Wild Cards and Iron Horses (9 page)

She could make it work. She could reset the spring in the delicate casing, twisting it slightly in order to restore Handleston’s mobility. A small metal plug, secured with a dab of candle wax, and it’d be repaired as good as new.

The question wasn’t if she could do it. The question was if she should. If he was somehow using his harness to cheat the other gamblers…aside from being a sin, it could put her and her father in danger. She had heard stories in the past of mobs descending on hapless inventors whose misused creations had tipped the balance in high-stakes games, the angry crowd already having dealt with the gambler itself and now seeking revenge against the knowing or unknowing conspirator. If nothing else, people took their poker tournaments seriously and any hint of duplicity would not go over well. No matter how many friends they had made in Prosperity Ridge, being involved with a criminal was sure to destroy their business and possibly risk their lives. Her personal feelings for Jonathan Handleston couldn’t supersede the safety of the family business.

She rocked back and forth, keeping her eyes closed. Sam mentally went over the exoskeleton inch by inch. Were there any variations, anything at all that didn’t need to absolutely be there? Any strange bits of metal sticking out, any hinge that bent at odd angles or more than was needed? Even though she didn’t play cards, other than the occasional hand of bridge when asked, she knew something of cheating.

Her thoughts flashed back to David Fierst, a young gentleman from the East who had arrived in a flourish of money and bad taste, claiming to own part of the Ridge due to a family land inheritance. The boy had been laughed out of town and his legal status determined to be without merit after the proper court procedures had been followed. It had taken a few months, however, and during that time he stole a goodly amount of money from the local poker players by using a simple device that hooked onto his wrist. The slim metal bracelet allowed the gambler to insert up to five cards, one atop the other, all hidden under his sleeve, and advance them into the palm of his hand with a simple twitch of his forearm muscle. It wasn’t foolproof nor would it guarantee a win since he could only load five cards and they had to be chosen before the game started, leaving the possibility of double cards appearing on the table. That event had never happened, but the device was enough to enable the gambler to take the pot more often than not. He had ridden out of town on a midnight train just ahead of an investigation about to start into his uncommon, and some said unnatural, luck.

Indeed, the only reason she remembered Fierst was because of a newspaper article a few months later detailing his being lynched farther out West by a mob who caught on to his tricks. Attention then turned to the manufacturer of the device, who thankfully had never been found. But the cautionary tale remained—be careful when dealing with gamblers and their devices. Innocence of intent wouldn’t stop an angry crowd from destroying their business and running them out of town.

The same technology applied here, to a certain degree, the various metal bands and wires working in conjunction with muscles to produce a certain reaction. But this time it was to help a crippled man use his hand like any other person, not to cheat.

At least, she thought so. But was her conclusion biased?

Sam got to her feet. She picked up the heavy work jacket and put it on, shrugging her arms through the thick, loose sleeves. There was just enough of a morning chill permeating the house to make her uncomfortable, and she knew her father would never complain, not wanting to be a burden on her time or attention. After reaching for the metal tongs, she dug out a fair-sized chunk of wood and tossed it on the fire. It burst into welcome flames, sending a sudden rush of heated air into the room.

A yawn broke free, pushing her to move away from the warm fire. Stretching her arms over her head, Sam went to the front door. It was part of her morning routine, but she wished it wasn’t. Opening the door a crack was just enough to see the street urchin napping peacefully on the step, as usual. A cloth napkin sat beside him, the cold meat pies carefully wrapped and ready to be eaten.

Sam smiled and nudged Gil with the point of her leather boot. The dark-haired boy mumbled something about school before his eyes shot open and he climbed to his feet, brushing the soot from his legs.

“Morning, Miss Sam.” He waved a hand at the bundle, the other rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I figured that you’d like a bit o’ grub before you got back to work on Mr. Handleston’s hand thing.”

“Did you, now.” She held the door open as he scrambled inside. “And that wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I know the schoolmistress is, once again, asking for a truant officer to be appointed for the town?” Sam picked up the bundle, getting a whiff of the freshly baked pastries. “You did pay for these, yes?”

“Of course I did. I told ’em it was for you and yer dad, and to put it on your account. And I ain’t worried about schooling. You got your learning from those books, not from any school.” He grinned.

“Your father was a much better teacher than any old woman.” The smile disappeared as he realized his error. “I mean, that woman. You know, the schoolmistress.”

Sam closed the door, pushing back the morning smog. “There’s more to learning than just reading books, Gil. You can read all you want but never really learn.”

He cocked his head to one side. “I don’t understand.”

She smiled, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “You will. Right now I need you to get Mr. Handleston again. Tell him to come here as soon as he can.” She added a sly wink. “And stay away from the main streets, at least until after the school bell rings.”

“Aye, aye!” Tapping his forehead with the first two fingers of his right hand, the youngster sprang forward. “I already ate, so make sure your father knows that.” Before she could respond, he was out and through the doorway, the door crashing shut behind him.

She made her way back to the fireplace, stoking the fire once more and placing the meat pies on the stone hearth before heading towards one of the back rooms. At least her father had gotten some sleep. Most nights he lay awake, thrashing back and forth in an effort to get comfortable. Despite the doctors’ best efforts, he still couldn’t sleep without some pain, even though the wounds were healed. He refused to take the medication offered, claiming it addled his thoughts and he couldn’t work. Still, some nights were better than others, and this seemed to be one of them.

Her father lay on the small cot, the threadbare blanket barely covering his work coat, boots thoughtfully tucked under the bed at the far end. A rolling snore and burbling signaled the depth of his sleep.

Sam sighed. She hated to wake him up, but if she didn’t there’d be hell to pay. While the fee for fixing the mechanized hand would be a nice bit of change, the equimech had a deadline as well. It was approaching at a speed almost as fast as the damned metal horse could run. Despite her inner promise to never let her father near the dangerous machine again, she needed his help to finish both jobs on time. They both knew it.

“Father.” She put one hand on his right shoulder, just above the loose sleeve that flapped free on his hip.

“I’m awake,” he mumbled before she could do anything else. “Did you get the coffee going yet?”

Sam smiled. “No. But Gil did bring us a pair of delicious pies for brekka.”

Her father rolled over with a grunt and levered himself into a sitting position, pushing hard with his one good arm. “Well, I’m still going to need coffee. Lots of it, if we’re going to finish that horse monstrosity today and that hand as well. It never rains but it pours, having two major jobs at the same time.” He rubbed his eyes. “Did you get much sleep?”

“Enough. I’ve already sent Gil for Mr. Handleston. We should finish his project today, God willing.”

She tilted her head to one side. “And did you get much sleep?”

“Enough.” He covered a yawn. “I’ll get going on that gearshift. Have to get ’er ready for a trial run this afternoon.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? I could use some help getting that spring aligned into that brace.” Her words trailed off as she saw the expression on her father’s face.

“You need both hands to work on that brace, girl, and no more than that. And don’t be thinking I’m not sound in the head for working on that beast. I’m not happy about what she did to me, but I’m not going to run away crying every time I see ’er.” Getting to his feet, he swung his one good hand high over his head. “Now, where’s my coffee? And what did you say about a pie?”

Sam laughed, putting her hands on her hips. “Pie’s warming by the fire. What would you do without me?”

Her father scratched his chin. “Be a lot thinner?” He roared with laughter at his own joke as Sam rolled her eyes. Still chortling to himself, he walked towards the potbelly stove at the far end of the living quarters and the waiting coffeepot.

Samantha moved into the small kitchen. The milk would be nicely chilled in the icebox and if she remembered correctly, the dishes were actually clean. They might have enough time to eat before Mr. Handleston arrived.

Her heart began to race at the thought of the dark-haired man’s return. She shook her head. Nonsense and all that. One did not just fall in love at first sight, much less over a mechanical device, no matter how beautiful and enticing and sensual it was.

The nattering in the back of her mind asked what she was referring to, the man or the device.

Jon stumbled over the young urchin as he descended the rooming house steps, his eyes practically closed. They had started stinging at first contact with the ever-present acidic air, shocked after the relatively clean atmosphere inside. Jon’s left hand flew up to cover his mouth while he took deep breaths, forcing himself to acclimatize as soon as possible. There was no use using one of the many handkerchiefs tucked away for exactly this purpose, it was too late. He’d forgotten and would now have to deal with the consequences, as with so many other things in his life. Besides, his inner pride boasted, if Gil could survive in this atmosphere, he could too.

Jon’s attention went to the boy at his feet. The youngster sat cross-legged with a patient look as if he were meditating on the mysteries of the universe. Breathing around his fingers, Jon looked down at Gil.

“You should wear a collar with bells on it so everyone can know where you are.”

Gil laughed. He jumped to his feet, rising into the air so quickly that Jon thought for a second the boy had levitated. “Aye, sir, but that would be belling the cat and I ain’t gonna give the mice that satisfaction.”

He jerked his head towards the rooming house door behind them. “I saw the light and figured you’d be out soon enough. Don’t like bothering Mrs. McGuire. She keeps on ’bout me getting into school.” The boy rubbed his eyes, which were already bloodshot from the exposure. “Miss Sam says that she’s ready to do something with that hand of yours now, if you don’t mind heading over to the workshop.”

Instinctively Jon’s right hand flexed at mention of the workshop. “I see. Well, let’s not keep Miss Weatherly waiting.” His breath caught in his throat. Swallowing loudly, he smiled down at the boy. “And I won’t tell Mrs. McGuire that you were on the porch. Lead on.”

The streets were empty for the early hours of the day, the occasional horse still standing tethered to a drinking trough where the owner hadn’t come out of the saloon yet. Here and there a storekeeper appeared, broom in hand, sweeping away the remains of the previous evening and sending clouds of dark soot into the air. A lone delivery wagon trundled by, the two horses wheezing as they pulled the heavy load under the direction of a sullen man who cursed under his breath in a foreign language. A loud droning filled the air, a familiar sound to Jon’s ears.

He glanced up to see a small, ultra-light aircraft swoop down through the low clouds, almost close enough to land on the rooftops. The little single-propeller vehicle was nothing more than a skeleton, stripped of everything that would add weight to the machine, the engine being the biggest item aboard. It dipped so low he saw the goggled driver, clad in a dark blue uniform, waving at him and Gil. The craft pulled up and disappeared into the upper layers of smog that hung over the town. Sunlight silhouetted the tiny figure for a few seconds, and then gave up.

“Army scout,” Gil volunteered. “Headed for the fort to the north, I figure.” The boy scowled. “He’s not much older than I is. They want li’l ones to fly the scouts but they wouldn’t take me.” His lower lip jutted out. “Not fair.”

Jon studied the young face, seeing the pain at being rejected. He didn’t say it aloud, but he knew the reason as well as Gil did. This close to the border with the Free Indian Nation, there was no chance of a mixed-blood child or adult getting any sort of foothold within the military.

“You seen those before, I guess.” Gil’s light tone was forced.

Jon peered up again. “Yes, yes I have.” Glancing down at the muddy ground under his feet, Jon kept walking, choosing his steps carefully. “They came in to action towards the end of the war.” The memories rushed into his mind’s eye, of the light planes racing over the battlefield and being shot down easily, the children screaming as the flaming bundles fell to earth and were trampled under the soldiers’ feet.

“I heard ’bout that.” Gil’s voice snapped Jon out of his reverie. “I was only a little kid when that ended, of course.” His hands went to his suspenders, tugging at the elastic. “Now I know more, being older, don’t you know.”

Jon smiled. “Older and wiser, hmm?”

“Very much so.” The urchin grinned. “Now even if they asked, I wouldn’t fly for them.”

“Who would you fly for?” Jon asked.

Gil shrugged, keeping pace with Jon, taking three steps for every two of his longer stride. “Dunno.

Lots of scouts needed ’round the country, other nations. I’d like to fly for someone.” He looked up at Jon with an almost evil grin. “And drop rotten tomatoes on the schoolhouse.”

Jon laughed. “Then I shall be sure to keep clear of the schoolhouse, no matter where I am.”