Her Sky Cowboy (35 page)

“Yes, but that was two weeks ago, and he was unusually curious about the kind of petrol you use. Though he rephrased his question, he inquired at least three times about rocket propellant.”

“And I confessed to selling Reginald Darcy a meager amount from my meager supply. The transaction was aboveboard. A favor for a neighbor. It was not my place or responsibility to monitor his use of it.”

“I got the distinct feeling that the constable felt you
were somehow negligent. What if Darcy’s devil of a daughter or shrew of a wife means to make you accountable? What if the police continue to snoop and learn—”

“I find this paranoid line of thinking tiresome, Mother. You’re reading too much into Newberry’s visit.” Bingham snapped shut his valise and breezed out of his bedchamber, his bulldog of a mother unfortunately nipping at his heels.

“I am not so sure,” she said, crowding him as they descended the grand staircase. “Regardless, do you not think he will find it suspicious that you disappeared directly after his inquiry?”

“I’m going away on business, as I often do.”

“If only you weren’t going out of the country.”

Irritated with her constant nagging of late, Bingham stopped cold. “I would circumnavigate the globe in order to speak face-to-face with Professor Maximus Merriweather. As it happens, I need fly only to the Australian outback.”

“What if your Mod tracker is wrong about his whereabouts?”

“What if he is right?”

“You risk much in pursuit of this time machine.”

“I would, in fact, risk all.” He raised a brow to emphasize his meaning. “Either you are with me or against me.”

Her gray eyes sparked. “Is that a threat?”

“A warning.”

She wrung her hands briefly, then clenched them at her sides. “I only wish to help,” she said with a righteous sniff.

“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.” He kissed her on the cheek and smiled. “Good-bye, Mother. Don’t contact me; I’ll contact you.”

Bingham hurried out the door and made haste for the aero-hangar. He consistently withheld details of his seamier actions from his mother in order to protect her as well as himself. Yet she insisted on prying, projecting, and advising. Damned annoying and potentially hazardous. He welcomed time away from her for multiple reasons.

As for Constable Newberry, that he’d linked Bingham to Ashford via the rocket propellant was a surprise. He’d not thought the local police technologically savvy. Regardless, unlike his mother, he did not fear further snooping in regard to the explosion. Ashford’s death had been ruled an accident. The constable’s visit had pertained to civil safety. Period. Bingham could not be blamed for that scatterbrained inventor’s deathly bumble. He’d made sure of it.

Therefore he embarked on this journey with confidence.

He’d alerted his small crew to prepare
Mars-a-tron
for a long flight. What they didn’t know, and what he’d withheld from his mother, was that he intended a short detour. First stop, Corsica, a small island in the Mediterranean Sea where he’d meet up with that vexing Scottish pirate. According to his most recent communication, Dunkirk had Amelia Darcy in sight and would soon take possession of her “hidden treasure.”

Bingham’s pulse raced as he spied his zeppelin, and he considered the most optimal of circumstances. If that treasure had anything to do with Briscoe Darcy’s time machine, there would be no need to travel on to Australia in hopes of tapping Merriweather’s genius. Bingham would be trekking into the future, compliments of the Time Voyager.

North of Florence, south of Fiesole.

Those had been Tucker’s general directions pertaining to the location of Mount Ceceri. After consulting her astronomical compendium to orient herself and quickly reviewing the augmented controls of the kitecycle, Amelia had set the wheels of her wondrous new dig in motion. Adrenaline surged, as she envisioned the climactic stage of their escapade.

Once they’d set upon a road dictated by StarMan, Tucker’s directions became more specific. She’d easily and gleefully navigated the wide path populated by a curious combination of horse-drawn carts and carriages and various steam-belching and gear-grinding automocoaches. Papa would’ve been vastly intrigued by the foreign makes and models, though in her eyes, none compared to Loco-Bug. Or, for that matter, Bess Two. A vehicle that doubled as an airship and land velocipede?

Astonishing.

Though traffic was mild, Tucker soon directed her to a less traveled path. Rumbling along on this clear, sunny day, Amelia felt confident that they would reach their destination swiftly. She could scarcely contain her excitement.

While they roared along on her new kitecycle, Amelia’s senses reeled as she absorbed the breathtaking Tuscan landscape. Leonardo da Vinci had gazed upon these same sights, breathed this very air. The master had lived, studied, and created in these hills. She could almost sense his presence. How would she feel when they entered the cave as
described by Briscoe, when they discovered the secret chamber, when she laid eyes and hands on da Vinci’s ornithopter? Dizzy with anticipation, she pedaled faster. Her actions revved the engines and garnered a squeeze from Tucker.

“Easy, Flygirl.”

He didn’t have to elaborate. She had eyes. The path was narrow, winding, and rocky. The greater their speed, the more perilous the journey.
Slow and steady wins the race.
Oh, how she wanted that ornithopter.

“We’re coming up on the quarries,” Tucker said.

For centuries precious stone used in the construction of monuments had been transported from here to Florence. Da Vinci had walked these quarries, these hills. And so had Briscoe Darcy.

Amelia’s pulse flared. They were close. She let her mind wander back to the day Papa had shared the contents of his letter, including the landmarks Briscoe had mentioned. Obsessed, over the years she’d secretly studied maps and photographs. She had never been here, but amazingly she knew exactly where she was. She slowed the kitecycle to a crawl as she scanned the rocky hills and distant clearings. Oh, yes. So very close.

“Now would be a good time to share some specifics,” Tuck said. “I’ve read there’s a cave dedicated to the memory of da Vinci near the Cava Sarti quarry.”

“The place we seek is not far from there,” she shouted over the hiss and rumble of the engine. She glanced up, noting narrow, rocky paths and thick wooded areas of cypress, poplars, and oaks. “It would’ve been easier to fly to the top.”

“But not safer. Don’t forget about Dunkirk.”

“It’s been four days. If he wanted to retaliate, do you not think he would have done so by now?”

“If revenge were his sole motivator, yes. Remember his initial intent.”

She grimaced whilst thinking back on his seduction dinner. “To plunder my booty.”

“I was referring to your hidden treasure.”

“So was I.” She furrowed her brow and pondered his words. “Oh.
Oh
. I was not speaking of my virtue, but, yes, that too. The scoundrel. Frosts my blood just thinking about it.”

“Burns my ass. Should’ve blown his damned ship to smithereens.”

Her lip twitched. “You did try.”

“Men like Colin Dunkirk don’t give up easy,” Tuck said over the escalating noise.

“But we haven’t seen hide nor hair, and the weather is clear.”

“High stakes call for high cunning.”

“So he’s cloaked? Tracking us? Following us?”

“Someone sure as hell is.” He squeezed her thigh. “Step on it, Flygirl.”

“You just told me to slow—” She glanced over her shoulder.
Bloody hell
. Someone—some
thing
—was following them and gaining fast. It looked like a frog, a mammoth rusty automaton toad with glowing red eyes and visible gears and a steam turbine. Spiked metal wheels ate up the dirt and gravel path as it bore down with a deafening croak. “Maybe it’s a circus automaton, running late for a performance,” she shouted whilst Tucker stoked the rear engine and she pedaled faster.

A shot rang out and splintered the bark of a tree to her right.

“Or road bandits,” Tucker snapped whilst shielding Amelia and drawing his Blaster.

Crikey
. Amelia veered off just as he fired. His bullet ricocheted off the frog with a loud metallic ping.

“Iron armor!”

“Where are they?”

“Right behind us!”

“No, I mean—”

“Inside the frog!”

More shots rang out and peppered the dirt in front of Bess Two.

“Either they’re lousy shots or just trying to scare us into running off the road!” Tuck shouted as she serpentined up a hill. “Pull off. If I can draw them out—”

“No! What if they steal Bess? Or kill you and kidnap me? What if it’s Dunkirk?”

“Not his—”

“Hang on!” Amelia hunkered low, triggered more steam, and pedaled fast and furious, hoping to lose them in a densely wooded area. “Duck!”

“Frog!”

“No,
duck
!”

Tucker bent over just as they sailed under a mass of low-lying branches. “Hell’s fire!”

“Did I lose them?”

“Still there!” Wood splintered and exploded behind them. “Crashed plumb through that tree!”

Amelia gunned the kitecycle, her heart skipping as they burst through the shade of the woodland onto open ground.
Crikey
. Beyond, nothing but blue skies and a distant overview of Florence.

Pop! Pop!

“God
dammit
!”

Her heart nearly burst through her ribs. “Did they hit the engine?”

“No.”

Oh, no. Oh, God.
“You?”

He fired his Blaster three times by way of an answer.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

The frog barreled on.

Blooming hell!
Imagining blood pouring from some bullet hole in Tucker, she fired up the miniblasterbeef.

“What are you doing?”

She steered Bess Two directly toward the edge of a sheer dropoff.

The great bird will take its first flight on the back of Monte Ceceri….
If da Vinci’s associate could do it, so could she. Although she would strive not to crash.

“Amelia…”

Another flicked switch, then…
Thwap, thwap
.
Snick, snick, snick
.

The wings fully extended just as Bess Two rocketed off the ridge. They dropped, bounced twice—“No!”—then lifted and—“Yes!”—soared.

“Hell of a game of leapfrog,” Tucker said as they swung around.

Amelia looked down.

Unable to veer away in time, the frog plunged over the side, tumbling over jutting rocks, landing dented and mangled in a field. Amelia refused to ponder whether or not the ruffians had croaked with the frog. They’d shot Tucker. All she cared about was attending to his wound lickety-split. “Hold on, Cowboy.”

“Why?” he asked sounding somewhat amused. “Gonna attempt another wild stunt?”

“Does landing on a rocky plateau count?”

“Damn.”

Tuck’s shoulder hurt like hell, but not half as badly as his pride. Considering the rough terrain, Amelia’s landing had been pretty damned amazing. She’d also managed an impressive motor chase up the hillside and through a copse of trees. And damn, it had taken some balls to race toward a cliff’s edge without knowing for sure and certain the wings would engage in time. He was supposed to protect her, but
she’d
saved
him
.

Wings retracted now, he helped Amelia hide Bess Two in one of the many hillside caves, then proceeded to slip out of his bloodied coat. He eyed her as she wrenched off her parachute pack. “You’re crazy. You know that?”

She quirked a shaky smile. “Like a fox.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m almost afraid to look.”

“Pretty sure the bullet went straight through. Doc packed an emergency kit in Bess’s right saddlebag.”

“I’ll get it.” She scrambled to the kitecycle. “How could it go straight through and not hit me, seated flush as we were?”

“I leaned and angled to get a good shot.” Grimacing, he peeled off his ruined shirt, rolled and prodded his damaged shoulder. Near as he could tell, no bullet.

“Do you really think they were road bandits?”

“These are hard times, Amelia. Thievery is common.”

“It just seems everywhere I go, criminals follow. Dunkirk, Dogface, frog thugs.”

“Makes you yearn for the serene seclusion of Ashford?” Had her constant exposure to danger and unpredictability soured her taste for adventure? His gut kicked with dread.

“I confess to a smidgen of homesickness, although I attach it to the people, not the place.” She returned with the kit and met his gaze. “I wouldn’t trade this adrenaline-charged journey for the world, although I do fret over the end.”

Before he could comment, she looked to his wound and paled. Tuck quirked a grin. “Looks worse than it is, darlin’. We’re gonna clean this, bandage it, and move the hell on.”

“But—”

“I’ve suffered worse. Come on.” He sat on the dirt floor near the cool stone wall.

She hunkered down in front of him, gaze averted. “Need to wipe away the blood and stem the flow.” She ransacked her parachute pack and utilized the silky material.

“Don’t faint on me, miss.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, sir.” Yet sweat beaded her brow.

Tuck smiled as he watched her fuss over his wound. Brave in spite of her trepidations. “Should be some whiskey in Doc’s kit. Pour it in and over the wound. Then use those strips of linen as bandages.”

She nabbed the flask from the medical kit, uncorked the bottle, and sniffed. “Smells strong.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Good.” She took a swig, winced, and coughed. “Okay.”

Before he could brace himself, she poured copious amounts over the open wound. “Jesus.”

“Sorry.”

“Get the back of my shoulder too.” He clenched his teeth and hissed as the alcohol seared. “Christ.”

“You told me—”

“I know. It’s fine. Hand me that strip.”
Damn
. He folded the cloth and pressed it hard against the front of his shoulder. “You’re gonna have to do the same to the entrance wound, and use the rest of these strips to wrap around my shoulder and chest. Can you do that?”