Her Sky Cowboy (28 page)

“I guess I will borrow a screwdriver, if you don’t mind.” She pushed out of his lap, looking tortured and limp from exertion. Eyes red and swollen, she sleeved tears from her cheeks while turning away and weaving toward the chassis.

Embarrassed and disoriented.

Tuck pushed to his feet and swept her into his arms.

She didn’t fuss. Just rested her head on his shoulder and
held tight as he whisked her toward his cabin. As he neared, he spied Doc coming out of his room.
What in Sam Hill?
“Looking for me?” he asked in a dark tone.

“No, I…Well, yeah. Sort of.” Doc adjusted his wraparound specs and leaned in. “What’s wrong with Miss Darcy? Should I get my bag?”

“She’ll be fine.” He felt her grip tighten, sensed her humiliation. “What did you want?” Tuck asked as he sidestepped Doc.
What the hell were you doing in my cabin?

“You missed supper and so did Miss Darcy. Thought you might want something later. Brought a tray, is all.”

Tuck nodded and cursed his sudden suspicious streak. Doc often served him food in his cabin. He’d served Amelia too. “Thanks. Do me a favor. Go topside and spread the word that Miss Darcy’s fine. Just tired. We’ll be up later.”

Doc nodded and left.

Tuck carried Amelia into his cabin and laid her on the bed. Unable to help himself, he glanced toward the table, primed to catch Doc in a lie. The food tray was there. Relieved, Tuck turned back to Amelia and stripped her to her chemise.

She didn’t say a word.

He took off his coat and boots and crawled under the covers, pulling her against his body.

Not a peep.

He tried again. “Amelia…”

“Yes?”

Thank God.
“Your father’s death, the explosion, it was a tragic accident. Not your fault.”

“If I’d been there—”

“Maybe you would’ve died, too.”

She didn’t comment, and he figured she’d never thought of it that way. “Sometimes bad things happen to good people. No rhyme or reason.” He thought about his own parents. A random stagecoach robbery. Every day he thanked God that his baby sister hadn’t been with them on that trip.

“Not fair.”

“No, it’s not.”

“He wasn’t a kook,” she said, sounding weary.

“Bet your pa was a right interesting character.” Tuck kissed her temple. “Like you.”

“He was a great man. If people only knew. He could’ve been famous, like Briscoe, but he cared more about mankind than about himself.”

Tuck didn’t know what she meant by that.
Famous like Briscoe?
Cared more about mankind?
Was she referring to something having to do with time travel? Was that something connected to da Vinci’s secret chamber? Was that why Ashford had been adamant about withholding that knowledge from the world? Because whatever was in that chamber posed a ruinous danger to mankind?

Nothing like working a puzzle without all the pieces, but Tuck hesitated to ask Amelia to elaborate. Sensitive to her weary state, he allowed her to take the lead.

“Papa deserves some glory,” Amelia said, her voice growing more ragged with every word. “I have to make this right.”

“We’ll make it right.”

“We?”

Tuck held her close, feeling as if he were drifting through space, no control, no direction, no grip on the future or his life. The eternal optimist, he had faith that at some point all of the pieces would fall into place, and when they did he’d do his damnedest to spin this fiasco in their favor. “We.”

Astonishing how a good cry could cleanse one’s soul. Amelia wondered whether her mother experienced such relief after a tearful vent. Although, if so, why was Anne Darcy always so miserable? Amelia felt…exhausted yet serene. Sad, but not depressed. Above all, ready to attack the new day with a positive mind-set. Granted, deep down she still harbored guilt concerning her father’s demise. She didn’t suppose that would ever go away, but she had put those destructive feelings into perspective.

Thanks to Tucker.

Remarkable how he’d gently coaxed her into baring her soul regarding that awful day. She’d been so weary and he’d been so strong. Later she’d melded against his body, reveling in his warmth. A chaste bonding. He’d been fully clothed. They’d slept that way through the night, tightly spooned except for the time he’d left her to cover his watch. She’d slept more soundly than she had in days, barely stirring when he’d returned in the wee hours, once again pulling her into his arms. Somewhere around dawn, he’d gently kissed her cheek and rolled out of bed, telling her to sleep in. Amazingly, she had.

We
.

That one word kept floating though her mind. Calming. Reassuring.

We
.

She didn’t know how, couldn’t imagine how, but she accepted Tucker’s word on faith. Somehow they
would conquer this quest together. Somehow they would make things right.

We
.

Fresh from a bath and wrapped cozily in her dressing gown, Amelia padded to the concave windows of the man’s cabin and watched the scattered clouds and distant landscape as the airship flew toward Italy. She smiled as she caught a glimpse of Leo soaring below and only wished that Peg could fly at will any time of the day rather than being confined to the cloak of night. She wondered whether the horse longed for the vast open skies over that ranch Tucker had owned in Wyoming territory. According to that candid interview in the
Informer
, Tucker had sold the ranch after he’d been arrested. To assist in covering the cost of legal bills, Amelia assumed. Or perhaps he’d been thinking ahead, stashing away the cash for a fast getaway. She’d been too consumed with her own problems and agenda to ask about the details regarding his flight from America and the life he’d left behind—details not covered within the penny dreadfuls. “I shall address that oversight today.”

Amelia stood on her tiptoes and tried to see the ground directly below, but all she saw was white. Impossible to orient herself, although from the sudden drop in temperature she assumed they were nearing the Swiss Alps.

Shivering against a chill, she padded across the room and opened her leather valise, so much more sensible than Cherry Peckinposh’s zebra satchel. She rooted through her sparse supply of clothing, less colorful than Cherry’s wardrobe and not so frilly, yet far from conventional, according to her mother.

Amelia hurriedly dressed—boyish wool trousers, a white chemise topped with a wine-colored peasant blouse, a brocade waistcoat, and a green velvet mantle with dolman sleeves. She pulled on thick socks and her comfortable chunky-heeled boots and regarded herself in the reflecting glass. Instead of wasting time braiding and coiling her hair,
she simply swept back the sides, securing them away from her face with decorative combs. The rest of her hair flowed unchecked to her waist, a wild mass of pink-tinted curls. She grinned. The overall look bordered on ModVic. “Mother would think you ridiculous,” she said to herself, then frowned.

Why did she keep thinking about her mother?

Perhaps it was some sort of intuition. What if something had gone amiss at Ashford, or—horrors—with Simon or Jules? She could not bear it if she lost another…“Stop.” She palmed her flushed cheek and cursed herself for a ninny. What nonsense. Her brothers were perfectly fine. Her mother was perfectly fine. She would send a Teletype at the first opportunity, just to make certain.

Her heart settled back in her chest, and Amelia turned in search of her leather duster. If she combined it with the mantle, surely she’d be warm enough in the frigid winds.

Someone knocked.

“Come in.”

The door swung open and there stood Doc Blue. He held a tray of food. “Breakfast,” he announced, hurrying inside and setting the fruit and breads on the table before turning quickly back for the door. “Enjoy.”

“Doc.”

He stopped on the threshold, but didn’t turn. “Yes?”

Amelia stared at his back, chewed her lower lip, pondering how to approach this delicate subject. She’d been curious about the man from the first moment she’d met him. His attractive yet odd features, the strange tattoos on his hands, the same hands that had felt so warm and tingly upon her wounded thigh—as if they emanated some sort of energy. She thought about how fast that awful wound had healed. How he was never without his goggles or spectacles, both shaded a deep blue. Although she was pretty sure he hadn’t been wearing spectacles in that skytown coffeehouse—not that she’d specifically seen his eyes. What she had seen
was Doc conversing freely and easily with a small group of radical-looking Freaks. “Could I speak with you in private?”

One foot out the door, his hand gripping the doorframe, he barely glanced over his shoulder. “Are you feeling ill? I should get my bag.”

“Something is paining me, I confess. But there is no need for your medical bag. Do come in.”

He moved back inside, averted his gaze.

She shut the door and faced him. “When I first boarded this dig, I thought you compassionate and kind. Indeed, you were the friendliest amongst the crew. Now…
now
you seem to loathe my company.”

“Not true.”

“Yet you keep glancing at the door, anxious for escape.”

“Marshal wouldn’t approve—”

“He’d understand.”

“I’m not here in a professional capacity. It’s inappropriate for us to be alone behind closed doors, Miss Darcy.”

“I’m not the conventional sort, Doc Blue.” She dug in her chunky heels. “Is it because you saw me in the skytown?”

“What?”

“The coffeehouse. You saw me and I saw you. With Freaks.”

He stiffened.

She reached for his spectacles, holding her breath when he stilled her hands. He didn’t push her away, verbally or physically, so she persevered. She pushed his wraparound specs to his forehead. “Open your eyes, Doc Blue.”

“You will not like what you see.”

“Do not assume.”

She braced, but she was unprepared. “I…I had anticipated kaleidoscope eyes.”

“They were upon birth. Altered by surgery. My parents thought they were doing the right and kind thing. They wanted to give me a chance at a normal life. They’d planned to move to a remote town where no one knew they were
Vic and Mod. Where no one would suspect I was a Freak. But the surgery was botched, and the kaleidoscope of colors burst and blended into all colors—white.” He swallowed hard whilst gazing down at her with his eerie eyes. No irises, just small black pupils in the middle of all that brilliant white. “Go on. Say it. I’m hideous.”

“Do you think Leo with his iron beak and talons hideous? I do not. He is simply different. No shame in being different.”

“Easy for you to say. You are not a Freak.”

“But I am an outcast of sorts. The Darcy name is tainted. There are those who shun me merely because I am related to Briscoe Darcy. There are those who call me eccentric and my father batty, all because we embrace and explore modern marvels.”

“You mean Old Worlders.”

“Mostly. People who wish the Peace Rebels had never breached our time. People who fear technology and change simply because it is different.”

“Your circumstance is unfortunate, but trust me, it does not compare.”

“Maybe not. But it doesn’t mean I don’t empathize.”

Doc Blue worked his jaw. “Marshal promised he wouldn’t tell.”

“He didn’t. I surmised.”

“Be obliged if you kept my secret to yourself, Miss Darcy,” he said, his voice low. “On the
Maverick
I’m just the physician and cook, just another misfit taken in by Marshal Gentry.”

That bit of information solidified her faith in Tucker’s good character. The man seemed incapable of turning his back on anyone in need. Including herself. Apparently his heart was as vast as the sky. Acknowledging a sentimental ache in her chest, Amelia focused on Doc. “Surely you’ve confided in the rest of the crew.”

“I have not.”

“Why would you keep this quiet?”

“Why would I announce it? I don’t simply look different. I
am
different. Freaks possess preternatural abilities. Mine is accelerated healing. There are people, governments, who would vie for my talents, and I fear my skills would not always be used for the best. I have no wish to be used.”

Amelia swallowed. How awful that one should have to suppress a wondrous gift. “I understand, but…I am astounded that you would not trust the crew. StarMan? Eli? They are your friends, are they not? Surely they would understand your concerns, accept you for who you are. Your silence aside, how is it that they have not put two and two together as I did?”

“I think they suspect—all but Axel, who lives in denial of everything different—but they do not ask and I do not tell. Pretending is…easier. Safer.”

“But—”

“Do not profess to know what’s best for me simply because you empathize, Miss Darcy.”

“I did not mean to offend. I simply think it’s a shame that you cannot live your life freely without fear of being shunned or exploited because of your race.”

“Yes, well, the world is flawed.” Tight-jawed, he shielded his eyes once again with the tinted specs.

She was torn between feeling sorry for him and wanting to boot him in the arse. “One cannot make positive changes toward the future if one does not speak up and act out. Pretending may be easier and safer, but certainly does nothing to advance a utopian society.”

His pale face pinched. “I have to go.”

“Wait—”

“I would be most grateful if you’d respect my wishes and honor my secret,” he repeated in a gruff tone as he reached for the door.

“Of course, but—”

“Good day, Miss Darcy.”

Stunned and perplexed, she blinked in his wake. She had thought that if he believed her to be supportive and accepting of his altered race, he would relax and count her as a confidante and friend. Instead she’d somehow severed whatever goodwill existed between them. Perhaps Tucker could help her to understand.

Anxious to see him and to attack the day, Amelia donned heavy outerwear, anticipating the freezing temperatures of the Alps. As an afterthought she slipped Papa’s stun gun in one pocket and Eli’s retracted cane in the other. Just in case. Were they to be boarded by Dunkirk or ALE, she would not be taken or delayed without a fight. This Darcy would prevail.