Wild Cards and Iron Horses

by Sheryl Nantus

  Jon picked up the pen with his left hand and steadily wrote the numbers on the yellow paper. “You’ll forgive me for having a slight alteration in my handwriting,” he mumbled, “but I’m sure you understand the circumstances. I believe it was covered in the papers.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Standish bobbed his head, lowering his voice slightly. “I understand totally. And discretion is our business, sir.”

  He pushed the paper over to Sam’s side. She looked down at the three, no, four, no, five digits written there. A faint roaring started in her ears as she checked the amount again. She looked sideways at Jon and was rewarded with a solemn nod. Sam dragged the pen across the page with shaky fingers, scribbling the account number. Placing the pen down, she handed the paper back to the bank officer, trying to keep calm.

  “Thank you. I shall be back in a minute with your receipts.” The man nodded twice, bowing again before leaving the office.

  As soon as the door swung shut, Sam twisted in her chair. “That is too much,” she hissed. “That is more than double what I had on the bill.” The numbers buzzed around in her head.

  “And worth every penny.” Jon put up his right hand, still enclosed in the black glove. “If you don’t want the extra, give it to Gil. I’m sure the boy could use another pair of pants or a decent shirt.”

  Her mouth hung open, and then closed with a snap like a newly sprung bear trap. There was no way she could turn down the money. It would give the business the stability it’d been missing for months. But she knew he knew the truth as well, and the fact grated on her. She’d never been beholden to anyone, any man, and being overpaid for a simple repair job just felt wrong, no matter how much it would help her family. And who was this man, this Jon Handleston, who could pay so much without even blinking?

  Turning away, she studied a wooden sculpture on the desk of a grizzly bear attacking a man. Sam envied the bear’s claws.

  An uncomfortable ten minutes later Mr. Standish reappeared. “All done.” He handed a piece of paper to Sam and another to Jon. “Your receipts. A pleasure to do business with you, sir. And Miss Weatherly, of course.” He continued speaking as Jon got to his feet. “If you don’t mind me asking, is your father well?

  There hasn’t been much mention of him in the business sections as of late.”

  “I haven’t seen him in some time. I believe he’s overseeing some new investments and is doing quite a bit of traveling overseas,” Jon replied in a flat, unemotional tone. “But when I do make contact, I shall mention the help your institution and you, personally, have given me.”

  The older man flushed a deep scarlet. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Samantha. “If your father has any questions regarding his account, please feel free to ask for me at the counter, Miss Weatherly. I am at your service.” He passed over two business cards, one to each of them. “Any friend of the Handleston family is a cherished customer of this establishment.”

  Sam nodded politely as she swept past the two men and out onto the main floor, her lips pressed tightly together, the business card already crushed in her hand. She wasn’t sure what had just gone on, but Jon Handleston was no common gambler and his family was more than a bit wealthy. A handful of faces turned her way, the low whispering signaling the start of even more talk about her, her family and the mysterious man who brought the bank to a stop with his mere presence.

  Sam heard the bank officer’s low babbling behind him, something about land investments, and the quick steps advancing towards her. As she grabbed hold of one of the large brass door handles, Jon’s hand landed on her shoulder.

  She tensed under his touch. The gossip train would be in full throttle now, her walking into a bank with a known gambler and receiving preferred treatment. She needed solid ground, familiar ground to regain her footing and decide exactly what she wanted with Jon Handleston.

  “Sam. We need to talk for a minute. Please. Let me do some explaining before you go back to the shop.” He took hold of the handle, pulling it open for her. “May I buy you a cup of tea? Or coffee?”

  “I think I need something stronger.” The left edge of her mouth tilted up. “Mrs. Carver’s Teahouse, I think.” The bank may be his territory, but she was going to take him well into her own domain if this discussion were to continue.

  Leading her onto the sidewalk, Jon offered his arm. She stared at it, noticing his panicked look. He looked afraid, almost terrified at being rejected. Sam’s pulse fluttered at the sight. Smiling, she took his arm, seeing the visible relief in his face.

  “Thank you for your most generous payment.” Adjusting her shawl, Sam nodded to the left. “If you can see it through the smog, the teahouse is down that street about a block or so.” She tucked a few strands of hair back into her misshapen braid. “If you don’t mind being seen out with me in such a condition.”

  “I’ll manage.” He grinned, patting her hand. “And if anyone says different, they’ll have to answer to me.” Jon started walking at a leisurely pace.

  Sam nodded at one couple passing them, relishing the moment. It was the Jeffersons, who not only owned the largest General Store in Prosperity Ridge but also were the biggest gossips of the town. Mr. Jefferson glared at her, his belly barely contained in his fashionably tight pants while his redheaded wife gave a snort that could only signal that Sam’s outing with Jonathan Handleston, notorious gambler, would be the subject of many a discussion to come between the women who visited the store.

  Well, so be it. She wasn’t going to avoid being seen with a handsome man because they disapproved of his employment. As it was, none of the other men in town even considered dating her, what with this strange attraction to having an education and skills and… She noticed Jon staring at her, a smile on his lips.

  They were standing still and had been for some time, with Sam lost in her own thoughts while he waited for her to return.

  “I think we’re here. Unless there’s some other teahouse nearby.” He pointed up at the swinging sign.

  The swirling gold letters on the black square announced “Carver’s Teahouse” in no uncertain terms to pedestrians.

  “Oh, oh, yes,” Sam stuttered. “I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

  “Understandable.” Jon grinned. “I thought those two looked like a pair of pretentious snobs. Who are they?”

  “The Jeffersons.” She adjusted the shawl again after releasing his arm. “They own a good part of the town.”

  “Bah,” Jon scoffed with a laugh. “Bet they can’t fix a watch worth a damn.”

  Sam giggled. “You’d be right on that point.” She scuffed one boot tip on the edge of the stairs. “And she can’t bake a lemon tart worth a damn.” The pair laughed at the shared profanities.

  The Teahouse consisted of a covered porch, the thick glass panes an unusual sight due to their high cost. Jon paused for a minute, seeing the thick yellow residue on the once-pristine windows. This was no simple building modified from the usual wooden structure. This was a two-story original design that would have cost a pretty penny to build, never mind maintain in this harsh environment.

  “They were clean once.” Sam walked past him and pulled the door open. “She invested her entire life savings into this building and this business, just after the war ended. Rumor has it that she bet a lot on the North to win, at the right time to get excellent odds.”

  Jon smiled. “I like her already.”

  The covered porch held four tables, each set up for what Jon presumed was High Tea, or whatever bastardized version the colonists kept recreating in an attempt to woo travelers. None of the tables were occupied. A large air scrubber, hidden under a lovely lace tablecloth, coughed at the intrusion and began to work furiously.

  A woman walked out from the house’s interior. “Samantha!” She stood a good six feet tall, with long dark red hair in a loose braid that threatened to sweep the wooden floor behind her. Her dress was plain but still colorful, bright blue flowers dotting the thin fabric.

  �
�Annette.” Sam embraced her. “I’m sorry, it’s been so busy at work and with Father…”

  “Bah!” Annette stepped back. “Don’t apologize for family.” She scanned Jon from top to bottom, her scrutinizing gaze sending an uneasy shiver through his stomach. For a second he thought about turning and leaving Sam there, the sudden fear reminding him of the ornery drill sergeant leading the artillery at the last battle.

  “This is Jon Handleston.” Sam put her hand on his arm, breaking the spell. “He is one of our customers, a very good one. I’ve got a few minutes free, so I thought I’d treat him to one of your fine teas.”

  The inspection ended. “Oh, certainly. Please, have a seat and I’ll be out in a minute with some refreshments and your drinks.” She walked back into the house.

  “Don’t mind her. She’s always looking out for me.” Sam led him to the far table, with a view out onto the street. Jon instinctively took the chair with his back to the house, allowing himself an unobstructed panorama of the foot traffic.

  “Looking out for you obviously means having the temper of a crazed grizzly bear protecting her young,” Jon replied.

  Sam looked back towards the door and then at Jon. “Yes, yes it does. So.” She settled into the white rattan chair, glancing out the stained windows as she spoke. “What’s going on?”

  Jon frowned. “What?”

  “I’ve never seen Mr. Standish jump that high and that fast for anyone, including Mayor Tenk.

  Especially when dealing with an amount that would hardly make or break the bank, despite it being rather unusual for the average customer. No offense, my father and I do appreciate the payment, but they process that much daily with much less fanfare.” She brushed a strand of hair from her mouth. “So who are you, Mr. Handleston?”

  Jon opened his mouth, then closed it quickly as Annette walked back in carrying a tray. The cucumber sandwiches, daintily cut into triangles without the crusts, lay stacked against the tasty-looking scones. But instead of a regular teapot completing the scene, she placed on the table a teapot with a rather irregular design—two brass handles on each side of the short, stout body and a single spout. There was no creamer, no sugar bowl, just a pitcher of cool ice water sitting beside the delicate finger food.

  “If you need anything else, please call.” She vanished inside the house.

  Sam leaned forward and poured the clear liquid into the china teacups before handing one to Jon. “I’m not sure if you want some water or not. I think you’ll probably decide after a sip.”

  He took a sip. His eyes widened as he swallowed, gasping for air. The burning in his lungs lessened, but not by much as the cool air hit singed tissue with each breath.

  This wasn’t tea.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “My Lord! What is this?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he recognized the taste, the familiar scorching of his tongue and throat dredging up memories of a moonlit battlefield. “Moonshine?”

  “The finest.” Sam beamed, taking a dainty sip of her own drink. “Miss Carver tends to keep the good stuff behind the bar, if you know what I mean.” She waved one hand in front of her face, mimicking using a fan. “Not for the genteel women like Mrs. Jefferson, don’t you know.”

  Jon laughed. “This reminds me of the concoctions the soldiers used to make out of…well, everything.

  And anything.” He fell silent, his thoughts suddenly far, far away from the teahouse and Prosperity Ridge.

  “I’m sorry.” Her hand landed atop his on the table, squeezing it through the black glove and brace. “I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.”

  “They’re not all bad.” The smile was forced. He picked up one of the cucumber sandwiches and nibbled on the thick triangle. “My father, as you have already guessed, is a man of some social standing.”

  The clear liquid didn’t burn as much on the second sip. Or the third. Although whether that was because he was getting used to the taste or it had cauterized his taste buds was up for argument. Either way, it made the story he had to tell her a bit easier to do. “He had the idea during the war that investing in the Southern cause might bring big profits when the war came to an end and the Confederacy won their freedom from the Union.”

  Sam’s left eyebrow rose, but she stayed silent.

  “I accompanied him on his tour of the battlefields, his visits to try and find investment opportunities to exploit. At that time I really had no idea what the war was all about, other than the usual petty grievances that men use to fight with each other. That, I’m afraid, transcends continents and nations.”

  “Did he command a unit? Your father?” Her words held a note of dismay.

  Jon let out a deep sigh. “Samantha, my father is a banker, not a warrior. My family has never been keen to fight anywhere but on the financial battlefield, brawling with stocks and bonds rather than sabers and cannons. But he had to play the role in order to win favor among certain men who saw something romantic and honorable in watching men die, thus our presence on the battlefields of your civil war. We played at being soldiers much as boys do with wooden rifles and tin figures. He had no rank, no command, but mingled with those who did—only those who could influence the buying and selling of supplies.”

  He looked down at his hand, the metal brace hugging the dead fingers. “I mingled among the common men. Father hated that. If they weren’t officers and able to invest or influence those who could, then they weren’t worth talking to.”

  The cucumbers were thinly sliced, just enough butter to make each bite crunchy and yet not dry. He may have had better in the London teahouses, but he couldn’t remember when or where.

  “Sotherly liked to talk a lot. I guess he figured it was his duty to try and keep me safe. He shouldn’t have enlisted at all at his age, had no reason to other than to show his pride for his state. Already had a wife and three children back down South. He had a picture of them. Beautiful woman, sweet children. All boys.”

  After draining the last few drops from the teacup, he reached for the pot with both hands.

  “Sotherly ended up spending most nights on watch. I think he didn’t trust the youngsters around him to stay alert. Caught me one night on my way back to my tent so drunk that I almost stumbled into a ravine.

  He pulled me up, forced some coffee down my throat and when I became coherent, berated me for not having more sense. Not about being drunk, but for not having the foresight to plan a safe route home.” He shifted his grip on the teapot, wrapping his fingers around the cool metal.

  “A wise man.” Sam took a sip from her own cup. “Not too many of those in uniform.”

  Jon nodded. “I became friends with him. He spoke plain truth, said that he was too old to know otherwise. He taught me how to play poker. Not that I didn’t know before, but how to really play poker.

  How to watch the players, study their hand movements, their eyes, how they reacted to what they had in their card hand. I wasn’t reading their minds, but close to it.”

  Jon lifted the pot. It lurched slightly to one side, dangerously close to falling. He clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on the two handles. He was not going to drop this, not here, not now.

  Sam watched in silence, her hands in her lap, although she shifted in her seat.

  Finally the pot drizzled out another cupful of white lightning, stopping just short of the cup’s brim. He put it down, letting it settle onto the cream-colored lace tablecloth. Jon pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face dry.

  “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Poker.” He smiled, trying to ignore the ache building in his right shoulder. “You should start on those scones before I do.”

  She leaned forward, delicately cutting one thick pastry in half and spreading the jam on it. “Gil would have already eaten them and asked for more.” The second half, liberally covered with jam as well, landed on Jon’s plate.

  “Of that I am certain. Thank you.”

  The strawberry jam was sweet, cutting the burn of
the moonshine just a bit as he nibbled on the scone.

  Outside, a courier raced by on jumpboots. The boots stood on tall metal stilts, lengthening his stride three feet for every one. The young boy laughed as he pounced on the empty spaces in the street, narrowly missing both horses and humans alike. He disappeared from sight within a few seconds, bounding around a corner.

  Jon frowned. “Aren’t those dangerous? I saw them on the battlefield and they were awfully difficult to use.” He stared into the teacup. “Very hard to control.”

  “That they are.” Sam dabbed at the edge of her mouth with the cloth napkin. “But the street couriers make a point of training with them for hours before they are licensed by their companies to use them. Too many crashes with the pedestrians and you lose your certification.” Reaching over, she refilled her teacup.

  “They work quite well here on flat ground. I assume that you saw them used on hills and such; it’s just not practical.”

  “Hmm.” Jon rubbed his chin. “True. I saw quite a few fellows go head over heels trying to make them work. The scouts were the first to try them, and the first to eat grass almost every time.” Picking up the bread triangle, he studied the delicate creation. The bread was white and soft, chewy and moist with the cool crisp cucumber slice snapping under his teeth.

  “We played a lot of games, most of which I lost. Sotherly didn’t keep track of the money I owed him, but I did. The games kept me busy and away from my father’s business, which I wasn’t ever going to inherit, due to having older brothers, and which I had little interest in. I knew I was along for the sole purpose of maintaining his image as a family man, a virile man with many sons.” He pushed a wayward cucumber slice back between the bread slices. “When Sotherly died, I figured I owed him close to ten thousand dollars. Well, more or less. We used Confederate money and I translated that into British pounds and then into your American dollars.”

  “I see,” Sam said in a low voice.

  Both his hands cradled the teacup, holding it secure. “The attack wasn’t a surprise. The shelling was.”