Wild Cards and Iron Horses by Sheryl Nantus Page A

the table, forcing her attention away from Jon. “I graduated from high school.”
    “Just high school?” Jon sputtered. “And now you’re an engineer?” He stopped struggling with the shirt.
    “Well, this is a new era and a new country, Mr. Handleston.” She smiled, leaning over and examining the brace yet again. “My father encouraged my mechanical enthusiasm at an early age. And he actually has a degree, if that will alleviate your nervousness any. He oversees all of my projects from beginning to finish.” She recited the words as she had to other nervous clients. There was no point in telling them that almost every time her father had supported her decisions without question.
    He finished dressing, pulling down the edges of his waistcoat with his good hand. “Well, your knowledge is my gain. I didn’t want to leave this tournament if at all possible, and Gil gave you a glowing recommendation.”
    “Well, he is one of our best salesmen.” She chuckled. “Which is why he hangs around the train station. Too many people come off the trains or airships and find out they’ve lost or broken something.”
    Sam paused, cradling the delicate metal skeleton fingers in her hands. “If I may be so bold to ask, why do you gamble? It’s obvious to me that you come from a family who either has money or had money, if they could afford this device. Why waste your life playing cards? Isn’t there something better for you to do with your time, some sort of higher calling?”
    “Everyone has a reason for what they do and the paths they choose.” Jon moved closer. “Some less clear than others.” He cleared his throat. “So you don’t think I’m a despicable, cheating gambler?” There was a hopeful lilt to his voice, as if he cared about what she thought of him.

Chapter Nine
    Sam closed her eyes, standing as still as she could. Finally she heard a light creak of the floorboards nearby, signaling Jon’s retreat out of her personal space. She opened her eyes to see that he had, indeed, moved off to one side.
    Exhaling slowly, she picked up a small magnifying glass and moved in to examine the miniscule chamber. “No, Mr. Handleston, because I am a fine judge of character. And I find you to be an interesting fellow, despite yourself.” Her cheeks burned with each word, her attempt to be stoic falling away under his intent gaze. Her pulse began racing with more than just excitement for the delicate creation under her fingers.
    “It’s not a very exciting story, you know. Nothing about saving damsels in distress or grabbing the company colors and dashing for the high ground, or leading the charge against the overwhelming enemy forces.” His good hand landed on her right shoulder, sending a tremor through her body. “Not very dramatic, really.”
    She smiled, not caring if he saw it or not. “That’s all right. I’m fine with a less dramatic life.” Sam gave a sideways glance to the other workbench. Her father clutched a dirty rag between his fingers, fumbling with a pair of gears.
    Jon closed his eyes. “It’s a debt of honor.” The words were said quietly, without fanfare. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
    “Oh.” Sam couldn’t hide the note of disapproval in her voice.
    The fingers stiffened on her shoulder, working through the shirt with a flaring heat that threatened to leave burn marks on her skin. “You don’t think much of honor?”
    Her eyes remained glued on the delicate parts under her control. “I don’t think much of anything that leads men to kill each other.”
    “Hmm.”
    The heavy silence lasted a minute before she spoke. “I mean, I don’t like men killing each other over anything. We saw enough of that during the war, and even now there are duels in the streets at times. Mrs.
    Kettishire lost her husband over one of these ‘honor’ duels. Drunken idiot in a saloon mentioned something about her pies, her husband challenges him, the drunk turns out to be an expert shot with war