arm ripped off, for the record. What did happen was that he caught it in a series of gears that chewed it up so badly that they had to amputate because of the risk of infection. There really wasn’t any other option. Gil may have a more…colorful description of his injury, but that’s boys for you. And without both of us working, the business fails. And that’s the last we’ll talk about it, Mr. Handleston, please.” She undid the buttons at the cuffs, rolling up the shirt sleeves and bunching them at the elbows. “I need your apparatus again, if you don’t mind.”
Clearing his throat with a loud cough, Jon slowly disrobed. The cool air hit his skin with a rush, raising goose bumps along his exposed flesh until the answering heat of the nearby fireplace displaced the chill. The final piece of clothing was the white cotton shirt, which he carefully folded and laid atop the pile on the chair. Leaning forward, he placed his right hand palm up on the table, anchoring it for the unfastening process.
The metal frame stretched and bent as he moved. The copper bands flexed under the muscles as he undid the clips at his elbow and wrist, flipping them loose. Last to go, the leather strap running across his bare chest and over his back, the buckle leaving a red mark just over his heart. He flinched once as the well-worn leather slipped away from his left side, rubbing against the chafed skin under his left arm, then moved free of the mechanism, leaving the skeleton on the table. Jon took a step back. It was almost like pulling an internal organ out, revealing it to the world and exposing it to danger. His pulse raced for a second, then calmed. There was no peril here. Jon glanced at Sam, his pulse climbing again but for a very different reason.
Sam watched in silence. Her eyes were wide with delight and anticipation as she studied the device, momentarily ignoring the half-naked man standing beside her. It was a marvel of modern engineering and it was likely that only a handful of engineers could repair it. Only a handful would even consider trying.
A handful that she was determined to expand by one woman.
Her attention darted from the metallic wonder to the sleek, lean muscles of his arms then up to the lightly furred chest. A lone bead of nervous sweat rolled down his collarbone, sliding south over tense muscles before curling around his midriff. She winced at the red, raw skin under his arm, the buckle indentation on his chest.
“Miss Weatherly?” His right eyebrow rose, a questioning look. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes.” Clearing her throat, she turned back to the prosthetic brace and away from his naked skin.
“I can fit a small spring in here, cut from a larger piece, but I’ll have to experiment with different metal plugs to keep it in.”
Jon looked down at his bare skin, the useless hand limp and dangling at the end of his arm. “How long will it take?”
“Probably three, four hours at the least.” She tried to not stare at his long, slender fingers, the nails neatly manicured and not a hint of dirt on the soft white skin. Instinctively she compared them to her own leathered skin, the fingertips permanently stained with various oils and liquids, and inwardly grimaced. He was probably used to women with alabaster skin, pale and soft, who smelt of delicate flowers, not calloused, weathered skin with the aroma of machine oil. “I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do. It’s a delicate job and I can’t really rush it.”
Jon smiled. “Please. I’m thrilled that you can help me at all.” He reached for his shirt and shrugged back into the thin fabric, struggling slightly with the unresponsive right hand. “I have to admit that I was surprised that Prosperity Ridge had such highly trained people available. Where did you go to school?”
She resisted the urge to grab the flopping edges of his sleeve and help him pull it on. “Technically, I haven’t.” Sam moved the brace to the center of
Clearing his throat with a loud cough, Jon slowly disrobed. The cool air hit his skin with a rush, raising goose bumps along his exposed flesh until the answering heat of the nearby fireplace displaced the chill. The final piece of clothing was the white cotton shirt, which he carefully folded and laid atop the pile on the chair. Leaning forward, he placed his right hand palm up on the table, anchoring it for the unfastening process.
The metal frame stretched and bent as he moved. The copper bands flexed under the muscles as he undid the clips at his elbow and wrist, flipping them loose. Last to go, the leather strap running across his bare chest and over his back, the buckle leaving a red mark just over his heart. He flinched once as the well-worn leather slipped away from his left side, rubbing against the chafed skin under his left arm, then moved free of the mechanism, leaving the skeleton on the table. Jon took a step back. It was almost like pulling an internal organ out, revealing it to the world and exposing it to danger. His pulse raced for a second, then calmed. There was no peril here. Jon glanced at Sam, his pulse climbing again but for a very different reason.
Sam watched in silence. Her eyes were wide with delight and anticipation as she studied the device, momentarily ignoring the half-naked man standing beside her. It was a marvel of modern engineering and it was likely that only a handful of engineers could repair it. Only a handful would even consider trying.
A handful that she was determined to expand by one woman.
Her attention darted from the metallic wonder to the sleek, lean muscles of his arms then up to the lightly furred chest. A lone bead of nervous sweat rolled down his collarbone, sliding south over tense muscles before curling around his midriff. She winced at the red, raw skin under his arm, the buckle indentation on his chest.
“Miss Weatherly?” His right eyebrow rose, a questioning look. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes.” Clearing her throat, she turned back to the prosthetic brace and away from his naked skin.
“I can fit a small spring in here, cut from a larger piece, but I’ll have to experiment with different metal plugs to keep it in.”
Jon looked down at his bare skin, the useless hand limp and dangling at the end of his arm. “How long will it take?”
“Probably three, four hours at the least.” She tried to not stare at his long, slender fingers, the nails neatly manicured and not a hint of dirt on the soft white skin. Instinctively she compared them to her own leathered skin, the fingertips permanently stained with various oils and liquids, and inwardly grimaced. He was probably used to women with alabaster skin, pale and soft, who smelt of delicate flowers, not calloused, weathered skin with the aroma of machine oil. “I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do. It’s a delicate job and I can’t really rush it.”
Jon smiled. “Please. I’m thrilled that you can help me at all.” He reached for his shirt and shrugged back into the thin fabric, struggling slightly with the unresponsive right hand. “I have to admit that I was surprised that Prosperity Ridge had such highly trained people available. Where did you go to school?”
She resisted the urge to grab the flopping edges of his sleeve and help him pull it on. “Technically, I haven’t.” Sam moved the brace to the center of
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