Revenge and the Wild(80)

Alistair stared at the burned rubble, eyes glazed over with worry. “If burning someone in their home is what the mayor does to those who investigate him, imagine what he’d do to those who accuse his friends of cannibalism.”

Westie put a hand to her stomach. “I’m trying not to think about that.” She climbed off her horse, kicking at the rubble to see if there was anything to be salvaged from the ruins. She made her way to a charcoaled support beam, where she sat and wondered which room she was sitting in. As she looked up at the sky, a drop of rain landed on her lashes. She blinked it away, trying not to let the hopeless feeling inside consume her. If nothing came of their trip to Sacramento, all would be lost. The Fairfields’ gold was useless without Hubbard and Lavina being in jail, and it was doubtful Westie could find a crook brave enough to trade eight gold bars for enough money to allow Nigel to finish his machine.

Alistair sat beside her on the beam and leaned his head against her shoulder. His hair smelled like earth and macassar, and she was reminded of the connection they’d made beneath the maples. Closing her eyes, she tried to hold on to that moment of happiness. “I have to fix this, Alley,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “Of all the plans I’ve messed up, this can’t be one of them.”

“We’ll fix this, I promise. We won’t stop until we do.” He moved his hand to her hair, pulling out a maple leaf. “Let’s start by talking to Amos’s widow.”

Alistair stood and reached out a hand to help her up. When he took a step back, Westie noticed something under his foot, a piece of paper. Picking it up and dusting the soot off, she realized it was a photo.

“Look at this,” she said, holding the photo toward him. It was a picture of Amos and a man shaking hands. Behind him was a family of four, no one she’d ever seen before except for Amos.

“What about it?” Alistair asked.

In the photo a young girl with coal-black curly hair held a doll wearing a dress with a distinct crisscross pattern. “That’s the same doll Olive was holding when the Fairfields first stepped off the airship in Rogue City. She threw a fit and tore its head off.”

Alistair took the photo from her to study it closer. The edges were burned and curled, and the paper was brittle. He was careful only to touch the border so as not to smear the wet image. “I don’t think that’s Olive in the picture, unless she’s wearing a wig,” he said. “Perhaps their families bought the dolls at the same store.”

Westie shook her head. “That’s no store-bought doll. I know a handmade doll when I see one. My momma was always making them for me. That’s the same doll. We need to find out who these people are.”

Alistair nodded, handing back the photo. “But first let’s talk to Amos’s widow.”





Thirty-Six


The hospital was a long, flat building with a cross on its east-facing wall. It looked bigger on the inside than out, about two thousand square feet of beds to accommodate the sick and injured. The workings of the machines in the room filled the place with a concert of sound, as if there were thirty Alistairs sitting around just breathing.

Westie recognized the machines as being inventions of Nigel’s. He had his own signature way of twisting and combining various metals to make the simplest machines look like they had taken years to assemble.

A nurse sat at a desk in the entryway, checking off boxes on a piece of paper. She held a clumsily rolled cigarette pinched between her fingers, the smoke curling up her arm. When she looked up and saw Westie and Alistair standing there, she stubbed it out in a metal ashtray.

“Are you in need of medical assistance?” she asked as she studied Alistair’s mask and Westie’s metal hand without any hint of fear or curiosity.

“We’re here to see a patient,” Westie said. “Lucy Little.”

Flecks of ash from the cigarette speckled the front of the nurse’s dark-colored dress. She dusted them off, leaving white smears, and checked the patient roster. “Last bed on the left.”

Even though the place was full of strange machines, folks looked at Alistair as if he were the grim reaper come to steal them from their beds. Luckily, he was too distracted by Westie’s quick pace to pay much attention.

At the end of the row, Lucy Little was sitting up in her bed. She was small like her husband, with a head full of wavy, fading yellow hair that was white at the roots. Her arms were wrapped in bandages from her burns, and she held copper tubing in her mouth.

When she saw Westie and Alistair, she pulled out the tubing and reached for the spectacles on the table beside her bed.

“Westie Butler,” Lucy said with a hint of surprise in her singed voice.

Westie paused, cocking her head. “You know who I am?”

Lucy nodded, smoothing the blankets on her lap. “Amos talked about you after the ball. There aren’t many girls around here with metal arms.”

“No, I reckon not.” Westie sat on the unoccupied bed beside Lucy’s. So did Alistair.

Lucy said, “If you’re looking for Amos, he’s—” Her words were closed off by a choking sound. Tears trickled down her cheeks, following the lines around her mouth.

“We heard,” Westie said, chest tightening when she saw the woman’s sadness.

With a shaky breath, Lucy collected herself enough to speak again. “What can I help you with?”