Jon took a sip. “We didn’t see the artillery lining up—the balloon scouts missed it. A major mistake.”
Tipping the delicate china upwards, he drained the cup.
“Sotherly couldn’t have seen the ball coming, no one could have. The cannonball fell into the field far short of our position, but there was so much speed, so much power still behind it, it spun up the hill towards us.” The empty teacup shivered in his grip, despite his attempt to stop it. “He jumped in front, pushed me to one side. The rest of the artillery crew ran, leapt out of the way, whatever you want to call it.”
“That’s how you were injured,” Sam said softly, refilling both cups.
Jon nodded. “The ball lost enough speed after…afterwards to smash my hand against the cannon. Or the carriage wheel, I don’t really remember what it was. All I know was that when I came to, my hand was crushed and Sotherly was dead.” The words caught in his throat. It’d been a long time since he’d talked about that fateful day. The few times he’d recited his story had been with friends and family, all of whom usually slapped him on the shoulder and mumbled something about bravery and honor and a glorious death before heading for the fine brandy and escaping from Jon’s presence. But the woman across from him wasn’t flinching, wasn’t shocked at the harsh truth of war.
He stared outside for a second before returning his attention to the silver tea tray and plucking a small cookie from the bottom row. “Shortbread. I can never get enough of this.” Jon cleared his throat.
“Makes it herself. It’s not a difficult recipe.” Sam finished off the last of her scone. “Although I’ve yet to get it from her.”
“When I found out that he was dead, I decided that I’d pay off the debt I owed him.” Jon nibbled on the cookie, relishing the way the pieces melted in his mouth. “And I wasn’t going to use Father’s money to do it. I lost the money to Sotherly playing poker, fair and square, man to man. I’d earn it back for his widow doing the same.”
“I see.” Sam moved a piece of shortbread onto her plate and snapped it into smaller pieces. “How far away are you from reaching that total?”
“The tournament tomorrow should do it.” Jon smiled, finally looking at her directly. “And then I’ll wire the money to his family. My debt will be paid off and honor satisfied.”
Sam chewed on her lower lip before speaking. “But if I may ask, what does Mr. Morton have against you?” Another shake of her head dislodged even more blonde strands from the dying braid.
“He wants to destroy me,” Jon answered. “Which is not usual behavior for professional gamblers, by the way.”
She rolled her eyes skyward. “Well, that’s good to hear. Here I was, thinking that you were just pretending to be civilized. Next thing you know, we’ll have organized shootouts in the street to decide who plays whom at these tournaments.”
Jon shrugged, the loose jacket shifting over his broad shoulders. “It’d add some variety to the games, certainly. Victor is upset because I took a large amount of money from him six months ago.” He popped the last bits of his cookie into his mouth.
“But aren’t gamblers used to losing?” She filled her cup with ice water.
“Yes.” Jon nodded. “But this was money put aside for his wedding. His family inheritance, all of it.”
Sam’s mouth formed a silent circle. Her eyes widened at the obvious truth.
“Exactly. Victor lost the money and thus could not marry the lady. The wedding arrangements had to be canceled, excuses made and apologies offered to those who would have them. Aside from the obvious embarrassment of being unable to fulfill his promise, it showed that he had little control over his gambling habit.” Jon raised his index finger into the air, counting off sins. “Addiction to gambling is as bad as it is to alcohol or morphine.”
She shook her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The poor woman. To have to live with that shame of her love leaving her for a hand of cards.”
“She didn’t.” The two words shocked them both into silence for a long minute. Jon studied the empty plate in front of him while Sam chewed on her lower lip. He drew a deep breath, pushing the images of the funeral procession away. Victor raging at the service, swearing revenge with the stale smell of whiskey on his breath, until pulled away by his embarrassed relatives.
Finally Sam spoke. “And he blames you for this?”
Jon picked up the small silver spoon and dipped it into what was left of the liquid in his teacup. It sang as he tapped around the edges, stirring the drink. “He does. And he believes wholeheartedly that I cheated him out of his money somehow, thus his crusade to best me both at cards and at life.”
“How horrible that he can’t accept the blame himself. But I can understand he’s blinded by his pride.
Can’t see anything other than what he wants to see.”
A couple walked by, the woman squinting to see through the windows. She spotted Sam and waved, tugging on her husband’s arm. He grinned at the pair, leading her along the sidewalk. “The Ellenbees,”
Sam explained. “They’ve booked passage to California on the new airship run leaving next month.”
“Hmm.” Jon plucked a few crumbs from his plate and dropped them into his mouth. He rubbed his gloved hands together, destroying any further evidence of his transgression. “That’ll be a long flight. But still better than doing it by wagon train, I wager.”
“As long as when you came over the Atlantic?” She leaned over, shaking the pot back and forth.
“Nothing left. Should I order us another?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no thank you. Depends on how fast the airship runs. I’ve heard of some military ships that go at full speed day and night.” Jon’s eyelids drooped for a second, and then shot up as he forced his eyes open. He felt like he could sleep for a week and then some. “That is quite the drink. I think I’ll have to take a nap right after dinner.” An errant hiccup escaped, surprising them both. He rolled his eyes. “Oh dear. A flaw in my spotless character for your friends to gossip about. Whatever shall I do?”
Sam giggled, covering her mouth with one hand. Jon reached over and gently pulled it down.
“Don’t hide your smile. I like it.” He smiled. “It’s a welcome sight when all I have to deal with are angry men all day, snarling and growling at each other.”
“Well, maybe you should be consorting with better folk,” she answered.
“I thought I already was,” Jon replied, feeling a little lightheaded. He wasn’t new to drinking liquor and definitely not moonshine, but a combination of excitement and exhaustion had worn him out. A yawn escaped before he could restrain himself.
“Seems that you’re a bit tired.” Sam got to her feet. After folding the napkin, she placed it on the empty plate. “I should get back to the workshop before Father begins to worry. It’s not that I want to rush off, you understand. But if he sends Gil out to look for me, well…” she smiled, “…the gossip will be intolerable.”
Jon scrambled to his feet, weaving slightly from side to side. “Yes, we don’t want him rushing out to look for you. And I really need to go start getting ready for the tournament, otherwise this will have all been for nothing. Thank you again for the fine repair job.” He flexed the fingers, the thin black fabric hiding the metal bars and bands. “And I meant what I said about your father’s arm. I can give you some fine references if he decides to seek a replacement.” He withdrew a small purse from his pocket and spread an assortment of coins on the table. “Is that enough to cover the tea?”
“More than. Thank you.” Sam looked towards the closed door behind them. “Mrs. Carver prides herself on her beverages. And her discretion.”
Jon grinned. “A wise woman.” On a whim, he reached out to her. Taking her left hand, his braced fingers gently closed around it and tugged, pulling her a step closer. He raised the hand to his lips, bending over to press them to the warm skin. “I do hope I’ll see you again before I have to leave Prosperity Ridge.”
The resulting flush on Sam’s cheeks sent a surge of warmth down his spine. She stuttered, leaving her hand limp in his grasp. “If you need any adjustments, I’ll be available. I’d love to work more on you. Ah, I mean, your hand. Your brace.”
“I’ll pay a call on you after the tournament, then, if you don’t mind.” Jon released her hand and opened the door. “Good day.” He took a last deep breath of the clear air inside the closed porch. Trotting down the steps, he turned towards Mrs. McGuire’s house, or where he hoped the house was.
Sam lifted a hand to wave as he disappeared into the ever-present smog. Putting her hand up to her mouth, she giggled. She hadn’t giggled for years, not since she was a child. But there was something about this man, this gambler.
“Oh, he’s a nice one.” Sam spun around to see Annette clearing off the table. The older woman had slipped in behind her as silent as a church mouse. No wonder she knew the entire town’s business before anyone else. The hostess grinned as she stacked up the plates, delicately handling the teacups. “Your father would like him. Must like him, if he’s letting you go out in public with the man.”
“He already does.” Settling into the chair, Sam let out a sigh. “But Mr. Handleston’s a gambler and rich and not likely to want to settle down for a time yet.”
“Bah.” The older woman waved one of the cloth napkins in the air before adding it to the stack of dishes. “Never underestimate what a man can or can’t do.” One eyebrow rose. “He’s the first one you ever brought here. Must be a special one.”
Sam shrugged, playing with the tassels on the end of her shawl. “I think so. I hope you’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Annette grinned. She sat down, ignoring the tall pile on the table. “Now tell me all about him.”
Chapter Sixteen
Jon Handleston strode along with a lightness in his step that he couldn’t remember having for a long, long time. His right hand ached from the recent exercise, but it was a good pain, a healing sort of pain, the first he’d had in ages. He nodded to a pair of young women looking through a shop window, catching their sly glances. It sent the two into a fit of twittering giggles, their parasols bobbing as they covered their mouths with white-gloved hands.
At the back of his mind, he began to list prosthetic hand crafters in London who could give Mr. Weatherly the best model possible. Oh, sure, it would never replace the real thing, but at least the old man could do more in the shop, take on extra work himself and force Samantha to get out in the world. It wasn’t healthy for a beautiful young woman to stay shut up for so long without going to any dances or visiting with gentlemen callers.
A loud blaring came from behind him, startling him out of his daydreams and sending his heart racing, albeit for a different reason.
Spinning around, Jon stared at the bright red fire engine as it flew down the street, the siren shocking both pedestrians and drivers alike. One of the jumpbooted couriers leapt out of the street to the left, narrowly missing a group of women. The young man clutched one of the upper deck railings on a private house, his legs swinging free of the ground. A horse reared up on his hind legs, almost dumping his rider who flailed wildly with one hand on the reins and the other on the horse’s mane, trying to regain control.
The beast jumped around, digging deep holes in the dirt as it struggled.
A horseless carriage careened to the side, barely dodging the fire engine, the machine plowing into a water trough head-on. The dirty water spilled onto the street, turning the dirt under the tires into a thick dark mud that swallowed up the wooden wheels. The driver, a young man with a pristine white driving jacket and black gloves, leapt out to sink into the mud to his ankles, dirtying his spotless black boots. He swore under his breath, swatting at the mud.
Black smoke billowed from the large funnel on the fire engine, adding even more soot to the air. Jon pulled out a handkerchief and put it to his mouth and nose. He’d adjusted well to the air, but…this was too much. Around him he spotted other masks appearing, some the rough-cut worker’s mask, and some delicate metal creations that reminded him of a masquerade ball. The engine spun around the corner and out of sight, leading towards the outer areas of the city.
Jon’s stomach lurched with a sense of impending danger. He moved faster, breaking into a trot and then a full run, navigating towards the rooming house with unerring precision. It couldn’t be that bad luck would destroy the last of his possessions, when he was on the verge of fulfilling his promise.
Mopping the sweat from his face with the now-filthy rag, Jon continued on towards the house, slowing down as he ran out of energy. A twang of relief ran through him as he realized that the noise wasn’t coming from the direction of the rooming house, but still…too close for comfort.
The siren diminished to a low drone, the sound of people yelling drowning it out. From out of the shops and stores a stream of people swarmed towards the call like moths to a flame, eager faces waiting to be entertained at someone’s loss.
He turned the final corner and spotted the center of attention for all of Prosperity Ridge. The alleys, usually empty, were filled with curious spectators who ignored the grime and garbage to find the best spot to spy on the happenings.
The saloon wasn’t totally on fire, but smoke billowed out one of the top windows and some red flames licked the sides with a hungry roar. The small fire threatened not only the building but the other wooden structures connected to it if it wasn’t brought under control soon. If the flames leapt across to the store next to the saloon or the fiery embers scattering into the sky drifted down onto the wooden shingles, it could be a disaster. Jon remembered the muttered warnings about having so many flammable buildings next to each other in London, rumors about another Great Fire being on the horizon if the factories didn’t take more care.
But this wasn’t any saloon—it was Deadeye’s Dodge, the saloon where he had played Victor not so long ago. And the home of the Ridge Rocket Stakes tournament tomorrow. Jon felt an icy rush in his veins.
He stumbled to a stop at the back of the crowd. “What happened?” Jon asked a bystander, a young man wearing a bandana over his mouth. His chest ached with the effort of the sudden exercise and the fear swarming over him.
“Someone started a fight, kicked over one of the burners, I guess. Doesn’t happen too often.” He waved at one of the women standing at the other side of the crowd. “Got the girls out, though. That’s the important thing, right?” Pulling down the red kerchief, he gave a toothy grin to the ladies. “May! Over here!” He leered at the young woman as she pointedly ignored him, lifting her nose in the air and turning away to talk to another woman beside her.
Jon pushed by him, making his way through the crowd until he could get a clear view of the commotion.
The few hungry flames vanished from sight, replaced by thick black smoke that billowed out the broken window. It took only a few minutes for that to die, rushing out in smaller and smaller quantities, eventually diminishing to a trickle barely adding to the foul air. Hoses ran from the large container tank up the wooden steps into the house, through the open door and disappearing inside, inflating and deflating with every pump of the fire wagon’s eager attendants. A river of water began to spill out of the front door, dribbling over the wooden steps and down into the dirt, digging a new puddle that expanded towards the crowd.
A fireman strode out adjusting his mask. Some sort of breathing apparatus had been connected to the metal frame, the hose extending down to a small box hanging from a strap on his chest. Crossing over to the engine, he waved at one of the onlookers.
The man ran forward, rubbing his hands together so quickly that Jon feared they’d catch on fire. Jon recognized him as Michael Tribiolte, the owner of the saloon and the tournament organizer. Pressing closer, Jon tried to hear the conversation over the chatter of the crowds and the banging of the other firemen exiting the building.
The fireman pulled the mask off, revealing a bright red beard and
bloodshot eyes. “Second floor is okay, but you’re going to need lots of work done. At least one wall replaced and a heck of a lot of paint.
Fire seems to have started with some idiot tossing a bottle of booze against the wall, caught one of the lamps and set it on fire. Who’s staying up there, anyway?”
The businessman stared up at the saloon window, then down at the dirt road. He shook his head.
“Second floor’s where we were putting up the gamblers. They all got out, right?”
“Ain’t no bodies up there. That’s a blessing.” Turning to one side, the fire chief began a rumbling in his chest, finally spitting a dollar coin-sized amount of phlegm onto the ground. “That’s been building for a bit.” He wiped his mouth. “You got yourself a bigger problem than the fire right now.”
“What?” Tribiolte said.
“We had to break open all the doors on the second floor to make sure the fire hadn’t spread. Including the storeroom.”
The saloon owner winced. “That’s where the cards were stored. The sealed decks we were going to use for the tournament.”
The fireman shook his head. “Not now. Half of them got awful wet and the others just sort of got messed up with us running back and forth.”
“Damn,” Tribiolte growled. “Only thing we can do is order in another four dozen decks from Jacksonville. I’ll send the cable right now. They can put the case on the morning train. We’ll just have to delay the tournament until after it arrives tomorrow morning. Was gonna be a sunrise start, but what can you do?” He looked around the crowd, raising his voice. “The Ridge Rocket Stakes is still on, folks. Just going to be a bit late starting tomorrow, eight o’clock in the morning instead of sunrise, but we’re still going to have it. Nothing stops the valiant people of Prosperity Ridge, nothing.”
The rousing cheer from the crowd brought a pinch of color to Tribiolte’s pale cheeks. He lifted his hands, shushing the onlookers.
Wild Cards and Iron Horses Page 14
