Like a Wisp of Steam (12 page)

"Thank you for the wine—"

"Let me assure you," Heck said, producing a folded paper from his pocket, "that my interests are legitimate. Your favors, while certainly attractive, hold a smaller level of interest for me than do your knowledge and acumen." Before she could stand up, he unfolded the paper, revealing it to be a poster for something called
Lansdale's Traveling Show of
Steam and Irons
, with play dates in a variety of cities.

"You have a Wild West Show?"

He offered a placating laugh. "We're more than trick shooting, though there's plenty of that as suggested by the 'Irons' part. We are a traveling menagerie of marvels.

Demonstrations of the greatest entertainments I can find, and with all the wonders of Steamworks, these days. I would be remiss not to offer such attractions to the folks of the circuit that cannot see them on their own." He tapped a pictorial representation of a literally steely-faced man. With all the passion of a carnival barker, he said, "Behold Benjamin, the cogwork man." Then, he smiled to himself. "However, Benjamin requires a bit of upkeep, and my steam-engineer has decided to pursue a career with another company." Was Heck's sadness more than proper for the loss of an employee?

Trista found herself wondering if Heck might not be hiding some deeper affection. "Sooo, I find myself in dire need of someone to keep ol' Benji running proper." His eyes met hers, and there was a sheen of wetness to them, barely restrained tears. "I can offer you a sum of twenty-five dollars a week, free board in our comfortably quaint wagons, and three squares a day."

The quality of the meals dubbed "squares," Trista figured, would undoubtedly depend on how well Heck's show did at any given location. A part of that required all the marvels and attractions working out. It was work she could certainly sink her teeth into, work made all the more enticing because her own savings were nearly gone.

Was this not everything she had hoped for?

Well, not quite.

But it would do.

"I am interested, Mr. Lansdale," Trista said, "Please tell me more."

* * * *

So began a life of work where Trista labored solely behind the scenes doing the difficult, thankless, and often grimy work of keeping up poor Benjamin, the world's oldest clockwork and steam-powered replica of a man, far from the more cutting edge of the New Science that she was familiar with. But it was among the ranks of Heck's crew that she made the acquaintance of Maggie Douglass, the Shooting Lady. "So skilled," ran Maggie's bill of introduction, "that both Wild Bill Hickock and Billy the Kid refused to spar with her, on account of fear that they might lose to a gal." That both these gunfighters were long deceased (and one had the gall to shuffle off this mortal coil before Maggie was old enough to hold a gun) had little real effect on the crowds. They were happy enough to hear the story, happy enough to pay their two bits to see her perforate papers or wear a blindfold while taking a pair of stacked apples off a "helpful volunteer's"

head. If a story is even remotely interesting, then most folks let the smaller lies slide (so long as no one's getting robbed blind or harmed).

Maggie was a brusque but kindly soul, a woman over thirty, with age lines around her eyes, weariness to her shoulders, and the pronounced inability to really smile. Her dark hair was touched with occasional strands of silver, and her face was that of a woman nearly twenty years older.

Upon first meeting Trista alone, she sized the younger woman up and said, "Get out of the business just as soon as you can."

"I don't intend to stay any longer than needs be."

"You need something firmer than that, my dear. Give yourself a time to mosey by, and if that time comes and you're still here, then make scarce. Don't make excuses."

"I was figuring on having it be one year," Trista said.

"Does that seem short enough?"

Maggie's considered this and nodded. Though she did not smile, there was a puckish light to her. An aura of humor.

"This life can wear a girl out, Trista."

"I figured."

"You look like a smart gal," Maggie said. "You figure a lot?"

"Not enough about this life I've been leading. Just when I think I have it rationalized away, it throws a curve into my plans. That's just plain rude, wouldn't you say?"

"I think we're going to get along just fine," Maggie said, and she was right.

In time, Trista came to discover that Maggie was what folks might call a "confirmed maiden," with no interest in men as anything other than business partners (Heck Lansdale) or associates (just about everyone else). Three months after the show carried Trista away from the chill, windy streets of the White City, she found herself warming to Maggie as they talked long into the night over glasses of amber liquid, learning the intricacies of firearms and...Maggie was not searching for a life mate, and yet Trista could more than empathize with the loneliness she talked about. They were like twins of spirit, and it was only a matter of time before she understood the degree of attachment she felt.

In the dark countryside en route to Arizona, Trista found a warmth in Maggie's arms that had been missing from her since that fateful night over (and, well,
in
) Fort Detroit.

The wagons were small affairs modeled after the colorful transports favored by Old World gypsies, made to house two but stuffed with four or more tenants. They were not places of escape, but mere spots to lay one's pillow for the night. But Maggie, as part owner and financier to the show, lived alone.

Her wagon had decorations from a lifetime spent as an entertainer, posters and memorabilia that she could expound on for hours in fascinating ways. Rich, crimson curtains hung across the windows, and the floor was tastefully decorated with a matching carpet. The place was stuffed to gills with the makings of parlor and bedroom, separable by a dark, sliding curtain should she wish to entertain polite company.

They were soused, not at all how ladies "should be," but in the fashion of frontier chums. Trista was talking about the night over Fort Detroit, painting rosy (and perhaps somewhat bawdy) pictures of the mishap. Maggie sat enraptured, showing perhaps an unhealthy interest in those bawdy aspects—she really could drag the most wicked confessions out of a girl—and Trista was lost in the telling, feeling those sensations all over again. Then, she offered to demonstrate (a joke, a joke!), and Maggie had surprised her by sitting up straight and inviting her over with a glance. That glance was one part enticement and one part ... vulnerability.

Trista was aware that poor, lonely Maggie offered up her heart in that moment. If she had a desire or spiteful nature, she could easily dash it to the floor. Ruin that heart and thereby, through the special connection they shared, ruin Maggie. There was something undeniably beautiful and meaningful in the moment. In the offering.

She did not ruin her friend.

Trista leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth, instead.

Maggie's lips were not soft like Cecilia's, but there was a pleasure in the roughness. Her kiss was nearly shy, startled.

Then, the Shooting Lady's strong arms came around Trista like a blanket, and her mouth opened, their tongues met, and...

The uncertainty came to Trista again.

What were these limbs for? What were they meant to do?

"I don't," she admitted, between kisses, "quite know what..." Their mouths would not part for long, as though that might shatter what delicate bond they shared. "To do."

"What you're doing," Maggie said, through the same interruptions, "seems fine with me."

No gloves today. Trista's hands found the soft skin beneath Maggie's vest and blouse, found the tender flesh of her lower back, dotted with expectant sweat. Maggie's clothes came away beneath her fingers, and her own garments—the suede pants and rough cotton shirt that served her for tasks other than working on Benjamin—parted and fell under Maggie's more practiced touch.

The air was oddly chill, despite the warm candles in the wagon, and this only brought their bodies even closer together. Skin on skin led to a lovely friction, their mouths could not stop meeting, though they took to nibbling or suckling other offered flesh. They soon found a warmth that not even the naked flames of candles could touch. A heat that existed only between them, something to banish the skulking cold.

There was sweetness to the taste of sweat rolling slowly down a body, followed from throat down between the breasts, down to the slight rise of the belly, in a winding pathway around and past the indentation button of Maggie's birth, down to the glistening fur below, down ... The Shooting Lady's prized trigger fingers played through Trista's curly hair, as the steam engineer offered gentle pecks and then languorous tongue caresses to that bastion of warmth and honey between her legs. Maggie's gasps were heartfelt and soft, but with each moment of Trista's affectionate attention, they came louder. Words, sometimes. Nonsense, others. Both urged Trista on, urgings she could not deny ... As Maggie finally spasmed, she caught hold of Trista's hair and pulled, wrenching face up and away from her, staring into the engineer's eyes with such a frantic hunger that Trista felt a ripple of dread.

Then, Maggie leaned in, panther-quick, and the kiss was just as hungry as that expression. Her teeth caught on Trista's lower lip, not breaking skin but pinching for a moment, as the Shooting Lady guided Trista beyond the curtain, and then down on the coarse sheets.

She slid a hand below, tickling Trista's quim and sending such shivers through the engineer that any words springing from her lips were of a primal, guttural language unknown to the civilized world. All sense of limbs vanished under waves of a kind of heat and warmth and love that must have stemmed from the chaos that spat forth the world in days long forgotten, that flowed from the nexus of all time and space, from the mouths of gods. Trista was flying, despite the weight of her arms and body. She was among the clouds and aloft, as delicious pressure built inside her. She had to moan, to release that pressure, but even giving it voice, expelling it as sound was not enough. Still it built within her, under Maggie's hand and kisses. Was the Shooting Lady kissing her down there, now? Or were her rough, ruby lips on Trista's nipple?

Or nuzzling the soft hairs of her sex? Or somehow all of these and more?

Trista's toes curled, as sensations flooded her, and when that pressure grew to be too much, so much, she caught hold of the sheets firmly enough that she thought she must be ripping them. She leaned forward, not sitting up, not capable of that, but lifting her head so that she could stare wide-eyed at Maggie's hair and eyes. She whimpered as the waves of that beautiful moment coursed through her, carrying her to some place past the rude world of flesh and blood and steam and pain. Through to the realm of ideals.

It was as though the top of her head was gone. It was as though she had been thrown forcefully from her own body. It was nothing less than the most incredible release she had ever experienced.

Then, Maggie lay beside her, still full of kisses and stroking hands. Her lips and tongue had a heavy flavor, richer than chocolate or wine;
my honey,
she realized,
this is the flavor of
my honey.

They lay together, lost to all but the moment and each other.

They lay ... for what might have been hours, though it was but two at most.

They lay shivering not at the chill, which their united warmth battered away, but from the potency of their own lovemaking.

They lay...

Awake and drinking each other's spirits.

They lay...

And then...

They rose together, clasping and shivering and giggling and perhaps sobbing, but not really speaking, for there was nothing more to say. Nothing that mere words could communicate. They parted then, and the world grew a little colder. Then, Maggie's hand found Trista's, and they clasped tight, and the cold retreated once more.

For a time.

* * * *

The town of Brisbane, Arizona proved to be the ruin of everything.

For every day of the six months that Trista had been with Heck's show, Benjamin, the amazingly outdated cogwork man, broke down a little more. The blowing grit that ran through the tents on their southwestern travels was enough to speed the process. She found herself entertaining a ground-up reconstruction.

Of course, Heck could not afford that sort of thing. He tried, however, and gave her license to do as she saw fit (and could get away with from their limited funds), but poor old Benji was getting less and less functional.

Old Benjamin was an ugly galoot, but his features had grown on Trista rather quickly. A seven-foot-tall humanoid made from black iron. His barrel-shaped chest housed one large steam boiler, and from this stemmed the inner workings of the device itself, a miracle of clockwork that could be programmed by use of punched steel cards fed through his mouth into the processing apparatus filling his head. At full stoke, he could operate for nearly twenty minutes at a time, performing a complex array of sequential tasks—walking and bowing and swinging his arms or lifting half-ton weights, or even more complex activities. He really was a marvel of engineering, though in the ten years since his construction the technologies had been improved, or abandoned in favor of newer, cheaper advances.

He belched stinking steam in the pauses between actions, the great curling plumes rolling up from the many joints in his body. His face was modeled on Benjamin Franklin's (thus his name), but whoever had done the shaping had been a poor hand at metalwork. The lower jaw was wide and pronounced, turning the infamous, modest grin into something sinister.

Benjamin's movements were awkward at best, but he wowed the crowd.

Too bad his life expectancy, so to speak, was so small.

However, he certainly caught attention. That was the problem.

On the last night of the Show's run outside Brisbane, Heck Lansdale received an unusual visitor. He called himself Black Paul, and he led nearly a dozen desperadoes. If he had come during the day, then any number of the Show's people could have dealt with him. As it was, he waited for the libations to flow—and flow they did, as Brisbane was a none too modest mining town, not quite so large as Silver City, say, but large enough to reward sweet coin and foodstuffs to a show that captured their hearts. So it was with the crew well-oiled and unfit to mount a defense that the Show's master had himself a visit from an outlaw.