Wild Cards and Iron Horses (4 page)

Handleston stood his ground, staring back at her. “If only I could stop time as easily as that, Miss Weatherly.”

The old man laughed, a rolling cough pulling free at the end. “He’s got you there, Sam.” Extending his only hand, he smiled. “Jake Weatherly. And you’ve already heard of and met my daughter Samantha.”

Jon winced at the strength of the handshake, his left hand aching by the time he retrieved it from the elder Weatherly’s grasp. The man wore similar garb to his daughter’s, but much better fitting and with more wear and tear, along with a few mysterious stains that could have been oil or blood.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. Jonathan Handleston, at your service.” Instinctively he bowed. The older man bent slightly in response. “As I said, I require the assistance of your daughter to repair an item.”

He turned towards the woman. She waited impatiently for him to begin, twirling a wrench between her fingers.

“Miss Weatherly, I need a piece of equipment repaired as soon as possible. And before you ask, it’s not for sale.” He paused. “I would appreciate it if you would keep this information between us three. What I am about to show you is not found in the local general store nor is likely to ever be.” He looked down at his right hand. “However, I would be lying if I didn’t say that I wished I had no need of such a device.”

After pulling off the glove, he held up the warped, twisted hand for them to see. The flesh itself still held the resemblance of a hand, the four fingers extending from the palm and the thumb jutting out from the side. But the skin was mottled and pale, the scarred and burnt ridges rolling outward from the palm as if a pebble had been dropped into the hand and the ripples frozen in time.

The metal exoskeleton around it caught the dim electrical lights in the workshop, illuminating the brass and steel workings. Extending up each finger with slim bars and bands of metal, it embraced the useless hand and cradled it in a prosthetic grip.

“What…?” The wrench clattered to the ground with a loud clang, bouncing out of sight. The young woman advanced on him, her blue eyes fixated on the hand. He flinched as she reached out with her slender fingers towards him, but didn’t retreat. She started stroking the delicate mechanism running around his fingers, continuing her inspection down across his wrist and up into the recesses of his shirt.

Jon shivered, forcing himself to stay still under her scrutiny. There had been plenty of examinations in the past, plenty of doctors and scientists and engineers poking and probing at his injured hand and the prosthetic. Many of them had been women, white-haired old birds who muttered as they prodded his hand and nattered on about formulas and spring tension and whatnot. But he’d never had such gentle touching and never felt the tingling along his scarred, mutilated skin as he did right now.

“Shirt. Off.” Her nimble fingers pulled the tie free of his stiff collar. It arced into the air, landing on the stone floor within inches of a pool of oil. She continued to pry the buttons open on his waistcoat and then set out to work on the shirt underneath. Her short and ragged nails scraped against his skin, sending another rush of sensations through his body as he fumbled for some sort of sane reaction to this insane behavior.

“Miss Weatherly.” Jonathan leapt back, his good hand flying up to pull the fabric out of those slender prying digits that threatened to destroy what inner willpower he had left. “Please.”

She stopped. Her hands withdrew, fingers hanging in the air. Finally Sam took a full step back, letting them fall to her sides. She waited for Jon’s next response.

“You’ll have to forgive my daughter.” Jake moved in front of her, his good hand raised as if to protect her from Jon’s wrath. The other sleeve lay pinned to his side, the thick staples digging through the leather.

“She’s always been easily excited by such things, ever since she was little.” He looked back at his daughter, who stood there with a dazed expression. Her full attention continued to be focused on Jon’s hand and the mysterious machine on it. “She tore apart her grandfather’s watch when she was seven. Put it back together, however.”

“That may well be, sir, but she cannot simply undress me like one of her dolls.” Jon brushed his left hand through his hair, smoothing it down. His inner voice disputed his decision, creating images that he hadn’t dreamt about in ages. There hadn’t been room for women on his quest, no time for the frivolities that he had engaged in as a younger man. Now, for the first time in months, he felt his blood stirring. Fighting back the urge to either flee or embrace this woman, Jon settled for the rising heat in his cheeks.

“I…apologize for my actions, sir.” Sam stepped from behind her father, her face flushed. Her eyes were now focused, illustrating her return to the situation at hand and the restrictions society held them both to. “I just… It’s so amazing.” The woman swallowed hard, gulping back her enthusiasm. “May I ask for a closer look at the entire apparatus?”

He couldn’t hide his blushing. “If you wish.”

She nodded, clearing her throat with a loud cough. “In order to repair such an item, I need to inspect it from top to bottom. At your convenience, sir.” Turning away from the two men, Sam walked to one of the workbenches. She picked up a damp cloth from a tray, wiping her hands. “Please call me when you’re ready to proceed.”

Jake raised one eyebrow, gesturing at the worktable next to them. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Handleston?”

Jon continued the task that Samantha had already started, quickly pulling the rest of the buttons free.

The waistcoat settled on the back of one of the few chairs in the workshop, shirt and tie neatly folded on the workbench. Jon twisted towards the woman in the corner. “I assume this is adequate?”

Samantha spun around. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” She advanced on Jon, not meeting his gaze. Her cheeks were as red as his own, probably for the same reasons. Even in a doctor’s office, one did not just shed clothing. And this was as far from a doctor’s office as he could get.

Her eyes remained fixed on the gleaming brass and small copper cogs and wires running down from his right shoulder all the way to the tips of his fingers. She swallowed loudly. “If you could demonstrate the actions of this brace, sir.”

“Of course.” Jon began to run through the daily morning routine of checking out the exoskeleton from top to bottom. He didn’t need to think twice—the moves were almost instinctive. The metal bars bent at the elbow, allowing Jon to flex his arm without restriction. There was no visible injury to the arm and hand, other than the scarring from the palm outward. He recalled the droning voices of the physicians echoing in his ears, detailing the fine workmanship and the artistry that created such a device. Of course it went without mention that it was only his father’s stubbornness and Jon’s lack of backbone to stand up to him that created the need for such a thing.

Her gaze kept darting to his bare chest as he went through his exercises. He knew that it wasn’t just curiosity at his raw form. Sam studied the leather strap fastened to the braces on his shoulder. The thick cordovan ran horizontally across his back then swept over his chest, fastened in the center of his front with a simple belt buckle. The light body hair covered strong, visible muscles on his back and front, the strenuous daily exercises needed to work the device having produced a body that most of his comrades envied and was guaranteed to gain the attention of any women nearby. He had been in good condition before following his father to America and to the war, but the need for constant exercise during his rehabilitation had brought him into fine physical condition. Still, he felt no need to strut like a peacock, given that the intense work had only resulted in his being able to act, well, like a regular man.

He felt the warm flush under his skin creeping across his body and blamed it on the temperature change in the small workshop. Surely the open furnace on the far side of the room would have given anyone a rush. It had nothing to do with the gentle strokes of the young lady’s fingers, the rough and calloused edges skipping across his arm like a stone on water.

“May I ask the reason for this creation?” Jake adjusted his eyeglasses with his left hand, moving in for a closer look. “Obviously it serves some purpose.”

“There…was an accident.” The tightness in his chest increased, as it always did when he thought about it. “I was standing where I shouldn’t have been and my hand was crushed by a cannonball.” There.

That should be enough information.

“Ah.” Jake nodded. He reached out a single finger, touching the fine wires running along the frame on Jon’s forearm. “But not enough injury to warrant amputation?”

“It was not an option.” The words ground out between clenched teeth. The surgeon had recommended it. Jon didn’t remember much of those first few hours, but some images had burned themselves into his mind. His father bellowing at the top of his lungs that no son of his would be a cripple. Officers huddled in a corner of the tent in fear and scorn. The doctor shaking his head as he wrapped the hand, pressing it flat through Jon’s screams.

Then came the piles of bandages, the salves and creams to keep the skin supple and pliable, the rough wooden splint holding his fingers straight as they healed from the initial breaks. The trip back to the coast, to the first ship that could slip past the Union blockade. Then back to London and more specialists, all poking and prodding, and finally the visit to the creator of the device.

Jon drew a deep breath. The history was painful but had to be recited. “The bones were broken, shattered. They healed, but the amount of damage to the muscles and tendons was impossible to repair.

They were crushed, torn, mangled beyond repair by even the best surgeons in London.” He swallowed hard, feeling the tightness increase in his chest. No matter how often he told the tale, it still stuck in his throat. “So I have a hand in name only. The lack of muscle control makes it impossible to use. I still have the feeling…” The words faltered as her soft touch landed on the back of his hand, throwing sensations spiraling out that he thought he’d never feel again.

“The wires,” she whispered, her slender fingers running along the bare skin of his forearm. They continued their conquest of his body, hovering around his elbow and sending a shiver down his spine.

“They attach to various muscle groups under the copper bands, anchoring itself to your shoulder.” The gentle touching carried on, moving up his arm. “Allowing you to duplicate hand and finger actions to a degree that hides your disability almost totally.” She looked up at him. “May I request a demonstration?”

Without a word, Jon pulled his fingers into a fist. The tiny strips of metal bent and twisted to his whim, curling the digits in towards the scarred palm. All except for one finger, the little one, that lay limp and unmoving. He winced at the glaring weakness.

“Ah…” Sam moved around to stand in front of him. Bending over, she cradled the lone finger in both hands, so close he thought she was about to kiss it. “The spring, here.” A chipped fingernail tapped a minute hole not far from the unwilling appendage. “The spring isn’t here.” She looked up, meeting his gaze. Her pink tongue darted out, wetting dry lips.

“Actually, it’s in my pocket. In two pieces.” Jon coughed, trying to hide his discomfort. He was no stranger to having people pick over his crippled arm and examine the brace, but this woman wasn’t like any of the others. The doctors inspected his broken hand with cold, quick, efficient jabs. The few women he had dawdled with afterwards had treated his hand like a china doll with short, gentle touches as if he would shatter into a thousand pieces if they got too close. But this woman, this frontier engineer, had no idea the effect she was having on him. The way she kept touching his bare skin, feather-light strokes that threatened to break down his iron will.

“Hmm.” After striding over to the workbench, Sam opened up a drawer. She withdrew a set of spectacles enhanced with a number of smaller lenses on an extension bar. Putting them on, she returned to her scrutiny of the small brace, leaning over the naked arm again.

A flick of her finger brought a second magnifying lens into play, then a third. A fourth hung off to one side, waiting to be called into action if necessary. Sam chewed on her bottom lip, tugging at the delicate flesh. Jon’s heartbeat increased, like he were running a race instead of merely standing here, leaning over a desk, stripped from the waist up.

“I might, just might, be able to find you a replacement.” She pressed her lips together tightly for a second before continuing. A huff of air revealed her concern with the previous statement. “It seems to be an odd size of spring. I doubt I’ll be able to find one that size in our supplies. It’ll have to be handmade or modified from what we have. I cannot promise it’ll be a perfect fit, however. It may still not give you the full mobility that you need, but it’ll be better than you have now.” The words ground out between her teeth as if she hated to admit anything other than perfection.

“I understand the limitations. But a replacement would suffice until I return back East.” He paused, unsure of how to free his hand from her grasp. He could just yank it back out, but the rough, leathery skin of her fingers seemed like such a delightful contrast to his own skin. And it would be impolite, to say the least.

“Sir.” The word shocked him out of his reverie. She faced him with a soft smile, wiping all thoughts from his mind. “You may dress yourself again.” Releasing his hand, Sam stepped back. She brushed the front of her leather coat with both hands, studying the floor. She was still flushed as she retreated back to her corner, turning away to allow him some privacy.

“Thank you,” Jon said, trying to dampen the burning in his face.

Jake pulled up one of the few stools and sat down with a wheezing noise. He watched Jon pull on his shirt, the loose sleeves flopping around over the brace. “A fine piece of craftsmanship, it is. Must have cost a pretty penny.”

Jon continued to dress. He fumbled with the buttons. “My father was a very determined man. He decided to do what he thought was best.”