Wild Cards and Iron Horses by Sheryl Nantus Read Free Book Online Page A

smoke cloud expelled from the back of the carriage merged with the hovering cloud over the town. It gave the scene an eerie ghostly visage as the small crowd vanished from sight.
    A glance at the street sign indicated that he was, indeed, headed in the right direction, albeit at a much slower pace than on the way out. He sucked in another breath through his handkerchief, fighting back the urge to cough.
    Prosperity Ridge, for all intents and purposes, was well on its way to becoming a successful Western town far ahead of schedule, from what Jon could see. The railroad was in place, the postal service already expanding in order to deal with the extra parcels and luggage being sent both to the town and forward into the unsettled West, and the stagecoaches were shuffling their schedules to meet an ever-increasing demand.
    Jon walked by the new post office under construction, a temporary sign advertising the renovation of the adjacent buildings to become larger, finer places of business. He ultimately gave up trying to filter the air, folding the handkerchief up and tucking it into his pocket. It wasn’t so bad, really, once you got used to the idea of breathing soot. In some ways, it was just like home. Including the pickpockets he saw eyeing him, looking for a chance to grab his money.
    A half-hour later, after having to retrace his steps three times, he walked in the front door of the bed and breakfast. Mrs. McGuire’s front carpet’s original color might have been green, but it was long gone under the smudges and sooty footprints of hundreds of visitors, the only indication that the outside world was anything but as spotless as the interior of her business. Jon added his own contribution, shuffling his feet back and forth. The scrubber in the corner groaned under the intrusion, chugging away.
    Mrs. McGuire popped out of the kitchen into the hallway, wiping her hands on an apron. “Oh, Mr. Handleston. I was wondering where you were.” Her gaze darted to the closed door. “Thank you for shutting the door so quickly. There’s always someone who figures that the air’ll clean itself, and I’m not planning to filter the entire town.”
    “I do my best.” Jon smiled, stepping off the mat. “Good day.” He moved towards the stairs, climbing them as quickly as he could. His chest ached and he felt nauseous. At least he’d have a little time to clean up and hopefully cleanse his lungs before he had to venture out again into that vile air.
    “Don’t be late for dinner,” Mrs. McGuire called. “I don’t keep extra food around for stragglers.”
    After closing the door, Jon stripped down again. It wasn’t necessary, but he needed to inspect his brace just to make sure everything was fine. It wasn’t likely that this Weatherly woman had damaged it during her inspection, but he couldn’t afford to let it go without checking to make sure the connections were secure and the framework in perfect shape. The buckle gave way easily, the leather strap going loose around his chest. After pulling his arm free, he placed the prosthetic on the bed atop the thin quilt.
    He withdrew a small box from his well-worn valise. The box unfolded to reveal a series of small vials, all safely ensconced in padded slots. Jon placed it on the night table beside the bed. Sitting down, he began a self-inspection. The daily routine had been drilled into him by the doctors, the surgeons and nurses pointing out that his biggest risk was infection from parts of the metal and leather implement scratching and digging into his skin. He winced, poking at one dry spot just under the belt buckle on his chest. The skin was rough there, almost to the point of breaking open. Reaching into the box, Jon chose a small squat cylinder. He flipped the lid up and dipped his index finger into the lavender-scented mixture. A dab of cream went onto the inflamed area, rubbed in with gentle circles.
    Not all of the vials held lotion. Some held special oils, specifically