Free Wild Cards and Iron Horses by Sheryl Nantus Page B

“I’ll give you a hand with the horse later on. After I get some rest.”
    Sam looked up. Her mouth opened as if to respond, then she closed it, remaining silent. The argument over his working on the iron horse had been hashed and rehashed between them, her insisting that he not work on the beast and him pointing out that it was a two-person job. Unfortunately her emotions gave way to the cold logic of the truth, but she didn’t have to like it. Her father fell into a light sleep, smacking his lips every now and then. Pushing the spring to one side, she studied the rough drawings of the prosthetic.
    How did Jon Handleston get hold of such a device? What would make a man choose to put on an obviously painful prosthetic and play cards? She nibbled on her bottom lip. Her index finger moved along the lines, blurring the charcoal image on the paper. There was more to this man than just a mechanical oddity.

    “Everyone has something about ’im, something that’ll give away what they’re thinkin’.” The white-haired man poked another stick into the fire, sending sparks into the night sky. In theory they shouldn’t have fires; the enemy was too close. But men needed to eat and to drink, and Jon knew most of the soldiers didn’t give a damn by this point. “If you know what he’s thinking, you can figure out how to beat ’im.”
    “Reading a man’s mind. It’s an interesting theory.” Jon looked down at his cards. Two jacks were the best of the lot. The worn cardboard was about to give out, the stained cards a reminder of how long he had been out here with his father. The set had been new and fresh from the printer when they had first sailed for the American South.
    “No theory. Fact.” Picking up the stack of cards from the hard-packed ground, the sergeant smiled.
    “How many you want?”
    “Two.” Bluff him into thinking he had three good cards instead of two. That’d show the old man who was reading whose mind.
    The thin cardboard squares landed a mere inch from his right hand. Picking them up, Jon added them to the mix. Nothing here. A two and a ten. Add in the three he had kept back and he only had the Jacks. But it’d be good enough to show this fellow he knew how to play cards.
    “Ready to play?” The Southerner twirled a single silver coin between his fingers.
    “Yep.” Handleston smirked.
    Ten minutes later, he was down five dollars and still had no idea why. Jon tossed down his cards with a snort, leaving them in the dirt.
    “You about ready to learn or you want to keep on losing?”
    Delaying his answer, Jon turned and looked out over the battlefield. The dying fires from the enemy on the horizon matched their own, the distant shadows of the soldiers beginning to move. The cannon lay only a few feet from them, the metal balls ready to be loaded and fired. The rest of the team slept nearby, the smoldering campfire a pile of embers spewing dark smoke into the night air. “You’re supposed to be engaging the enemy at sunrise.”
    “That’s what they say. They also say that we’re gonna lose.” He picked up the cards from the dirt and shuffled them back into the deck. “But I gave up listening to them a long, long time ago.” He chuckled.
    “So, let me show you how to play poker while we wait for those boys to wake up.”
    Jon woke up in a sweat, the soaked sheets clinging to his skin. Taking a deep breath, he swung his legs off the bed. He moved to stand up, swaying slightly in his thin white nightshirt for a second before regaining his balance. The small window across from him showed it was still night, or at least not early enough for the sun to fight through the smoggy air. The brace sat on the small night table, the leather straps hanging loose. He’d performed the evening rituals, rubbing the oil into the cordovan parts and dabbing the machine oil over the bands and bars with a fresh rag. It’d become a part of his regular bedtime routine, like changing his clothing and making