Wild Cards and Iron Horses (18 page)

“Seems that you’re a bit tired.” Sam got to her feet. After folding the napkin, she placed it on the empty plate. “I should get back to the workshop before Father begins to worry. It’s not that I want to rush off, you understand. But if he sends Gil out to look for me, well…” she smiled, “…the gossip will be intolerable.”

Jon scrambled to his feet, weaving slightly from side to side. “Yes, we don’t want him rushing out to look for you. And I really need to go start getting ready for the tournament, otherwise this will have all been for nothing. Thank you again for the fine repair job.” He flexed the fingers, the thin black fabric hiding the metal bars and bands. “And I meant what I said about your father’s arm. I can give you some fine references if he decides to seek a replacement.” He withdrew a small purse from his pocket and spread an assortment of coins on the table. “Is that enough to cover the
tea
?”

“More than. Thank you.” Sam looked towards the closed door behind them. “Mrs. Carver prides herself on her beverages. And her discretion.”

Jon grinned. “A wise woman.” On a whim, he reached out to her. Taking her left hand, his braced fingers gently closed around it and tugged, pulling her a step closer. He raised the hand to his lips, bending over to press them to the warm skin. “I do hope I’ll see you again before I have to leave Prosperity Ridge.”

The resulting flush on Sam’s cheeks sent a surge of warmth down his spine. She stuttered, leaving her hand limp in his grasp. “If you need any adjustments, I’ll be available. I’d love to work more on you. Ah, I mean, your hand. Your brace.”

“I’ll pay a call on you after the tournament, then, if you don’t mind.” Jon released her hand and opened the door. “Good day.” He took a last deep breath of the clear air inside the closed porch. Trotting down the steps, he turned towards Mrs. McGuire’s house, or where he hoped the house was.

Sam lifted a hand to wave as he disappeared into the ever-present smog. Putting her hand up to her mouth, she giggled. She hadn’t giggled for years, not since she was a child. But there was something about this man, this gambler.

“Oh, he’s a nice one.” Sam spun around to see Annette clearing off the table. The older woman had slipped in behind her as silent as a church mouse. No wonder she knew the entire town’s business before anyone else. The hostess grinned as she stacked up the plates, delicately handling the teacups. “Your father would like him. Must like him, if he’s letting you go out in public with the man.”

“He already does.” Settling into the chair, Sam let out a sigh. “But Mr. Handleston’s a gambler and rich and not likely to want to settle down for a time yet.”

“Bah.” The older woman waved one of the cloth napkins in the air before adding it to the stack of dishes. “Never underestimate what a man can or can’t do.” One eyebrow rose. “He’s the first one you ever brought here. Must be a special one.”

Sam shrugged, playing with the tassels on the end of her shawl. “I think so. I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” Annette grinned. She sat down, ignoring the tall pile on the table. “Now tell me all about him.”

Jon Handleston strode along with a lightness in his step that he couldn’t remember having for a long, long time. His right hand ached from the recent exercise, but it was a good pain, a healing sort of pain, the first he’d had in ages. He nodded to a pair of young women looking through a shop window, catching their sly glances. It sent the two into a fit of twittering giggles, their parasols bobbing as they covered their mouths with white-gloved hands.

At the back of his mind, he began to list prosthetic hand crafters in London who could give Mr. Weatherly the best model possible. Oh, sure, it would never replace the real thing, but at least the old man could do more in the shop, take on extra work himself and force Samantha to get out in the world. It wasn’t healthy for a beautiful young woman to stay shut up for so long without going to any dances or visiting with gentlemen callers.

A loud blaring came from behind him, startling him out of his daydreams and sending his heart racing, albeit for a different reason.

Spinning around, Jon stared at the bright red fire engine as it flew down the street, the siren shocking both pedestrians and drivers alike. One of the jumpbooted couriers leapt out of the street to the left, narrowly missing a group of women. The young man clutched one of the upper deck railings on a private house, his legs swinging free of the ground. A horse reared up on his hind legs, almost dumping his rider who flailed wildly with one hand on the reins and the other on the horse’s mane, trying to regain control.

The beast jumped around, digging deep holes in the dirt as it struggled.

A horseless carriage careened to the side, barely dodging the fire engine, the machine plowing into a water trough head-on. The dirty water spilled onto the street, turning the dirt under the tires into a thick dark mud that swallowed up the wooden wheels. The driver, a young man with a pristine white driving jacket and black gloves, leapt out to sink into the mud to his ankles, dirtying his spotless black boots. He swore under his breath, swatting at the mud.

Black smoke billowed from the large funnel on the fire engine, adding even more soot to the air. Jon pulled out a handkerchief and put it to his mouth and nose. He’d adjusted well to the air, but…this was too much. Around him he spotted other masks appearing, some the rough-cut worker’s mask, and some delicate metal creations that reminded him of a masquerade ball. The engine spun around the corner and out of sight, leading towards the outer areas of the city.

Jon’s stomach lurched with a sense of impending danger. He moved faster, breaking into a trot and then a full run, navigating towards the rooming house with unerring precision. It couldn’t be that bad luck would destroy the last of his possessions, when he was on the verge of fulfilling his promise.

Mopping the sweat from his face with the now-filthy rag, Jon continued on towards the house, slowing down as he ran out of energy. A twang of relief ran through him as he realized that the noise wasn’t coming from the direction of the rooming house, but still…too close for comfort.

The siren diminished to a low drone, the sound of people yelling drowning it out. From out of the shops and stores a stream of people swarmed towards the call like moths to a flame, eager faces waiting to be entertained at someone’s loss.

He turned the final corner and spotted the center of attention for all of Prosperity Ridge. The alleys, usually empty, were filled with curious spectators who ignored the grime and garbage to find the best spot to spy on the happenings.

The saloon wasn’t totally on fire, but smoke billowed out one of the top windows and some red flames licked the sides with a hungry roar. The small fire threatened not only the building but the other wooden structures connected to it if it wasn’t brought under control soon. If the flames leapt across to the store next to the saloon or the fiery embers scattering into the sky drifted down onto the wooden shingles, it could be a disaster. Jon remembered the muttered warnings about having so many flammable buildings next to each other in London, rumors about another Great Fire being on the horizon if the factories didn’t take more care.

But this wasn’t any saloon—it was Deadeye’s Dodge, the saloon where he had played Victor not so long ago. And the home of the Ridge Rocket Stakes tournament tomorrow. Jon felt an icy rush in his veins.

He stumbled to a stop at the back of the crowd. “What happened?” Jon asked a bystander, a young man wearing a bandana over his mouth. His chest ached with the effort of the sudden exercise and the fear swarming over him.

“Someone started a fight, kicked over one of the burners, I guess. Doesn’t happen too often.” He waved at one of the women standing at the other side of the crowd. “Got the girls out, though. That’s the important thing, right?” Pulling down the red kerchief, he gave a toothy grin to the ladies. “May! Over here!” He leered at the young woman as she pointedly ignored him, lifting her nose in the air and turning away to talk to another woman beside her.

Jon pushed by him, making his way through the crowd until he could get a clear view of the commotion.

The few hungry flames vanished from sight, replaced by thick black smoke that billowed out the broken window. It took only a few minutes for that to die, rushing out in smaller and smaller quantities, eventually diminishing to a trickle barely adding to the foul air. Hoses ran from the large container tank up the wooden steps into the house, through the open door and disappearing inside, inflating and deflating with every pump of the fire wagon’s eager attendants. A river of water began to spill out of the front door, dribbling over the wooden steps and down into the dirt, digging a new puddle that expanded towards the crowd.

A fireman strode out adjusting his mask. Some sort of breathing apparatus had been connected to the metal frame, the hose extending down to a small box hanging from a strap on his chest. Crossing over to the engine, he waved at one of the onlookers.

The man ran forward, rubbing his hands together so quickly that Jon feared they’d catch on fire. Jon recognized him as Michael Tribiolte, the owner of the saloon and the tournament organizer. Pressing closer, Jon tried to hear the conversation over the chatter of the crowds and the banging of the other firemen exiting the building.

The fireman pulled the mask off, revealing a bright red beard and bloodshot eyes. “Second floor is okay, but you’re going to need lots of work done. At least one wall replaced and a heck of a lot of paint.

Fire seems to have started with some idiot tossing a bottle of booze against the wall, caught one of the lamps and set it on fire. Who’s staying up there, anyway?”

The businessman stared up at the saloon window, then down at the dirt road. He shook his head.

“Second floor’s where we were putting up the gamblers. They all got out, right?”

“Ain’t no bodies up there. That’s a blessing.” Turning to one side, the fire chief began a rumbling in his chest, finally spitting a dollar coin-sized amount of phlegm onto the ground. “That’s been building for a bit.” He wiped his mouth. “You got yourself a bigger problem than the fire right now.”

“What?” Tribiolte said.

“We had to break open all the doors on the second floor to make sure the fire hadn’t spread. Including the storeroom.”

The saloon owner winced. “That’s where the cards were stored. The sealed decks we were going to use for the tournament.”

The fireman shook his head. “Not now. Half of them got awful wet and the others just sort of got messed up with us running back and forth.”

“Damn,” Tribiolte growled. “Only thing we can do is order in another four dozen decks from Jacksonville. I’ll send the cable right now. They can put the case on the morning train. We’ll just have to delay the tournament until after it arrives tomorrow morning. Was gonna be a sunrise start, but what can you do?” He looked around the crowd, raising his voice. “The Ridge Rocket Stakes is still on, folks. Just going to be a bit late starting tomorrow, eight o’clock in the morning instead of sunrise, but we’re still going to have it. Nothing stops the valiant people of Prosperity Ridge, nothing.”

The rousing cheer from the crowd brought a pinch of color to Tribiolte’s pale cheeks. He lifted his hands, shushing the onlookers.

“We’ll have a rousing show for you all with the famous Victor Morton taking on all comers. Don’t miss it. There’ll be standing room only within minutes after we open, I figure.” His grin grew larger with each rise in noise from the bystanders.

One of the showgirls near Jon rolled her eyes. “That is if Morton don’t kill us all first.” The stage whisper didn’t carry far, but far enough to make him turn around.

Jon studied her. Sure enough, she was one of the women who had been hanging around at the poker table on his previous visit. A few steps brought him alongside the woman. She glanced at him with a bored look, long, slender fingers playing with the shawl draped over her shoulders.

“You’re saying that Victor did this on purpose? Set fire to the saloon?” He leaned in, keeping his voice low. The crowd had started to disperse now that the entertainment had ended, but there was no use bringing more attention to the two of them than necessary.

Her eyes went wide as she recognized Handleston. She took a step back. “No, no.” The blonde curls bounced around her face, dipping into the ample cleavage so tactfully displayed for the public. “He came in about an hour or so ago, and he was furious ’bout something. Got himself a bottle and went up to his room, didn’t want no company or anything.” She batted her eyes. “Not that any of us would have turned him down. He’s got quite the swagger, if you know what I mean.”

“So I’ve heard.” He smiled at the woman, turning on the charm. “So he was annoyed when he came in the saloon.”

“Swearing up a storm he was, thought he was gonna blow up or something. All about some machine or something, he don’t make much sense.” Her gaze darted to her boss, still hawking the tournament to the crowd, then back to Jon. He realized the look, the fear of being fired. In her profession reputation was everything, and being tossed out for spreading rumors about a customer could destroy her life. Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not saying he did it, but I’m not saying he didn’t. And that’s all I’m telling you.” She gave another furtive glance, this time at the firemen now walking out of the saloon. “I want to keep working here.” The whispered words trembled with fear.

Jon nodded. “Won’t hear a word from me.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a stray coin. “For your trouble.”

“Thank you. Good luck tomorrow.” She took the money and set about mingling with the spectators as they dispersed, seeking out possible customers.

Jon spun around and around, surveying the crowd. Maybe Victor was here; maybe he had stayed to see the results of his temper tantrum. The fire engine slowly moved farther down the street to park in an alleyway. The men rolled up the hoses and the chief bellowed something about checking their masks.

The saloon owner stood in the middle of the street, hands stuck in his pockets and shoulders slumped as he stared at the front doors.