Flash Gold by Lindsay Buroker

Part I
     
    Kali McAlister tapped a wrench against her thigh as she contemplated her invention. She had stripped every extra piece of metal she could from the “dogless sled” and had even debated removing the brush bow, but that seemed unwise. Besides, it’d been cold enough the last week men were complaining of pee freezing before it hit the ground. The ice on Forty Mile Creek ought to be thick enough for the heavy steam sled. If it wasn’t...winning the race would be the last of her worries.
    Hinges creaked, and a gust of frigid air hurled snow into the workshop. Kali spun toward the door, her long braid whipping around her shoulder.
    A fur-clad figure loomed, head an inch shy of the top of the frame. With those broad shoulders and that height, she assumed it was a man, though a cap buried his eyebrows and a scarf swaddled most of his face. He gripped a rifle in one gloved hand, and the hilt of something—a sword?—poked over his shoulder. Who in tarnation brought a sword to the Klondike?
    Kali’s grip tightened on the wrench. Another thug who wanted to interrogate her about her father’s alchemical masterpiece, probably.
    “ If you’re going to hold the door open that long, you could at least bring in some wood.” That sounded cocky, especially since the wrench was the closest thing to a weapon she had handy, but bravado went a long way in Moose Hollow.
    Meanwhile, she sidled closer to the workbench and the panel of levers on the far end of it. The man’s blue eyes were the only thing visible between the cap and scarf, and they narrowed, watching her.
    “ The stove’ll have to work double time to heat the place again,” Kali said, hoping to distract him from her movement. “Not that this drafty hole could aspire to warm anyhow.”
    The man stepped inside. Kali tensed, ready to spring for a bronze lever with a billiards-ball knob.
    He did not move past the threshold though. Without taking his eyes from her, he pushed the door closed. He removed the cap, revealing thick tousled black hair, then tugged the scarf down to his throat. Kali might have called him handsome, but a scar gouged one cheek, as if someone had tried to remove one of his eyes. The beard stubble darkening his jaw would do little to warm his chin in the cold. He must be new to the north.
    His cool gaze skimmed the shop, resting briefly on the unorthodox metal sled before settling on her.
    “ You Kali McAlister?” he asked, voice smoother and more pleasant than his rough exterior hinted at.
    “ Ma’am.” She propped her hands on her hips by way of disguising another step toward the lever. “It’s polite to call a lady ‘ma’am.’ Even if she’s a half-breed wearing man trousers with tools sticking out of all her pockets.” Not to mention she was only eighteen and covered in grease. She would collapse in surprise if anyone called her ma’am without the ulterior motive of needing a favor.
    He stared at her for a long moment. “You Kali McAlister? Ma’am.”
    “ I reckon that depends on who you are.” She pretended to scratch her knee and took another step.
    “ Your identity changes depending on your caller?”
    “ Sometimes it does.” Another step.
    “ Cedar.”
    “ What?”
    “ My name.”
    “ That’s not a name,” she said. “That’s a tree.” Though at his height, children might mistake him for the latter.
    “ Both.”
    “ And what are you here for, Cedar?” Three more steps and she would reach the lever. He might plow through her “security measures,” but they would distract him and give her time to run.
    He strode toward her. She lifted the wrench threateningly.
    “ The job.” His free hand delved into a pocket. Paper rustled. He pulled out a sheet with writing on it.
    It was Kali’s turn to stare. “What job?”
    Wordlessly, he held out the flyer.
     
    ASSISTANT MUSHER FOR BARTON’S RACE
    Experienced pugilist preferred. Inquire at Kali McAlister’s Tinkery.
     
    Kali scratched her head. “Where did