tone grated on her ears. She’d heard this silliness before, when the recruiters came into town to entice young boys and men into the military.
“Pardon me, sir, but that sort of talk is what led to so many deaths on the battlefield. At Gettysburg, at Antietam.” Her voice rose slightly, leading to a concerned glance from her father seated across the room.
Sam reached for a glass of water perched precariously on the table. She took a deep swallow of the cool liquid, using the time to calm herself.
“True, men are wont to sometimes do stupid things in the name of honor. And I cannot speak for the rest of my kin when it comes to doing stupid things for vain causes.” Jon spoke softly. He brushed his fingertips across the metal skeleton she held. “But I can tell you that my oath was not made of violence, but of friendship.” He looked away, towards the workshop door and beyond. “It is a debt I must repay before moving on with my life.” The pain in his words jabbed at her like the grinding of a misaligned gear.
Sam nodded, not daring to look up from the table and the prosthetic. If she did, if she looked into those deep blue eyes and saw the ache, she might not be able to stand her ground. “I understand that much.
And I do apologize for my sharp words, but you did ask.” She drew a deep breath, forcing herself to shift back into a professional businesswoman. “I’m afraid that I must deprive you of your brace for a few hours.
Will you be able to function without it?”
“I suspected as much, which is why I got dressed. I survived before I received it. I shall again.
Whatever it takes to get it repaired, I give you full permission to do.” A slight smile touched his lips.
“Maybe I’ll ask Gil to give me a tour of the town.”
“Then you’ll know all the worst places in Prosperity Ridge.” She kept speaking, the words rolling out of her mouth before she could catch them. “I’d be willing to show you the sights, Mr. Handleston. I can assure you that it’d be a better deal than Gil’s. And it’ll give me a chance to make amends for my rough tone with you earlier.”
“Please, call me Jon.” His hand swooped down, taking hers gently from the metal brace and drawing it up for a gentlemanly kiss. His lips brushed over the back of her oil-stained hand. “After all, you’ve already undressed me a number of times.” He looked up, a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. “And as for rough, now…”
Sam chuckled, extracting her hand. “Well played, sir, well played. Now off with you. I have work to do before any such tour can be conducted,” she chided. “Go now, shoo.” Sam flapped her hands in the air.
“Shoo!”
Jon laughed and took a step backwards. With a wide smirk, he bowed to her and spun around, out of her line of sight.
She listened to his footsteps retreating from her workspace. The door hinges squeaked as it swung closed behind him, letting in a gust of cool morning air that whipped around her feet bringing with it the smell of soot. Letting her breath out slowly, Sam returned to her study of the fine wires and springs. Now was not the time to dwell on other things, more personal things, like how Jon Handleston was a truly interesting man, and someone she’d never quite seen the likes of here in Prosperity Ridge.
The door screamed again, prompting the two Weatherlys to turn around on their respective chairs.
Sam started to speak, ready to snap at Mr. Handleston for his speedy return and tell him that she could not work on his device if the man persisted in hovering over her at every turn. She fell silent, seeing the stranger silhouetted in the doorway.
The man was dressed mostly in black, a trace of gold on his waistcoat that sparkled in the morning light. He filled out the jacket to the point of almost needing another size up, his belly threatening to push free of the bottom buttons. The top hat was a plain one, but Sam knew from her frequent visits to the shops that it was an expensive one, made more so by the lack of ornamentation. Another blast of chilly air touched her skin, raising goose bumps.
“Hello.” The tall man tipped his hat to her father. “My name is Victor Morton and I have an offer I’d like to discuss with you.”
Without invitation the man strode into the workshop, swinging an ebony cane capped with what appeared to be an eagle’s head covered in faux gold. He slammed the door shut behind him. “As I said, I have an offer for you.”
Sam’s gaze darted to the chain tucked in the black and gold waistcoat and the lump hidden in the fabric. It could be a watch or it could be a small pistol. She’d heard tales of derringers and pepper-pot revolvers so small that they barely garnered notice. Until they blew a ho
le in someone, that is.
Her father hopped off the stool. He grabbed a large wrench off the small cart next to his workbench.
“I don’t believe I invited you in, sir.” He strode towards the stranger, halting only a few feet from the robust man. “Even out here on the frontier, we have manners.” The steel bar pointed at the door. “Out.”
Morton held up one hand, a shocked look on his face. “Sir, please. I found the door unlocked and assumed that it was perfectly fine to walk in. Please forgive my error.” His eyes narrowed as he spotted Sam. “I come in peace.”
Sam moved to stand beside her father, wiping her hands with a rag. “Father.” She nodded towards the stranger. “We should hear him out.” Her eyes locked with Victor’s. “It would be good manners, after all.
And good business.”
Her father let out a snort, shaking his head. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr…Morton, is it?”
“Yes.” The man dropped his hands and offered a handshake, clutching the cane in his right hand.
“Again, my apologies.”
After handing the wrench to Sam, her father managed an awkward exchange. “We’re not used to having a lot of company,” he mumbled in response.
Sam stepped forward. “May I ask the reason for your visit?” She studied the man. Well-dressed, from the jacket down to the matching pants, the salt-and-pepper beard and hair neatly groomed. Even his fingernails were cut and trimmed, the sign of a gentleman. A shiver ran up her spine as she recognized who Morton reminded her of. Jon Handleston.
The appearance of two professional gamblers in the Weatherly workshop within minutes of each other could not be mere coincidence.
“I have come to discuss Mr. Handleston and his dealings with you.” Victor scratched his chin. “It has come to my attention that his…item is in this workshop for repair.”
Wild Cards and Iron Horses Page 8
