Wild Cards and Iron Horses (29 page)

“Jon finished what I started,” Samantha replied, feeling braver. The two brothers nodded in unison.

Mr. Smithston spoke up. “What is he charged with?”

William stared at the well-dressed businessman. “Kidnapping and assault to start. Maybe more later on, depending on what the sheriff comes up with.”

“Doesn’t surprise me at all. Man like that, losing his mind.” Her father let out a deep sigh. “I’m just glad things all worked out.” He pulled Samantha close. “No offense to you gentlemen, but we can always rebuild the horse. My daughter’s one of a kind.”

Mr. Smithston smiled. “Totally understandable, Mr. Weatherly.” He looked at the deputies. “So this unfortunate affair is finished, I assume.”

“Well, sort of.” Robert removed his cowboy hat, scratching the back of his head. “Mr. Morton’s probably going to go away for a long time to one of those big prisons back East, but we’ll have to ask Mr. Handleston to stay in town until the trial.” He paused. “And that iron horse thing is going to have to stay here in town. Sort of evidence, I think. We’re not sure, but that’ll be for the lawyers and judge to decide, so you won’t be taking that thing out of town anytime soon.” The deputy glanced at the two Weatherlys.

“They’ll be wanting to talk to you as well, being witnesses and all.”

Mr. Smithston shrugged his narrow shoulders, the jacket rising and falling with little effort. “Not a problem about the machine, sir. We are always willing to cooperate with the authorities.”

Her father let out a low whistle. “I can only speak for us. We’ll be there. But won’t Mr. Handleston be planning to move on to the next tournament?” He directed the question more towards Samantha than to the deputy.

“I…I guess that all depends on if he wins or not.” She gestured at the far table, where the three men continued to play.

William looked over at the gamblers, and then back at his brother. “Guess we better hope he…” He frowned. “What do we want him to do again? Win or lose?”

Sam opened her mouth to answer and then paused. “Stay,” she whispered, more to herself than to any of the men around her. “I want him to stay.”

Jon looked at Drummond who looked at Trenblinko who looked at his cards and nowhere else. He drew in a deep breath, trying to not show what he was thinking. If he won, it could be the end of his quest—he’d have enough to pay off his debt to Sotherly. If he lost, it’d be a long, hard fight to climb back up to this level of competition and this amount of money as the final prize. And he’d have to ask Sam to either wait for him or come with him on the road.

He couldn’t ask that of her, he couldn’t. He’d just have to win here and be done with it.

Harry rolled his cigar to the center of his mouth. He pressed it tight between his lips and extended it until it defied gravity. Ivan pushed another two chips towards the center, taking a deep breath through fat, chubby lips that were cracked and near bleeding.

“All in.” The audience went silent as Jon pushed every wooden circle in, scooping up the loose ones behind his crippled hand and tossing them in. “All. In.”

Harry glared at him. The cigar bobbed to the left, then to the right. “Right.” The older man slid the chips across the table. “Let’s do this, then. You got a pair, Jonathan Handleston. You got a big pair.”

The crowd’s attention turned to Ivan Trenblinko who remained still, studying his cards as if he hadn’t heard the exchange. A long minute later, he gave a slow nod and pushed his chips into the pile. His small pink tongue flickered out, wetting his lips.

The dealer looked at Jon. “Sir?”

A sense of inner peace filled his soul as he flipped over the three cards, all sevens. He’d be done with this, either way. All the waiting, all the playing and it came down to one second, one handful of cards, one final play. One final chance to change his life.

“Hrm.” Drummond pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “I’ve got one pair. Aces.” The cards flipped onto the table like dying fish. He grinned at Handleston. “You got me one final time, boy.”

All eyes went to Trenblinko. The bear-like man scratched his chin again, speckling the table with yet more white flakes. He raised his eyes, locking with Jon.

“Good play.” The thick Russian accent echoed around the room. The cards fell from his hand, landing face-up on the table.

A seven of spades, two threes, clubs and diamonds, a ten of hearts and…an ace of hearts.

A roar went up from the crowd as the truth hit them. Jonathan Handleston had won the Ridge Rocket Stakes.

Jon exhaled slowly, a loud buzzing in his ears. His heart felt like it was about to burst, the frosty feeling in his veins freezing both hands so that they sat on the table, numb and unable to move. Around him the crowd exploded, men slapping each other on the back as money exchanged hands, the women whooping and screaming, some fainting into the eagerly waiting hands of their paramours or husbands.

Getting up, the dealer nodded to someone out of sight before walking away and vanishing into the crowd. Michael Tribiolte appeared with a wide grin, flapping the sleeves of his pea-green long jacket like a bird preening itself for a mate.

“Folks, we have a winner.” After climbing up on to the table, he pointed down at Jon. “Jonathan Handleston is the first winner of the first-ever Ridge Rocket Stakes in our own great town of Prosperity Ridge.” He waved his hands over his head, motioning to someone or something in the back of the hysterical crowd. “Bring it over. Bring it over.”

Two large, muscle-bound men hauled a small chest up through the crowd, sweating profusely as they dumped the contents at the saloon owner’s feet. Gold coins and paper bills rolled out, spilling over Jon’s hands where they still sat on the velvet tabletop.

“The winner of five thousand dollars.” Tribiolte took off his top hat, waving it in the air. “The winner!”

Jon sat in silence, looking down at the money covering both hands from sight. Finally he exhaled a mixture between a sigh, a groan and a whimper. He stared at the money—the small silver coins, the larger gold coins, the wads of dollar bills in different denominations strewn across the table in neatly tied bundles.

Although he knew his family had more, much more, it was one thing to have numbers in a book, another to have it in front of him. Finally, his debt to Sotherly could be paid in full. Now his family could have some comfort, though it would never replace the man. As for Jon, he’d earned his freedom and finished his quest.

Now he could be free to move on with his life, to be with Samantha…if she’d have him.

“Pack it back up, boys. We’re even going to take it to the bank for you, Mr. Handleston.” The promoter nodded to the crowd. “Yes, we’ll do that for him. We don’t want him getting robbed between here and there, do we? Everyone belly up to the bar for a free drink.” Turning away from the crowd, he scowled as the spectators surged away from the poker tables and towards the hapless bartenders. Leaning down, he mumbled to one of the workmen, “Don’t give them the good stuff.”

Jon slumped back in the chair. His eyes ached, his bad hand ached, his good hand ached, his back ached, everything ached… A soft touch on his left shoulder brought him out of his reverie.

“Jon?” He turned his head to see Samantha, her bright eyes brimming with tears. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Jon stared at her. Suddenly it all came into focus, the cards falling into place over the past year, building the perfect hand. If he’d never gone to war, he’d never have met Sotherly or learned how to play or been crippled or sought to pay off his debt or made an enemy of Victor or met Samantha Weatherly.

It was all so perfect, he wanted to cry. And the biggest wild card of it all, the final card to complete him, had been her heart. Taking a chance, he risked it all and won. Now she was the Queen of his heart. “
Yes
,” he roared.

Jumping to his feet, he grabbed her around the waist. He spun her about as he pressed his lips to hers, devouring her with a newfound hunger. The cheering brought him up for air, and he beamed at the crowd.

Jon stopped and stared at the two men approaching them, the well-dressed businessmen none-too-gently fighting their way through the crowd that now seemed more interested in the free drinks than the poker player. Releasing Sam, he stood his ground as the two men advanced.

The first man bowed slightly. “Please allow me to introduce myself. Mr. Smithston, sir. A fine performance, Mr. Handleston. I must confess that I have rarely, if ever, seen such a fine display of gambling. Your mother would be proud.”

Jon’s lips moved, but nothing came out. His attention slid past the company representative to the note-taking associate, who now stepped up beside Mr. Smithston.

“Father,” Jon coughed out, his throat suddenly dry. His feet felt like they were nailed to the floor, despite his urge to flee.

Sam squeezed his hand, moving closer. “Father?” Her gaze went from Jon’s face to the businessman and then back again, her eyes wide.

“Son.” His father glanced at Mr. Smithston, who nodded slightly before turning his attention to Jon.

“Indeed, a fine performance. And without your hand brace.” He gestured at Jon’s right side.

His hand came up at the mention of the prosthetic, the limp fingers flopping free at the motion.

“I thought that device would last you a lifetime,” his father mused, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. “I should have gotten them to sign some sort of warranty. At least some sort of maintenance contract.”

Jon stared at him. For one of the few times in his life, he was speechless.

“And all this running around saving young ladies. Really. What will I tell your mother?” He smiled at Samantha.

“Tell her that I found a woman to live for,” Jon replied. “You tell her that.”

“I shall.” His father bowed to Sam. “And I think she’ll be pleased.” He punctuated the last sentence with a wink.

Jake stepped forward, rubbing his chin. “Mr…Handleston?”

“Yes, Daniel Handleston. You’ve already met my associate, Mr. Smithston.” He took off his bowler hat, dusting it with one hand. “Seriously, Jonathan. Did you think you could do any banking anywhere in America without me finding out where you were?”

“You followed me?”

His father let out a snort. “I did not follow you. By perchance I am part of a group of investors that is considering these equimechs. When the opportunity arose to come West, I took advantage of it to see how you were doing.” One side of his mouth twitched. “Your mother insisted.”

The older Handleston looked at Jake. “I will, of course, recommend that they contract with you and your daughter for the maintenance and repair of same.” He pulled out the notebook. “I cannot find any fault with a man, or a woman, who can fix such a device in such a short time while dealing with your own…delicate situation. Such ingenuity is to be rewarded where it is found.”

Jake took a deep breath and exhaled, whistling slightly as he wobbled from side to side. Sam released Jon’s arm, rushing to support her father.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He waved her off, forcing himself to stand as tall as he could. “A fine choice, sirs, if I do say so myself. You’ll find no one better in Prosperity Ridge to fix your machines than my daughter. And myself, of course.”

“Of course,” Daniel replied, a bit of a smile on the older man’s lips. “But, of course, there will be some restrictions on the contract.”

Jake stopped grinning. “Restrictions?”

“Yes.” His father faced Jon. “I suppose now that you’ve finished this affair you’ll be looking for another great adventure.”

Jon moved to take Sam’s hand in his, smiling. “I think I’ve found one, to be honest.”

Daniel motioned to Mr. Smithston. “I was wondering if I could entice you away from the cards. Our investment group will need a local representative to make sure that these new machines are ready to roll when the coaches need them.”

“You mean, work for you?” Jon looked from Samantha to Jake and back to his father. His voice rose slightly. “Father…” The warning tone came out stronger than he had intended.

“No, not for me. For the investment group,” he said in a low, determined voice. “We need someone reliable, someone we can trust. And since you’ve already operated the machine, you’re probably the best choice to help us show them off and sell them as a viable alternative to their live counterparts.” His attention turned to Sam. “I assume you’ll be available to help out in these matters. Provide technical support, local contacts and the like.”

She smiled, tightening her grip on Jon’s hand. “Of course, sir. I’m at your service, as is my father.”

“Good. Now, we have papers to draw up and you have a number of things to do.” He paused, looking at Jake. “And we need to discuss outfitting your workshop with adequate tools and equipment to maintain a fleet of equimechs.”

“Yes, sir,” Jake replied.

“And Jon…you have to wire your mother.” He laughed, a low soft rumble. “Tell her that you’re well, you’ve finished this Quixotic quest of yours, and…” he smiled at Samantha, “…you’ve found a lovely young lady.”

“Thank you, Father.” Jon squeezed Sam’s hand back.

“We’re staying at the Buffalo Inn, not far from the airship tower. Please let me know your schedule so that we can make arrangements.” He paused. “Shall I start the process of ordering a new brace? It’ll take a bit of time and work to get it fitted, but…”

Jon held up his good hand. “No.” He beamed at the woman on his arm. “I don’t need it anymore.”

Mr. Smithston frowned. “I don’t understand. Isn’t your hand still, well…” he stumbled over the words, “…crippled?”

“Yes.” The scarred hand came up in the air, displaying the mangled flesh. “But it’s okay.”

“I can make something up for you,” Sam broke in, her eyes bright with the temptation of a challenge.

“And I bet it’ll be better than that other one.”

“Then make it a wedding present and we’ll be done.” Jon grinned, moving in for another kiss. Both fathers let out low coughs, covering wide smiles with their hands.

Sam pressed her palm against his chest, holding him off. A sly grin sealed his fate. “And you’ve no time to be kissing and wooing women when you’re the man of the day.” She glanced around them at the festivities. “Well, at least the hour.”