Wild Cards and Iron Horses (14 page)

“Well, I’m sure he only wants the best for her. And I think she’s just the right size, thank you very much.” Jon nodded to the waitress as the new round of delicacies appeared in front of them. He slipped another handful of coins into her apron pocket with a smile and a wink. Appearances were important, and he didn’t want anyone to say that Jon Handleston was cheap. Besides, the food really was that good. He hadn’t tasted such delicious pastries in weeks, maybe since he had left London. His mouth watered at the mere memory of some of the tarts and cakes the baker at his family estate used to make on a regular basis.

These were as good if not better than those pleasant memories.

Gil eagerly dug into another tart, smearing the raspberry jam over his fingers. “Mister Jake’s a good man. That’s what the sheriff said, as well. A good man with a good daughter and a good business.” He started to methodically lick his fingers clean, ignoring the cloth napkin tactfully draped across his lap.

“The sheriff?” Taking another sip of the tea from the dainty porcelain cup, Jon leaned forward. “When was this?”

The dark jam mixed with the lighter chocolate on the boy’s lips. “When I brought him to the workshop a few hours ago. Miss Sam caught me when I come back from the garbage run, said that it was important, that they needed to talk to him right away. Didn’t take me long to find him.” He grinned, a smirk displaying far too much knowledge for his age. “Back door of Miss Liza’s house, three knocks and a cough, as usual.”

“Ah,” Jon replied. “Do you know what they wanted to see him about?”

Gil shook his head. “I dunno.”

“Hmm.” Jon wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, then folded it and placed it neatly under the edge of his plate. He frowned at the amount of food left behind, the untouched pastries layered one upon the other. “I think you should take the rest of this. I don’t think I can eat another bite, and I dare not take it back to Mrs. McGuire’s house and insult her own fine cooking. It would be a sin to let such good food to go to waste.”

Gil’s dark brown eyes went wide. “Why, thank you, sir.” Casting a sideways glance at the waitress, he packed the remaining pastries in his napkin and knotted the linen in a neat bow.

Jon caught the eye of the woman and smiled, reaching into his waistcoat pocket for yet another coin.

“Where do you live, Gil?” He tried to sound casual, as if he didn’t already know the answer. He’d seen too many Gils on the streets of London and New York City and Chicago and many other places on his travels.

The youngster paused, resting the bundle on his lap. “I live here and there, sir. Wherever I can lay my head, it’s my home.”

“Hmm.” Jon pressed his lips together. “And your parents?”

The pained look lasted only a second before being replaced with a stoic mask. “My dad’s a damn Injun. And my mum was one of those ladies I’m not supposed to be hanging around with, Miss Sam says.”

A glint of humor appeared in his eyes. “Unless I’m looking for the sheriff, that is.”

Jon shook his head. “That’s not good language, Gil. Whatever your father was, he was no ‘damn Injun’. He was your father and he deserves to be spoken of in better terms.”

Gil shrugged, studying the knot in the thin fabric bundle. “That’s what everyone calls him. He went off to the war and died, ’cording to my mother. Then she got taken by some sickness not too long after, something that broke her heart right open in two.” He rubbed his chest. “I sometimes think I’m gonna die of that. Inheritary and all.”

Jon felt a catch in his throat, unable to speak for a minute. Finally he reached over to tousle the boy’s hair and forced a smile. “I doubt that. I happen to think you may have a bright future ahead of you. And a long, long life.”

A small smile appeared. “You think?”

“Sure.” Jon waved his hand in the air, gesturing at the two women behind the counter and the rows of pastries. “This is America, the land of opportunity. You can be whatever you want to be.”

“Hmm.” Gil chewed on his bottom lip, a thoughtful look on his face. “I think I’d like to be President.”

He glanced at Jon. “Would that be good?”

“I think that would be excellent.” Getting to his feet, he bowed slightly to the child. “Now, Mr. President, I think I should accompany you back to the Weatherlys’ workshop so that I can check on my brace.”

Gil slid off his chair and stood up straight, his hands tucked around the threadbare suspenders. “Thank you, Mr. Handleston. I think I shall recommend you for the Vice-President position.” He cast an eye at the two ladies waiting nearby. “And we shall hire them to cook at the White House?”

“Without doubt.” Jon winked again at the women, garnering another round of giggles.

The waitress covered her mouth, hiding her laughter as she opened the door for the two. She eagerly pocketed another coin from Handleston and then curtseyed to the pair. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Gil strode along the wooden sidewalk, cradling the sweets in his makeshift bundle. “I think being President would be rather nice, but I do like fidgeting with the machines, like Miss Sam.”

Jon nodded, his attention elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the sheriff’s visit was connected to his business with the Weatherlys. If they had changed their minds and suspected him of cheating with the brace as well, then it would be impossible to either continue playing in the tournament or even stay in town under such a dark cloud of suspicion. With his luck, the sheriff would impound the prosthetic and he’d be crippled both in reputation and in body until he got back to England, which would be a long and lonely trip. If he stayed in town, he could wire home and ask for a replacement, but it would be nearly impossible to find someone to synchronize and fit the device, not someone as good with her hands like Samantha Weatherly.

His mental wanderings stopped as he spotted the door of the workshop swinging open, hardly a common sight in a town where every window and door stayed closed for as long as possible. Moving closer, familiar sounds caught his ear, the hairs on the back of his neck rising at one particular voice.

“Gil.” Putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, he plucked the bundle from the child, relieving him of the extra weight. “Go get the sheriff. As fast as you can. Go!” Jon barked.

Without asking why, Gil sprinted down the street and into an alleyway. Placing the pastries against the wall, Jon reached inside his waistcoat for the small derringer. He approached the open door. The small weapon felt like a heavy lead weight in his left hand. The last time he had fired the derringer had been a few hours after purchasing it upon arriving in New York City, just to make sure the damned thing worked.

He crouched down and stepped over the threshold, moving as silently as he could. The murmurs rose to become fully formed words, shouted words.

The inside of the shop was still dark. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust and identify the silhouettes in front of him. What he could see was Victor Morton standing in front of the two mechanics, his cane lifted over his head.

“Name your price.” Spittle flew from Victor’s lips. “Just smash that infernal device and I shall make you both rich.”

Sam defiantly shook her head, holding a brown paper bundle in both hands. “It would be a sin to destroy such a magnificent creation. I shall not do so.” Her eyes flashed past the intruder, meeting Jon’s for only a second before returning to the irate man’s face.

To Jon’s relief Morton didn’t pick up the slight glance, turning his focus on Jake. “Do you not care for your daughter? I can make it possible for her to find a good husband with a fine dowry, give you grandchildren.” He drew the cane farther back as if to attack Jake. “I will not leave here without that brace.”

“And I say you shall,” Jon said in a low, calm tone, rising to his full height. He stretched out his left arm, sighting down the short barrel of the derringer at the center of Victor’s chest. A slight tremor shot down his arm, forcing him to grit his teeth in response. He wouldn’t back down now, he couldn’t.

Morton spun around on one foot, scowling at Jon. His face, already scarlet from the yelling, turned an even deeper shade of red. The cane remained in the air, poised to strike. The golden eagle glared down at Jon with an evil eye, daring him to allow Victor to pull the hidden blade free.

“Sir, I think you should leave.” Jake snatched a crowbar from a nearby table. “Our conversation with you is over. And we have our own business with Mr. Handleston to finish.”

Victor looked back and forth between the two men and gave a final angry glance towards Samantha.

He shifted his weight, as if readying to pounce.

Jon kept pointing the derringer at the man’s chest, his arm now rock-steady. A wave of heat washed over him, anchoring his feet to the floor.

“Do not think that I am not a good shot because I only have one working arm,” he snarled. “I have been in the war, sir, and I have no compunction about blowing your damn fool head off.” The anger crept into his voice at the end, shattering his calm. “Get the hell out of here.”

Morton’s upper lip curled back, exposing his tobacco-stained teeth. Finally he lowered the cane, cupping the eagle’s head in the palm of his hand.

“This…is not finished.” The end of the wooden stick pointed at Jon. “I shall prove that you are a cheat and a fraud, and I shall destroy this business for helping you continue to plague my life.”

Puffing out his chest, he strode by Jon through the door and into the street, disappearing quickly into the ever-present light smog. The loud footsteps went from a steady pace to a sudden trot, fading away within seconds.

Jon slowly pulled his hand back, barely able to hold the small pistol. The heat had vanished from his bones, replaced by a deep chill that vibrated through his muscles, threatening to pull his legs out from under him. Automatically he went through the process of putting the safety on the diminutive pistol and checked to see it was secure before placing it back in his pocket. He walked towards the pair on unsteady feet, drawing a deep breath to brace himself. He’d be damned if he’d faint here and now, in front of a woman.

“Are…are you okay?” The question was directed towards the two Weatherlys, but it was Jake who answered first.

“As well as can be.” He spat on the ground, clutching the crowbar with whitened knuckles. “Damned man. The sheriff should be tossing him on the first train out of town.”

“I sent Gil for the sheriff,” Jon said to Sam, forcing a steady tone to his words. “When he arrives, you must swear out a complaint against him.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t been out here long, have you?” A smile touched her lips. “We have a little rougher justice on the frontier than you may be used to back east, Mr. Handleston.” Turning to one side, she placed the exoskeleton back on the bench, the brown paper sprawling off to the sides. “Gil can probably tell you stories.” Sam frowned. “Are you well?”

“Ah…” Jon swayed slightly. He plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped up the cold sweat on his face. He felt like he had just run a marathon, his muscles weak and sore. “I just need to sit down, I think.” Jon took a shaky step forward. “I think…”

Jake grabbed Jon’s good arm, dropping the crowbar on the floor and taking the majority of his weight on his own body. Half walking, half dragging him, the elderly engineer maneuvered Jon to the nearest work stool and dropped him onto the wooden chair with a solid thud. “Sam, get him some water.”

Casting worried looks towards the two men, Sam dashed to the water tank and filled two cups with the cool liquid. She returned to the pair and handed Jon one metal cup. It shook in his grip, water sloshing over the edges and splashing onto the wooden floor.

Jon mumbled, trying to apologize for making a mess, but the words didn’t come out. Instead the cup hung limp from his fingers, his good hand now as useless as the other. Half of the water spilled out, dribbling across the wooden floor.

Jake plucked the other cup from Sam’s hand and placed it on the table. Without asking permission, he took Jon’s handkerchief from his pocket and dunked it in the water. Wringing it dry as best he could with one hand, Jake started wiping Jon’s face. “Been a long time since the war, but it’s never long enough,” he murmured. “I know your pain. We’re all safe and fine now.”

Jon nodded. His heart slowed down, the aching paralysis easing from his joints. Pulling the cup upright, he took a deep swallow of the cool water. “My apologies, sir.”

Jake nodded. “There is no shame in being a man, sir. And I thank you for your help in dealing with the situation.” He glanced at the still-open door. “I would be lying if I said we were in control, given the circumstances.”

“Victor Morton is a bastard,” Jon muttered. “Please forgive my choice of words.”

“Bah,” Jake answered. “He probably is. A real gentleman doesn’t need to resort to threats of violence to achieve his means. That man is no gentleman, and I think that if you had not appeared when you did that we would be in a somewhat precarious position.” He stared at Sam. She stood nearby, a confused expression on her face as she watched Jon. “You remember Uncle Owen?”

Shocked out of staring at Jon, Sam replied, “Yes. A military career man, killed in a brush with some rebel settlers some, what, ten years ago?” She brushed the front of her shirt, glancing down. “He was a good man.”

Jake nodded. “He used to sleep with a loaded revolver under his pillow all the time, even when he visited us. Your mother was rightly upset, worried he’d accidentally kill you or me or her, but I explained to her there were some things Owen saw out on the frontier that he couldn’t leave behind. He never got over the carnage he had seen, even though he hadn’t been on the front lines.” Turning his attention back to Jon, Jake continued. “Your aim was true and your hand steady. If you had fired, Morton would have been killed.”

“Yes.” Jon drained the last few drops from the cup and handed it back to Sam. “And I would not have that on my conscience if at all possible.”

Her fingers closed on his for a second and he shuddered, feeling her hand on his own cold, clammy skin. She didn’t pull away. Instead she kept her hand on his, pouring her heat into him until the skin warmed under her touch, until he felt human again. Samantha just stood there, holding his hand in silence.