“Yes.” Sam spoke first. “I’m working on it right now. Not that it’s any of your business.” There was no use in lying. The gossip train in town ran faster than the airships hovering over them. Not to mention that it lay a scant twenty feet from where they stood. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to race over and cover the brace with a cloth, her body, anything to protect it from this man who seemed like Jon’s evil doppelganger.
“Yes, well…I have come to discuss terms with you, then, regarding his prosthetic and the technology therein.” Morton licked his lips. “Have you discovered anything odd, shall we say, about the harness?”
“It’s a fine piece of work and one we’re happy to be taking care of,” her father announced. He glanced at Sam before continuing. “Our business with Mr. Handleston is our business, and none of yours.”
Morton gripped the cane tightly, his knuckles going white. He pressed his lips together for a long minute before he spoke, the thin lips curling back to expose tobacco-stained teeth. “Sir, I respect your professionalism and your devotion to your client. However, I am willing to compensate you for your knowledge of the prosthetic and perhaps, shall we say, modifying it further?”
Sam frowned. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You want us to break it,” her father snapped back at Morton.
The gambler waved the cane in the air. “Break is a very strong word, Mr. Weatherly.” He let out a melodramatic sigh. “Mr. Handleston is my competition, he has been for many a tournament. I do not believe his claims that he is not cheating. Indeed, I think that his device somehow gives him the upper hand.”
Sam opened her mouth, ready to rebut this intruder’s accusation, and then spotted her father’s hand motion. It was the slightest wave, but it was unmistakably a signal to let the man continue his ramblings.
Oblivious to her reaction, Morton continued to talk, directing his words to her father and ignoring Sam. “I would be willing to pay a pretty penny for it to be removed from the scene. Balance the scales.
Give us all a fair chance against the boy. Surely you don’t want to be known as a town where cheaters do prosper?”
Her father shook his head, his face scarlet. “I don’t know much about where you come from or what sort of people you’ve dealt with in the past, but we do not betray our customers. We are honest, hardworking men and women who do not sell our morals out for a few pieces of gold.”
The side of Morton’s mouth twitched, the white and black whiskers sliding to and fro. He glared at the two engineers, his focus darting between father and daughter.
Sam lifted the wrench in one hand, balancing the heavy metal rod on her shoulder in a less-than-subtle threat. “My father is correct. We will not damage our reputation for your petty grievances. If you wish to settle your dispute with Mr. Handleston, perhaps you should become a better poker player.” She couldn’t help smiling at the last sentence.
The gambler’s nostrils flared wide for a second, the only indication of his temper. “Miss Weatherly, I do not make this offer lightly or without good reason. You would be doing the world a service by smashing that device into a thousand parts and tossing the remains into a smelter.”
“I doubt that,” Sam replied in a low, calm tone. “That device is not only a wonderful piece of engineering, but also a precursor of things to come. There are people around the world who would love to have such a thing and for us to destroy one so rare because of your petty squabble with Jon…” She shook her head. “It is not an option I would consider under any circumstance.”
“Please leave us,” her father said. “Your business here is concluded, sir.”
Another twitch of the whiskers signaled Morton’s response. He glared at her father for a long minute, and then moved his attention to Samantha, who just hefted the wrench higher on her shoulder. Neither Weatherly moved, standing their ground. Sam had dealt with bullies before and so had her father. She knew they were all cowards in the end. Her attention darted to the bulge in the waistcoat, looking for any sign that he would move towards pulling out a weapon.
Finally he took a step backwards towards the door. A forced smile appeared on his face.
“You need some time to think about it, I understand. I’ll be back at the end of the day to see if you’ve changed your mind.” He scratched his chin. “If you know what’s good for you, I’ll find a pile of smashed parts, for which I’ll pay a decent amount, enough to make it worth your while and then some. Tell Handleston whatever story you want, whatever lie you think he’ll believe, but don’t mention my name. Not if you expect to keep doing business in this town. The end of the day.” A brisk nod finished the conversation. Turning his back on the two, Morton stomped towards the door. He grabbed the handle and yanked the door open before strutting into the daylight.
Her father let out a low whistle as the heavy oak door slammed shut. “Well, that was an interesting way to start the day.” He laughed. “Remind me to make that door automatically lock upon closing. That’s long overdue, given the events of the past few days.”
Sam didn’t move, still holding the large metal tool. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She swallowed, coughed, and then cleared her throat with another cough. “I don’t understand. Why would he be that worried about Jon…Mr. Handleston?”
Her father walked over to the door and slid the thick locking bolt home. “Because men are men and we believe that if we lose, it is not because of our own failings, but the fault of someone else.” He gestured towards the worktable where the metal brace lay. “In his mind, there is something about that hand support that enables Mr. Handleston to win over him, and he wants to know what.”
“But there’s nothing there.” Sam shook her head. “There’s nothing at all other than very advanced mechanics, from what I can see. Besides, how could it possibly affect a poker game?”
He took the wrench from her hands and walked over to place it in its proper slot on a wall rack filled with various tools. It slipped easily into the metal bracket beside the larger and smaller versions of itself, completing the set.
“There are many ways to cheat in gambling, Sam. He could be marking the cards with one of the fingers, roughing up the edges. Or maybe he’s using the reflective surface on those bands in some way, something along those lines. I’m no gambler, but I’ve heard of various ways to do these things.” He sat on the stool. Taking a relatively clean rag from his pocket, her father wiped the sweat from his face. “I do know that this Mr. Morton will be trouble.” A calloused finger tapped the side of his nose. “He’s too clean for my liking.”
“Shall I send Gil for the sheriff?” Sam walked over to the water barrel resting on the far table. She twisted the tap to let the cool water fill a steel cup waiting patiently beside it. The pipes gave an annoyed squeal at having to chill yet more water, the refrigeration unit being one of their newest acquisitions. She took a deep drink, cupping the metal mug in both hands before offering it to her father. The cold water helped clear her head.
He waved it off. “I think that may be a good idea. It can’t hurt to tell them to keep an eye on Mr. Morton while this tournament’s going on.” His focus strayed to the brace, which was still on the table.
“Although the decision is yours, of course. If you wish to take the money or not.”
“Father.” The word came out like a curse, sharper than she had intended. “I would never compromise this business by taking money to destroy such a beautiful creation.” After putting the cup back by the water tank, she walked over to the worktable. She picked up the metal skeleton and cradled it in her arms like a baby. “And the work that went into this… I can’t just smash it to bits.”
Her father nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought you’d say. But I had to ask, and you’re sure there’s nothing odd about it?” He touched his temple twice, tapping it with his index finger. “Don’t make the same mistake I made with that beast.” He gestured towards the steel equine, s
till silent in the corner. “Don’t underestimate its power. Or the power of any invention.” The last word came out in a low sigh. Closing his eyes, he fell silent. His head bowed onto his chest, a rattling sigh escaping from his body.
“Father…” Sam put the exoskeleton down, moving to stand by him. “I…” She paused. There was nothing to say, nothing she could say.
“I’m fine, dear.” He patted her hand. “Allow an old man a few minutes every now and then to feel sorry for himself.” She could tell that his grin was forced. “Besides, now we save money on shirts. I’ll just turn them around when I wear out one sleeve.”
Sam let out an exaggerated sigh of annoyance, allowing him to change the mood. “Men.”
“Why, yes…” he chuckled, “…men.” His attention returned to the brace. “But are you sure there’s nothing there? No hidden levers, no switches, anything?”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing about this that makes it special. It’s only a creation, under the power of the man who uses it.” A warm shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the bare skin, the heat radiating off Jon’s hand and arms.
Her father frowned. He picked up a spare spring from the worktable next to him and started to rotate it between his fingers. “Everything has power, Sam. Whether it’s hooked up to an engine or not, everything has power. Everything and everyone.” He put the spring down on his own table, pushing the stack of gears and bars and springs into a small pile. “Now, let’s both of us get back to work before your young Mr. Handleston returns. Gil’ll be back soon enough and then we’ll talk to the sheriff. Until then, we still have to make some money.”
Sam returned to her worktable. Putting on a pair of glasses, she began fiddling with the multiple lenses. It took only a few seconds before finding the proper setting. Picking up a pair of tiny tweezers, she focused on the minute spring, holding her breath as she maneuvered it towards the small opening. An errant thought entered her mind. What did gamblers do for fun, for relaxation? Did they read books or visit museums? Did they study architecture or did they just hang out in saloons, looking for easy prey?
What was Mr. Handleston going to do without his brace? Could he still play? Would he still play, bereft of his device? Was he sitting at a table right now, fumbling with the cards and worried about whether she could repair this brace?
Sam let out a sigh, forcing her attention back onto the task at hand. There was no doubt that a gambler lived to play, and Jon would be challenging himself to see if he could still play and win with his handicap.
The question would be how he managed. And if he succeeded.
Chapter Ten
Jon studied the cards. This casual game was supposed to be nothing more than a dry run, checking out the local competition, seeing who was here and who wasn’t. Give him a chance to warm up, to dismiss the worries about his brace and the allure of Miss Samantha Weatherly from his mind.
It was rapidly turning into a disaster.
David Tannetum was here, the blond, dashing gentleman spending as much time flirting with the girls gathered around the table as he spent studying his cards. Problem was, he wasn’t that good at either and was burning through his family fortune faster than one of those new steamships through the Atlantic waves.
Jon had taken more than his fair share of the man’s money and was grateful every time he sat down across from the eager young man.
Yet Tannetum was winning, and it was more than just a few lucky hands.
Jon studied his cards again. Three jacks. More than enough to take this pot. More than enough to stop the fiscal bleeding.
A minute later, he stared at Tannetum’s hands as they scooped the silver and gold coins away, depleting his own stack almost to the point of irreversible damage.
This was not good. Usually the playboy gave away his hand easily, blinking wildly if he had anything useful after the first draw. An obvious tell, one of the first ones Jon’d learnt and had seen in a hundred faces in a thousand games, usually with new players who couldn’t hide their excitement. Yet he hadn’t been able to win a hand so far despite studying the youngster’s face intently. Either the kid had somehow figured out how he gave away his cards, or Jon just couldn’t see it anymore.
Either option was a potential disaster. If he couldn’t read Tannetum, he’d never make it past the first round of the Ridge Rocket Stakes.
Harry “Doggie” Drummond puffed on his cigar. “You’re having a rough time of it, Handleston.” The elderly gambler blew out a series of smoke rings, each rising towards the ceiling at a slow, leisurely rate.
His clothing was constantly out of style by at least a year or two. But Drummond never cared, choosing to go with what was most comfortable, which was why Jon never regretted sitting down at the table with him, the old man being a fun fellow to win and lose with. The smoke ring dispersed among the upper layer of smoggy air. “Does not bode well for tomorrow’s game.”
Jon scowled at him. “I’ll be fine tomorrow. You just worry about yourself.” His hand brushed against a small pile of coins, knocking them over. He bit back a curse, chewing on his lower lip.
Drummond let out a grunt. “I know a man with a steel plate in his head. Claims that it lets him communicate with those wireless places. Says he hears the races before the horses even hit the finish line and the reporters send out the results.”
Tannetum jumped at the bait, brushing away one sweet blonde woman pawing at his arm. The woman was dangerously close to undressing the young man right there at the table, eager to earn her money.
“Really?” Tannetum’s eyes were wide, the dark pupils dancing with excitement. “Really?”
The elderly man smiled and closed the trap. “He also claims that we’re all inside a hollow earth and the sky’s just the stones under someone else’s feet.”
The laughter around the table had the youngster swearing under his breath, his face going red as the spectators enjoyed themselves at his expense. Jon smiled as well, feeling a bit of the tension lifting from his shoulders. He still had plenty of money. He still had time before the actual tournament started. He still had to make another visit to Sam Weatherly. The last thought brought a smile to his face, lifting the last dark clouds from his mind.
His fingers tapped the scarred wooden tabletop, beating out a military rhythm that had the other players shifting in their chairs, eager for the hunt.
“You fellows want to play or just tell tales?”
An hour later he was up on his original investment, but just barely. Drummond’s mouth twitched around the cigar, signaling his lack of a decent hand. Tannetum chewed on his lower lip, announcing he had nothing worth keeping, and the two newcomers were easy pickings. One fellow kept banging his heel against the chair leg and the other man had eyes as wide as saucers when he had something to play with.
Still, it was a less-than-auspicious beginning to his poker adventures in Prosperity Ridge.
“Seems you’re having a bit of bad luck.” The rumbling voice of Victor Morton came from behind, causing the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck to stand on edge. The bastard was guessing, fishing for information. He didn’t know how much Jon had won or lost, he was just trying to antagonize the table.
Jon didn’t turn, focusing instead on the cards in his hand. “Good to see you again, Victor. Or hear your unforgettable voice, as it were,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. He wasn’t going to give Morton an opening, no matter how small.
Drummond chewed on his cigar, rolling it around in his mouth. He glared at the man standing by the table. “You going to sit down or just stand and stare, Morton?”
Victor grinned, sliding into an empty seat. “I think I’ll see what you boys are made of, at least for today.” He pulled a thick purse out of his waistcoat pocket and dumped a handful of coins onto the table.
“Just for fun, of course.”
“Of course,” Tannetum repeated with a smirk. The two blonde women behind him twittered in chorus.
“Alway
s glad to see the older generation in action.”
Jon put his bad hand up to his mouth, hiding a smirk. The pup had cojones, that much was true.
Whether he could hold his own against Morton both in cards and attitude over time was still anyone’s guess. The kid had appeared on the circuit only a few months ago, a loose cannon that added a certain amount of randomness to the games. As long as he kept putting down the money, people would keep letting him play. But Jon knew that the minute Tannetum’s inheritance was gone he’d be thrown off the professional circuit, condemned to backwater towns trying to win enough to cover his room and board.
Five hands later, Morton was down fifty dollars, the amount spread evenly between the three professional gamblers and the one lone local player who doffed his hat and left the table with barely more than he had entered with. The man gave no indication of being irked, other than the tips of his ears turning beet red.
Drummond picked the cigar stub from his mouth and twirled it between his fingers. “Seems your luck hasn’t improved that much, Victor. Hope you do better tomorrow.” He smirked, enjoying the chance to poke the unpopular gambler. “But not much.” The elderly man turned his attention to Jon. “Shame about your hand gadget there. Bit bothersome for you to handle the cards without it, it seems.” There was no malice in his voice, only a touch of concern. He’d never been one to mock Jon or anyone else about any physical ailments or deformities.
Jon pushed his limp hand back behind the stack of coins. “I’m having it repaired. Should be fine for tomorrow’s games.” A sheepish smile broke free as he thought of Samantha Weatherly leaning over the table and working on his device. “Seems they’ve got some mighty fine mechanics out here on the frontier.”
Morton gave a snort, drawing everyone’s attention back to the pudgy gambler. “A woman.” The disapproving tone in his voice was unmistakable.
Tannetum laughed, his fingers playing with the blonde tresses of the female beside him. “I didn’t know you didn’t care for women, Victor.” He lifted a handful of hair to his face, inhaling deeply.
Wild Cards and Iron Horses Page 9
