Her Sky Cowboy (3 page)

“Do not mistake Mother’s cold words for a lack of caring, Amelia. She mourns the loss of Papa as greatly as you do, albeit in her own way.”

Amelia sighed. “As someone who witnessed her harping and ridicule on a daily basis, I find that difficult to believe. You have not lived here for more than a decade. You do not know—”

“I know far more than you think, little sister, and I am far less biased.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said reasonably, “that although I loved Papa, I did not worship the ground he tinkered upon.” Utilizing his walking cane, Jules moved slowly and deliberately (as was his way since the operations) into the workshop, filling the already crowded space with his bigger-than-life aura. Amelia scarcely noticed his limp anymore, although she knew his war injury was a great source of curiosity to many. Details revolving around the skirmish that had earned him a medal and early retirement from the military were classified. Jules never spoke of his service to the Crown, nor the incident, nor his extensive rehabilitation. He was a man of few words and many secrets. Women were mad for him, stilted gait and all.

As he moved closer, Amelia noted his impeccable attire.
Unlike her, he was dressed in conventional Victorian garb—tailored black trousers and frock coat, a burgundy waistcoat, stark white shirt, and an impeccably tied cravat. Of course, he’d been attending to formal matters whilst she’d taken refuge in her room, and now here. If he disapproved of her boyish trousers, grease-smudged shirt, and leather tail vest (an ingenious combination of corset and cutaway skirt), he didn’t show it. He simply regarded her with a tender, big-brotherly gaze.

“I understand why you kept your distance at the funeral, Amelia. I respect your reluctance to sit through the reading of Papa’s will, but you need to know the outcome.”

Given his ominous tone, she anticipated dire news, although she couldn’t imagine how things could get worse. Almost a week later and the air still reeked with the smells of the massive explosion. She wondered whether the noxious, nightmare-inducing fumes would forever taint her nostrils and dreams—a horrific reminder that Papa was gone. As a way of calming her nerves, she gathered miscellaneous gears and springs, sorting the parts into labeled cans. She’d left the house specifically to avoid that meeting with the solicitor. She didn’t want to face reality. That involved acknowledging Papa was gone
forever
. She couldn’t do that. Aside from his mangled pocket watch, no trace of his person had been found. Officials blamed the intensity of the explosion. Logical. Yet fanciful scenarios played in Amelia’s head. Wishful thinking that, so far, had kept her from falling apart.

“Hear me out, Little Bit.”

The nickname, used only by her brothers and Papa, nearly brought her to her knees. Stiffening her spine, she stood strong, her throat clogged with grief. “How’s Mother?”

“Distressed.”

“All will be well,” she said in general.

“In time, yes. Presently, however…”

Jaw clenched, she gathered nuts and bolts, separating them into two jars. “Stop trying to scare me.”

Leo flapped his wings in response to her agitation.

“The farthest thing from my mind.” Jules smoothed a steady hand over the falcon’s ruffled feathers. “Nevertheless, we have monsters to slay.”

She continued sorting, organizing. “All right then, speak plainly. I’ve no patience for mollycoddling.” Unlike their mother, who seemed to thrive on it.

“Papa invested the bulk of the family’s fortune in Simon’s latest venture.”

“I was unaware.”

“As were we all, until a few moments ago.”

“A daring and somewhat risky maneuver,” Amelia conceded. “But in the long run, wise.” Simon had designed a fuel-efficient, cost-efficient public railway intended to operate
above
London’s overcrowded streets as opposed to below, like the Underground. His vision, his reasoning, his sketches were brilliant. Surely, in time he and all those who’d invested in the innovative project would be rich beyond their dreams.

Jules rubbed the back of his neck. “Simon’s venture failed, the project damned by financial and political corruption.”

Her stomach flipped. “What? When?” Simon had traveled directly to Ashford upon news of the moonship debacle. He’d said nothing of his own catastrophe.

“Five days ago.”

The same day as the explosion. Her mind raced to follow Jules’s unspoken thoughts. “What are you saying? That Father invested in a doomed project? That we are now destitute?”

“We are…at a disadvantage. Temporarily,” he added with a soft smile. “Do not concern yourself. Simon and I will do what we must to secure a future for you and Mother.”

Guilt gnawed at her. She could have secured their future,
and thereby Ashford and Papa’s inventions, by taking a conventional approach and encouraging Lord Bingham’s attentions. Had she known…

No.

There had to be another way without relying solely on her brothers. But in the current repressed society, and given the family’s eccentric notoriety, now reinforced by the
Informer
, what could they do to raise funds?

“Simon must be devastated,” she said, feeling as though she’d been hit in the head with an iron bar. “Not just because of his failed project, but…” Her thoughts took an ugly turn. “Did Papa know?”

Jules dragged a hand over his whiskered jaw. “Simon sent a Teletype that morning.”

Amelia dropped into a chair as several awful and weighty scenarios seeped into her brain. “Papa must have been terribly upset and distracted. If I’d been here, working alongside him instead of indulging Mother’s matchmaking efforts and my curiosity…” She trailed off, unable to voice her most sickening thought:
I could have saved him
.

Leo screeched and Jules pulled Amelia out of the chair and into his arms. “Such musings are madness.”

Yet such musings tainted her soul. Tears burned her eyes, though they did not fall, and it felt as if a rusty gear were lodged in her throat. To her dismay, she trembled with grief and angst as Jules stroked a comforting hand down her rigid spine.

“No one is to blame,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “Not you. Not Simon. Together we will survive this. Mark my words. The Darcys will prevail.”

“Got a bad feeling about this skytown, Tuck. They’re flying the flag of the Peace Rebels. Means they welcome Mods and Freaks.”

“I know what it means, Axel.” Tucker Gentry noted the banner featuring the infamous circle and two-legged stick
billowing from the end of the central zeppelin. What had once been a symbol of peace was now a badge for chaos and rebellion. Change. A notion Old Worlders feared. A reality Tuck accepted, but on his own terms.

Relinquishing the controls of the air dinghy to StarMan, his chief navigator and copilot, Tuck angled his Stetson to shadow his eyes from the stark moonlight, then turned to his highly competent yet superstitious ship’s engineer, Axel O’Donnell. “When’s the last time you saw a Mod in the flesh?” he asked as the big man raided their weapons box. “As for Freaks, I don’t hold to judgin’ a man purely based on his race. That includes altered races.”

Axel spit a stream of tobacco juice over the starboard side while clamping a stun cuff around his left wrist. “I ain’t judging no one. Just sayin’ they’re more dangerous than most.”

“He’s afraid a Freak will read his mind,” StarMan said dryly while steering the air dinghy toward the floating pleasure mecca.

“Don’t figure they’d find much of interest,” Tuck joshed.

“Go ahead and make fun,” Axel said, “but they ain’t called Freaks for nothing.”

Shunned by polite society, the offspring of nineteenth-century Vics and twentieth-century Mods possessed supernatural abilities. Their gifts and the level of their skills varied. In Tuck’s experience, like most living creatures, some Freaks were good and some bad. “If I were you,” he said while dipping into the weapon box himself, “I’d be more worried about running into that murdering smuggler we crossed a week back. Heard Scotland Yard cut him loose.”

“Bought his way out, did he?” Axel spit again. “Don’t worry. If Dogface Flannigan comes gunnin’, I’ll take him on myself, Marshal.”

“Call me that after boarding that mecca, Axel, and you’re courtin’ trouble for sure and certain.”

“It’s
not like they won’t know who you are,” Axel said, jerking down the brim of his slouch hat. “Thanks to them dime novels, penny dreadfuls, and the
London Informer
, you’re as famous over here as you were in America.”

“Point is,” Tuck said, hitching back his greatcoat in search of his astronomical compendium, “I’m no longer the law.”

“Except on the
Maverick
,” StarMan said with a grin.

“’Cept that.” Manned by a skilled and loyal crew, Tuck’s customized airship was one of the fastest boats in Europe. Handy, given his new vocation as sky courier—speedy delivery for a premium price. Essential when outrunning sky pirates or circumventing the occasional air constable intent on confiscating the
Maverick
’s sometimes unsanctioned cargo.

Three dirigibles of various sizes cruised by as Tuck consulted his compendium, a navigational instrument combining a compass, sundial, lunar and solar dials, and a few hidden trickeries. “As for my notoriety,” he said, after verifying their position, “that’s what gets us the bulk of our work, boys. That’s why we’re here tonight—business, not pleasure. Remember that when you’re tempted by the hawkers.” These colorful, persuasive sorts most commonly found in the shopping districts of major cities had infiltrated the decks of skytowns as well. Also known as costermongers and street vendors, they called out to passersby, advertising their wares or luring them into establishments. Half the time the prey ended up hornswoggled, or at the very least extensively, though pleasurably, detained.

With the
Maverick
anchored a safe distance away and manned by the rest of his crew, Tuck concentrated on his raucous destination—a safe haven for illegal substances and activities and, in this case, supernatural misfits. Between his past profession and personal interests, he’d seen his share of gambling halls, saloons, pubs, circuses, bordellos, theaters, dancing halls, coffeehouses, and social clubs. He was no stranger to alcohol and soiled doves, and frequently
indulged in sports such as billiards and boxing—although poker was his game of choice. Though he wasn’t a practitioner, he was acquainted with opium dens and, because he rubbed shoulders with criminal types, was well aware of the current drugs of choice—both legal and illegal, including laudanum, opium-laced cigarettes, cocaine, speed, and weed.

What he couldn’t get used to was seeing all these forms of entertainment under one collective sail: fleets of four to five dirigibles connected by swinging gangways enabling patrons to move freely and quickly from one entertainment venue to another. Like the boomtowns of his native American West, skytowns seemed to appear overnight, and within hours teemed with customers. Transient in nature, like a traveling circus, this particular skytown presently straddled the borders of Surrey and Kent, just south of London proper. Since these floating meccas were “above the law,” they attracted all manner of men and women, from laborer to aristocrat, Vic to Freak, Old Worlder to New Worlder—all of them looking for a good time, with random miscreants looking for trouble.

Once upon a time in America, Tuck had been appointed to police disorder. But since the day he’d been wrongfully accused of theft and murder and forced to flee his own country in order to escape the gallows, Tuck turned a blind eye to criminal activity. Mostly. These days, his number one objective was to make money, and lots of it. Buying back his old life might not be an option, but securing a new future was. He needed a damned hefty bankroll in order to grease the right palms, which would enable him to reunite with his sister and secure pardons for his men. The way Tuck saw it, which bordered on arrogantly optimistic, lassoing some form of justice was only a matter of time—one step at a time.

Tonight he was hoping to rustle up the crew’s next job. As was his practice, he’d seek out the gambling house and join in a game of poker or faro. StarMan and Axel would work the saloon in their own manner, and as word spread
about who they were and what they did, someone would approach the Sky Cowboy about precious or contraband cargo in need of transport. All that was left was for Tuck to accept or decline.

While StarMan hitched the air dinghy to an available post, Tuck and Axel slipped Disrupter 29s, the latest black-market version of a McCabe Derringer, into their ankle holsters and checked the Remington Blasters wedged into their shoulder rigs. No one openly flashed his hardware in a skytown, but everyone carried a concealed weapon—whether it be a knife, gun, or stun mechanism. Which was why Tuck preferred not to be called by his former title of marshal. Contrary to Axel’s opinion, not everyone knew about his fall from grace and current “wanted” status. Being mistaken for the law in unlawful territory was a misconception he’d just as well avoid.

The night air sizzled with energy and exploded with the boisterous sounds of laughter, applause, mechanical whirrings of amusement rides, scattered tussles, and what was either gunshots or backfire. As added ambience, a song Tuck hadn’t heard in aeons, a song passed on by the Peace Rebels some thirty years back, a song that had yet to be written by an icon who’d yet to be born, wailed on the crisp winter wind.

Axel groaned, obviously recognizing the song as well, or at least the style—something called acid rock.

Smothering a smile, Tuck grabbed a brass crash helmet and shoved it against Axel’s massive chest.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

“See anyone comin’ toward you wearin’ those love beads, you put on that helmet,” Tuck said. “Metal blocks their telepathic brain waves.”

Clutching the helmet, Axel asked, “Really?”

Swinging onto the gangway, Tuck winked at StarMan, then strode toward the sound of outlawed music.

Though she had no wish to rise and face a new day in her new reality, the day did indeed come. Amelia heard her curtains being wrenched open, saw sunlight behind her closed lids, and felt a hand upon her shoulder.