Her Sky Cowboy (25 page)

Even in his darkest times, Tuck tended to be an optimist, but that adorable hellion had his senses twisted like a busted compass. As a result, he felt a mite lost. He’d intended to come clean about his tender feelings last night, initiating a frank, mature discussion, hoping to get his bearings. She’d blindsided him with politics. What the hell? They’d just shared a profound mating of body and soul and she wanted to argue worldviews? Then she’d uttered those words,
I don’t want to love you
, and he’d understood. She was trying to drive a wedge between them.

While returning their costumes to the Fantasy Factory, Tuck considered the advantage of that wedge. The greater the gap, the less risk of hurting her feelings. Logically speaking, bargaining for possession of the ornithopter would be simpler on a purely business level. If he was smart he’d encourage her disdain by perpetuating the misconception that he was a Flatliner—clearly a sore spot with that woman. Were he looking to obliterate her tender feelings,
professing disinterest in the future of mankind would do it. Damn, it vexed that she’d distance herself from someone purely based on political stance. Tuck didn’t cotton to racial, religious, or political intolerance. She considered herself a New Worlder, a utopian, someone intent on steering humanity away from the wars and atrocities that, if they continued unchecked, would ravage the globe for decades, reaching a tumultuous boiling point in 1969. The Holocaust. Hiroshima. Race riots and the assassination of a civil-rights activist clergyman. Cautionary tales spouted by the time-traveling Peace Rebels. Tales meant to instill fear, his pa had said. Fanatical alien Bible-thumpers, he’d called them.

Tuck reserved judgment. He always reserved judgment.

Would Amelia exhibit tolerance when she learned his true stance on politics?

Just one question that had rattled in his brain throughout the night.

“Thank you for treating me to an exhilarating visit to Paris,” Amelia said as they exited the Fantasy Factory in their own clothes. “I have to believe our time at the Bibliothèque Nationale was well spent. I just know once we reach”—she peered over her shoulder as they moved down the hall—“our…destination, something we read or something we gleaned from previous studies will, as you said, click with something we see in da…the genius’s workshop. Between the two of us, we’ll solve the mystery,” she said as she climbed the ladder ahead of him. “Who better than avid devotees of da…the genius. Fate set our paths on the same course.”

“To my recollection,” Tuck said as they hit the deck, “it was your reckless flying that set us on the same path.”

She whirled and zapped him with those dazzling blue eyes. A sensual thrill shot through him like a charged bullet.
Pathetic
. “Just wanted to get your attention.”

She furrowed her brow.

He nabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the stream of foot
traffic. Six in the morning and the skytown was crowded with the night owls who were just now preparing to leave. “You woke before dawn,” he said in a low voice, “and launched into the day full-speed. You’ve been jawing nonstop about da—”

“Shh!”

He removed her hand from his mouth, although, damn, he would’ve enjoyed kissing her palm, her wrist….“The genius,” he substituted for the sake of secrecy. “Not that I’m opposed to the subject. Nor am I averse to listening to your rants regarding the Clockwork Canary, nor your grievances regarding your ma. I am, however, offended, Amelia, by your obvious determination to ignore our delicate circumstance.” Christ in heaven. Had he actually
said
that?

Her cheeks flushed. “Whatever are you referring to, Mr. Gentry?”

“Don’t play coy, Miss Darcy. It doesn’t suit you.”

She said nothing.

He pressed. “You care for me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re falling in love. You admitted as much last night.”

“I was weary with exhaustion, tipsy on champagne.”

He grasped her hand, stopping her unconscious retreat. “I care for you, too, Amelia. More than I should. Something about you.” He could name a dozen things. “But I’m not in the position—”

“I know. You can’t offer forever. Trust me, I’m grateful. I have plans, Mr. Gentry. Big plans. I’ve always dreamed of owning and piloting my own airship. To sail the skies, to experience breathtaking sights and adventures. I’ve wanted these things far longer than I’ve wanted you.” She glanced away. Not that she’d been looking him in the eyes to begin with. “That is to say…I knew from the outset that this—we—were temporary. I may have led a sheltered life, but I am well-read and my views are—”

“Liberal.”

“Exactly. Forward-thinkers—”

“Mods.”

“—believe in free love. Marriage is for…squares. Why would I want to give up my independence, my dreams and goals in the name of an official declaration of love? A ceremony and a piece of paper. How shallow and old-fashioned.”

Did she really believe that? “The right man wouldn’t ask you to give up your dreams.”

Her head whipped around, and for the first time this day, she met his gaze full-on. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Gentry. Now. Shall we discuss your terms regarding transporting me to…our destination and then delivering myself and the…significant find to London?”

Oh, she was slick. And scared. What burned between them frightened the hell out of her. Balm for his ego. He narrowed his eyes, smiled. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Fine.” She pivoted on her clunky boot heels and stalked toward where they’d left the air dinghy. Flygirl was back—her leather flight pants and skirted vest, her long hair braided and coiled. All that remained of Cherry Peckinposh was the pink-tinted hair. Guaranteed to wash away in three days, so she’d been told.

Tuck followed closely as Amelia brushed by several men, turning heads in her wake. She seemed oblivious. Tuck wasn’t. He couldn’t attribute the lingering looks to her pink hair, because the truth of it was, Amelia Darcy, whether in boyish britches or frilly cinched gowns, was damned stunning—a fresh-faced beauty with a curvaceous figure. A woman who exuded a stimulating combination of confidence and naïveté. To think she’d been a recent captive of Dunkirk’s, a dangerous man who could be anywhere just now. Even here.

A protective and possessive streak bolted through Tuck, quickening his step. Just as he caught up to Amelia, she veered off.
What the hell?
Then he realized she was hurrying toward the sound of music.

“What is it? Who is it?” she asked without looking at him.

“Acid rock. Joplin. Wait.” But she’d rushed ahead of him and into the dimly lit tavern. Three musicians backed a gritty-voiced female. “Take another little piece of my heart, yeah, sweetie,” she wailed. He’d heard “now, baby,” “yeah, honey,” and several other variations of the lyrics over the years.

The longer the twentieth-century Peace Rebels dwelled outside of their time, the more they shared of their culture. Homesick, perhaps. Needing to cling to their reality to sustain their sanity, maybe. Tuck had always wondered about the mental and emotional state of the original Peace Rebels. Abandoning family and friends and the technological conveniences of their time—forever. Although they’d been convinced that, in their time, the end of the world was fast approaching. Events such as a cold war, a missile crisis, Vietnam, and nuclear reactors advancing the globe toward annihilation.

Hogwash
, Tuck’s pa had said when, as a very young boy, Tuck had run home, confused and worried due to stories he’d heard at school or in the town square—preachings of the Peace Rebels.
Those tales ain’t nothin’ but scare tactics, son
, Rebis Gentry had said.
One of the easiest ways to convert people to your way of thinkin’ is by scarin’ the bejesus out of ’em. How do we know they’re who they say they are? So what if they can devise mind-boggling whatchamacallits and thingamabobs? So what if they have superior knowledge when it comes to science and medicine? They could be from Mars for all we know
. Then he’d ruffle Tuck’s hair and smile.
Live for today, son. Not in fear of tomorrow
.

Hence Tuck’s worldview had been instilled early on.

As if entranced, Amelia sat at a table near the stage, eyes wide as the singer belted out the passionate tune.

Draped in leather, sequins, and layers of love beads, Gia Joplin (as the sign on the tripod announced) swayed back
and forth, rocked forward and back, her long, wild hair bouncing around her head like a wiry halo. “Oh, come on. Come on. Come on…”

“What do you want?”

Tuck looked over his shoulder. A barmaid dressed in a gauzy flowery gown. More love beads. “Got coffee?”

She smirked. “Considering this is a coffeehouse, what do you think, cowboy?”

Tuck grinned. “Two coffees.”

“What fixings?” she asked. “Whiskey? Scotch?”

“Black.”

“Side of weed?”

“No, thanks.”

“Square,” she mumbled, then sashayed away.

The second time today he’d heard that Mod term. Both times directed at him. Made him feel old and conventional, which he was not. Although there was a time he wouldn’t have refused a toke. Especially if it meant sharing a joint with someone who possessed insight into one of his cases. Same as sharing a quart bottle of whiskey when moving in this circle. Tuck had been in hundreds of coffeehouses over the years. Typically they appealed to a more eclectic crowd. The artsy, liberal-thinking sort. Sure enough, the scattered few still in attendance looked on the younger side of thirty and dressed in a colorful, multiage fashion known as ModVic, a bold fashion adopted widely by rebellious youth and Freaks.

Just as Gia Joplin and her ear-blistering trio screeched their last note, Tuck’s gaze landed on a small group of people emerging from another room. Freaks. Tuck couldn’t care less except—
shit fire
—Doc was amongst them, and he’d forgone his blue-tinted specs. If Amelia saw him, saw his surgically altered, eerie white irises, she’d know for sure and certain that he was born of two worlds. Knowledge Doc preferred to withhold from the rest of the
Maverick
’s crew.
Damn
.

“I’ve never heard music performed in such a manner,” Amelia said, watching as Gia Joplin swigged liquor from a bottle while her band dismantled their equipment. “There was a primal quality to it. Stirring.” She looked over her shoulder at Tuck. “Do you not think?”

He thought plenty. Probably too much. “Groovy.” He grasped her elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But you ordered drinks.”

He slapped a couple of bills on the sticky table. “We need to get back to the ship.” Doc and his Freak friends moved to the smoky bar. If Tuck stayed between them and Amelia and hustled her out, they could avoid confrontation.

“Why so irritable?”

“That music gave me a headache.”

Amelia rolled her eyes as he hastened her out of her chair. “I suppose you prefer something more conventional. Stephen Foster? Beethoven? Shall I put in a request for ‘Oh! Susanna’?”

“You’re a pain in my ass this morning, Flygirl.”

“Then the day is off to a glorious start.” She sniffed as he guided her through a haze of smoke. “Odd-smelling tobacco.”

“Weed.”

“What?”

“Hemp. Cannabis. Marijuana.”

“Oh.
Oh
. I’ve heard Mods and Freaks are most fond of…what do they call them? Joints?” They were almost to the door when she broke his hold. “Blast. I left my walking stick at the table.”

She turned back, catching Tuck unaware, and though he moved fast, it wasn’t fast enough.

“My, aren’t they a bold and colorful group? And I thought Cherry and Digger were flamboyant.” Amelia squinted through the haze. “I know that style. ModVic. Are they Freaks?” she whispered. “Goodness, is that—”

Tucker caught her by the waist and whisked her out the coffeehouse door quicker than a flea hoppin’ out of danger. She’d noticed Doc, but he hadn’t noticed them. At least, Tuck didn’t think so.

Once outside, Amelia wiggled out of his hold. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“But I saw Doc Blue. Shouldn’t we say hello? Won’t he think we’re rude?”

“He wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion.”

“But—”

“Dammit, Amelia.”

“But—”

“Do you like Doc?”

“Yes, of course. Very much.”

Tuck smothered a spark of jealousy. “Then we’re not going back and you’re not going to tell him you saw him here. Unless you
want
to make him uncomfortable.”

She blew out a huffy breath. “You are most infuriating this morning, Mr. Gentry.”

“Then my day is shaping up.” He grasped her elbow but she dug in her heels. “What now?”

“My walking stick. It was a gift from Eli and I refuse to leave it behind.”

“Why did you bring it? Your wound is healed.”

“It also serves as a weapon. I thought I should be prepared should we run into trouble.”

“If we run into trouble you have me.”

She crossed her arms and raised a defiant brow.

Tuck wanted to throttle her. “I’ll get the damned cane.” He maneuvered her into an alcove. “Don’t move, and don’t talk to strangers.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Do you want that walking stick?”

Smirking, she gave him a two-finger salute.

Tuck wrenched off his Stetson. “Hold this.” He’d be less
conspicuous without his signature hat. He’d breeze in and out. If Doc did spot him, at least it would be without Amelia.

If only Doc would come clean about his heritage. Granted, the gentle-hearted Freak had good reason to distrust the intolerant portion of Vic society. The man’s parents had been ostracized and then later killed in a suspicious house fire. His brother—younger by just one year—had rebelled, severing ties with Doc, dabbling in a life of crime, and ultimately going underground. Unjust fear and prejudice had ripped Doc’s family from his life, rendering the young man suspicious and reclusive. Tuck understood caution. What baffled him was Doc’s unwillingness to trust the men he’d lived and worked with on the
Maverick
for more than two years. Although Tuck had promised to keep Doc’s secret, that vow was beginning to chafe. He’d promised Amelia an explanation, but damn, that put him in the position of betraying Doc’s trust as well as slighting his crew. Didn’t they deserve to know first?