Wild Cards and Iron Horses (16 page)

“She died from an asthma attack two weeks after we arrived.” Sam stared past him to a painting on the wall, focusing hard on the herd of buffalo stampeding across the canvas. “Father had signed the shop papers, so we stayed on. All of our belongings were here and he couldn’t bear the idea of leaving her and taking everything back East.”

“Ah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.” His gloved hand landed atop hers and squeezed it lightly.

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m fine. It’s been years.” A woman nearby coughed, causing Sam to lower her voice even more. “We’ve done well.”

Jon leaned in, straining to hear her whispered words. “I like to think that she’d be proud, having a daughter who is so talented.” He flexed his fingers again. “Amazing.”

“The men who built that…” she touched the black glove and the underlying brace, “…were amazing.

I only repaired it.”

“Which takes more skill, from where I’m standing.” He shuffled forward as a gap opened between them and the man ahead of them. “I’m just pleased that Gil sent me to you.”

“Gil always seems to be in the right spot at the right time.” Sam laughed as they moved ahead again, a fraction of an inch this time. “He has that knack.”

“A valuable trait to have.” Jon took another step forward.

A short pudgy man hustled by them, opened a swinging door in the polished wood counters to their right and disappeared into the back offices.

Suddenly he reappeared, adjusting his spectacles as he stared at the couple. He was an older man, his temples tinged with white hair, a few dark strands attempting to cover the vast wasteland of his bald head.

The bank officer approached the couple slowly, staring at Jon.

Sam frowned, squeezing Jon’s arm. “Did you rob a bank back East?”

“Not that I’ll admit to,” he whispered back. His tone was humorous, but he shuffled his feet as the man moved towards them.

Sam drew in a deep breath, wondering if the man on her arm had even more secrets than the amazing prosthetic brace.

“Sir, I’m Mr. Standish.” The man offered his right hand. It hung in the air between the two men, the soft fingers waiting for a response. “I’m sorry for not recognizing you earlier, Mr. Handleston. It’s been awhile since I saw a picture of you in the papers. I think it was in the business section. You look so much like your father.” Turning his attention to Samantha, he bowed deeply. “Miss Weatherly. May I escort you both to my office? We can talk there.”

Jon took the man’s hand, shaking it gently. “Yes, yes. I think we should.” He glanced at Sam for only a second before pulling her along behind the dividers, following the older man’s lead. Sam stiffened as they walked past the other bank employees and their inspecting glares. She didn’t mind supplying a bit of gossip, but this was going to be impossible to live down.

The office was a small one in the corner, the windows offering a view of the alley between the bank and the building next door. “Please.” Sitting down behind an antique oak desk, the man gestured to the two chairs. Jon moved behind one, motioning Sam to sit as he held it for her.

“What can we do for you today, Mr. Handleston? I apologize for letting you wait in line for so long.”

The man removed his spectacles, pulling out a handkerchief to clean them. “We have a telegraph at your disposal if you wish to contact our other branches regarding investments?” The last word came out as a question.

“Nothing so major today, Mr. Standish. I’m just looking to make a slight transfer of funds.” Jon nodded towards Sam. “From my personal account into the Weatherly account, if that’s possible.”

“Of course.” The bank officer pulled out a pad of paper from a drawer and slid it across the desktop along with a pen. “If you could just enter the amount and your account number, and then yours, Miss Weatherly, I’ll have it done in a few minutes.”

Jon picked up the pen with his left hand and steadily wrote the numbers on the yellow paper. “You’ll forgive me for having a slight alteration in my handwriting,” he mumbled, “but I’m sure you understand the circumstances. I believe it was covered in the papers.”

“Of course.” Mr. Standish bobbed his head, lowering his voice slightly. “I understand totally. And discretion is our business, sir.”

He pushed the paper over to Sam’s side. She looked down at the three, no, four, no, five digits written there. A faint roaring started in her ears as she checked the amount again. She looked sideways at Jon and was rewarded with a solemn nod. Sam dragged the pen across the page with shaky fingers, scribbling the account number. Placing the pen down, she handed the paper back to the bank officer, trying to keep calm.

“Thank you. I shall be back in a minute with your receipts.” The man nodded twice, bowing again before leaving the office.

As soon as the door swung shut, Sam twisted in her chair. “That is too much,” she hissed. “That is more than double what I had on the bill.” The numbers buzzed around in her head.

“And worth every penny.” Jon put up his right hand, still enclosed in the black glove. “If you don’t want the extra, give it to Gil. I’m sure the boy could use another pair of pants or a decent shirt.”

Her mouth hung open, and then closed with a snap like a newly sprung bear trap. There was no way she could turn down the money. It would give the business the stability it’d been missing for months. But she knew he knew the truth as well, and the fact grated on her. She’d never been beholden to anyone, any man, and being overpaid for a simple repair job just felt wrong, no matter how much it would help her family. And who was this man, this Jon Handleston, who could pay so much without even blinking?

Turning away, she studied a wooden sculpture on the desk of a grizzly bear attacking a man. Sam envied the bear’s claws.

An uncomfortable ten minutes later Mr. Standish reappeared. “All done.” He handed a piece of paper to Sam and another to Jon. “Your receipts. A pleasure to do business with you, sir. And Miss Weatherly, of course.” He continued speaking as Jon got to his feet. “If you don’t mind me asking, is your father well?

There hasn’t been much mention of him in the business sections as of late.”

“I haven’t seen him in some time. I believe he’s overseeing some new investments and is doing quite a bit of traveling overseas,” Jon replied in a flat, unemotional tone. “But when I do make contact, I shall mention the help your institution and you, personally, have given me.”

The older man flushed a deep scarlet. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Samantha. “If your father has any questions regarding his account, please feel free to ask for me at the counter, Miss Weatherly. I am at your service.” He passed over two business cards, one to each of them. “Any friend of the Handleston family is a cherished customer of this establishment.”

Sam nodded politely as she swept past the two men and out onto the main floor, her lips pressed tightly together, the business card already crushed in her hand. She wasn’t sure what had just gone on, but Jon Handleston was no common gambler and his family was more than a bit wealthy. A handful of faces turned her way, the low whispering signaling the start of even more talk about her, her family and the mysterious man who brought the bank to a stop with his mere presence.

Sam heard the bank officer’s low babbling behind him, something about land investments, and the quick steps advancing towards her. As she grabbed hold of one of the large brass door handles, Jon’s hand landed on her shoulder.

She tensed under his touch. The gossip train would be in full throttle now, her walking into a bank with a known gambler and receiving preferred treatment. She needed solid ground, familiar ground to regain her footing and decide exactly what she wanted with Jon Handleston.

“Sam. We need to talk for a minute. Please. Let me do some explaining before you go back to the shop.” He took hold of the handle, pulling it open for her. “May I buy you a cup of tea? Or coffee?”

“I think I need something stronger.” The left edge of her mouth tilted up. “Mrs. Carver’s Teahouse, I think.” The bank may be his territory, but she was going to take him well into her own domain if this discussion were to continue.

Leading her onto the sidewalk, Jon offered his arm. She stared at it, noticing his panicked look. He looked afraid, almost terrified at being rejected. Sam’s pulse fluttered at the sight. Smiling, she took his arm, seeing the visible relief in his face.

“Thank you for your most generous payment.” Adjusting her shawl, Sam nodded to the left. “If you can see it through the smog, the teahouse is down that street about a block or so.” She tucked a few strands of hair back into her misshapen braid. “If you don’t mind being seen out with me in such a condition.”

“I’ll manage.” He grinned, patting her hand. “And if anyone says different, they’ll have to answer to me.” Jon started walking at a leisurely pace.

Sam nodded at one couple passing them, relishing the moment. It was the Jeffersons, who not only owned the largest General Store in Prosperity Ridge but also were the biggest gossips of the town. Mr. Jefferson glared at her, his belly barely contained in his fashionably tight pants while his redheaded wife gave a snort that could only signal that Sam’s outing with Jonathan Handleston, notorious gambler, would be the subject of many a discussion to come between the women who visited the store.

Well, so be it. She wasn’t going to avoid being seen with a handsome man because they disapproved of his employment. As it was, none of the other men in town even considered dating her, what with this strange attraction to having an education and skills and… She noticed Jon staring at her, a smile on his lips.

They were standing still and had been for some time, with Sam lost in her own thoughts while he waited for her to return.

“I think we’re here. Unless there’s some other teahouse nearby.” He pointed up at the swinging sign.

The swirling gold letters on the black square announced “Carver’s Teahouse” in no uncertain terms to pedestrians.

“Oh, oh, yes,” Sam stuttered. “I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

“Understandable.” Jon grinned. “I thought those two looked like a pair of pretentious snobs. Who are they?”

“The Jeffersons.” She adjusted the shawl again after releasing his arm. “They own a good part of the town.”

“Bah,” Jon scoffed with a laugh. “Bet they can’t fix a watch worth a damn.”

Sam giggled. “You’d be right on that point.” She scuffed one boot tip on the edge of the stairs. “And she can’t bake a lemon tart worth a damn.” The pair laughed at the shared profanities.

The Teahouse consisted of a covered porch, the thick glass panes an unusual sight due to their high cost. Jon paused for a minute, seeing the thick yellow residue on the once-pristine windows. This was no simple building modified from the usual wooden structure. This was a two-story original design that would have cost a pretty penny to build, never mind maintain in this harsh environment.

“They were clean once.” Sam walked past him and pulled the door open. “She invested her entire life savings into this building and this business, just after the war ended. Rumor has it that she bet a lot on the North to win, at the right time to get excellent odds.”

Jon smiled. “I like her already.”

The covered porch held four tables, each set up for what Jon presumed was High Tea, or whatever bastardized version the colonists kept recreating in an attempt to woo travelers. None of the tables were occupied. A large air scrubber, hidden under a lovely lace tablecloth, coughed at the intrusion and began to work furiously.

A woman walked out from the house’s interior. “Samantha!” She stood a good six feet tall, with long dark red hair in a loose braid that threatened to sweep the wooden floor behind her. Her dress was plain but still colorful, bright blue flowers dotting the thin fabric.

“Annette.” Sam embraced her. “I’m sorry, it’s been so busy at work and with Father…”

“Bah!” Annette stepped back. “Don’t apologize for family.” She scanned Jon from top to bottom, her scrutinizing gaze sending an uneasy shiver through his stomach. For a second he thought about turning and leaving Sam there, the sudden fear reminding him of the ornery drill sergeant leading the artillery at the last battle.

“This is Jon Handleston.” Sam put her hand on his arm, breaking the spell. “He is one of our customers, a very good one. I’ve got a few minutes free, so I thought I’d treat him to one of your fine teas.”

The inspection ended. “Oh, certainly. Please, have a seat and I’ll be out in a minute with some refreshments and your drinks.” She walked back into the house.

“Don’t mind her. She’s always looking out for me.” Sam led him to the far table, with a view out onto the street. Jon instinctively took the chair with his back to the house, allowing himself an unobstructed panorama of the foot traffic.

“Looking out for you obviously means having the temper of a crazed grizzly bear protecting her young,” Jon replied.

Sam looked back towards the door and then at Jon. “Yes, yes it does. So.” She settled into the white rattan chair, glancing out the stained windows as she spoke. “What’s going on?”

Jon frowned. “What?”

“I’ve never seen Mr. Standish jump that high and that fast for anyone, including Mayor Tenk.

Especially when dealing with an amount that would hardly make or break the bank, despite it being rather unusual for the average customer. No offense, my father and I do appreciate the payment, but they process that much daily with much less fanfare.” She brushed a strand of hair from her mouth. “So who are you, Mr. Handleston?”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it quickly as Annette walked back in carrying a tray. The cucumber sandwiches, daintily cut into triangles without the crusts, lay stacked against the tasty-looking scones. But instead of a regular teapot completing the scene, she placed on the table a teapot with a rather irregular design—two brass handles on each side of the short, stout body and a single spout. There was no creamer, no sugar bowl, just a pitcher of cool ice water sitting beside the delicate finger food.

“If you need anything else, please call.” She vanished inside the house.