Her Sky Cowboy Part 4

Amelia's stomach flipped and her heart pounded as he readied his Pogo Pack for launch. She chalked up the dizzy sensation to antic.i.p.ation-her first rocket-pack ride-and not infatuation. Although she couldn't deny he was an absurdly attractive man.

At first she'd been too dazed to notice, struck dotty by the bone-jarring crash. Then too angry as his brawny, quick-tempered, thickheaded sidekick had threatened Leo with his enormous gun. Then, after seeing the wreckage that was once Bess, too distressed. The enormity of the debacle had made her physically ill. Papa had spent countless hours building that kitecycle, and though Bess wasn't perfect, she was proof of his extraordinary imagination and tireless efforts. Amelia had tried to save her, hoping to regain control and alt.i.tude, but she'd failed.

Miserably.

She knew Mr. Gentry doubted her ability to repair Bess, but she'd show him. And Papa.

"Put your arms around me and hold tight."

Amelia did as he asked, and her heart nearly burst through her cinched wool corset. She'd never embraced a man before, except for Papa and her brothers, but this was vastly different. Perhaps it was hero wors.h.i.+p, but quite simply, the Sky Cowboy scrambled her senses. Beyond tall, fit, and devilishly handsome, he possessed confidence and charisma and, by jiminy, a rocket pack!

He buckled a strap around her waist, cinching them close as pages in a book. "Ready?"

She smiled up into his bourbon-colored gaze, stomach fluttering like a flock of wrens. His mouth was most distracting. How bizarre that she was thinking of kissing him just now instead of flying. Embarra.s.sed, Amelia glanced skyward. "Oh, yes."

He thumbed a control and, with a rumble and roar, they shot straight up.

The inertia...the exhilaration...Amelia whooped with joy!

"d.a.m.n," the cowboy complained, and she realized she'd screamed in his ear.

She forced her head back to apologize but saw he was smiling. She smiled back. She couldn't help it. Few thrills compared.

It was over much too soon. In a heartbeat they were up and over the side of the ma.s.sive airs.h.i.+p and Amelia was privy to a new sensation. As she lived and breathed, she was aboard the Maverick! The wonder of it all-the collapsed masts and sails that had given way to a steam-powered balloon, the gleaming outboard blasterbeefs-almost made her forget about her throbbing thigh. Almost. She winced when her boots. .h.i.t the deck.

"You all right?" Tucker asked while unbuckling the strap.

She'd just seen stars, but she shook off the pain, intent on showing no weakness in front of this man or his crew. "Splendid."

He didn't look convinced. He pushed his goggles to his forehead, raised one tawny brow. "You can let go now."

She realized with a start that she had a stranglehold on his neck. Mortified, she hobbled back, trying like the devil to ignore the searing pain in her leg. She noted several men of various ethnicities, most looking close in age to her brothers, all dressed in a combination of American West and Victorian England attire and displaying various degrees of Mod-influenced body art: pierced ears and eyebrows, intricate tattoos. She'd seen no such marks or piercings on the Sky Cowboy, which made her ponder the body beneath his clothes.

Cheeks burning, she averted her mind from those tawdry thoughts, self-conscious now as the unique collage of men moved in and took stock of her. Probably she should be nervous, given their scandalous reputation, given their intimidating presence, but she was quite simply intrigued.

Whilst the crew stared at Amelia, a man whom she guessed to be American Indian, given the color of his skin and his ink black braids, stepped forward to relieve Mr. Gentry of his pack. "Eli filled us in before he pushed off with that other woman," he said in a low voice. "You sure about this, Tuck?"

The devastatingly handsome man nodded and traded his aviator cap for a black Stetson. Now he truly looked like the Sky Cowboy of penny-dreadful fame, from his wide-brimmed, round crown hat to his billowing black duster to his pointy-toed boots. Amelia mentally cursed another attack of stomach wrens and focused on the soft-spoken Indian.

"A woman on board?" He glanced at the cowboy's vexing sidekick. "Surprised Axel didn't pitch a fit."

"Didn't give him the chance."

Axel grunted. "First thing goes wrong-"

"Never mind that." Tuck looked to the rest of the crew, then nodded toward Amelia. "This is Miss Darcy."

"Amelia Darcy," she said with what she hoped was a friendly smile. After all, she'd be traveling with these men for days. No need to tempt their bad favor. She'd already knocked heads with Mr. Brawn-Brain. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr...."

"StarMan. No mister."

"Chief navigator and copilot," Tuck said.

His name and position explained the inked design slas.h.i.+ng across one high cheekbone. "The Big Dipper," Amelia noted with wonder.

StarMan nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at his no-nonsense mouth.

"Blooming fantastic," she whispered.

Tuck diverted her attention, pointing out the other men and a.s.signing names to faces. "Birdman Chang, Doc Blue. You've met Axel O'Donnell, Maverick's engineer, and Eli Boone, a tinker of many talents."

"What's that?" Chang asked, pointing over her shoulder.

"A menace," Axel said as he abandoned Amelia's satchel and shrugged off his pack.

"Leo," Amelia corrected, counting the small gold hoops piercing Chang's right ear from lobe to upper cartilage. Six.

"Mind your manners around Miss Darcy, boys," Axel warned with an eye roll. "Otherwise that iron-beaked p.e.c.k.e.r will rip you a new one."

"Don't reckon you should talk like that around a lady," Doc said to Axel.

Amelia smiled at the man. Maybe she had at least one ally on board. "So you're the s.h.i.+p's physician?"

"And cook."

"Fixes up food better than people," StarMan said, then looked to Doc. "Meant that as a compliment."

Doc Blue, who looked to be near her own age, just smiled. Of all of the men, he was the slightest in frame. Muscular, yet wiry. Pale enough to be Scandinavian, though not as tall as she imagined a typical Norseman to be, and his accent was most definitely American. His fair hair was cut in a choppy fas.h.i.+on, as if he'd sliced it w.i.l.l.y-nilly with a scalpel. She wondered if his eyes, hidden behind tinted blue goggles, were blue as well. Hence his name? Each hand was inked with a different symbol, something Celtic perhaps. She wondered at their meaning. Boyishly handsome, Doc struck her as a man of good humor and tolerance.

Birdman Chang was shorter in stature, though his clothes hinted at an impressive muscular physique. Of Chinese descent, he had dark eyes that danced with curiosity whilst he vibrated with a caged energy that made her skin itch. Although his hair was black as a starless night, it was not long and braided, as one might a.s.sume, but short and wild, like Doc's. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and she was mesmerized by the intricate designs that covered his forearms-wrists to elbow and perhaps beyond.

The other men were much taller. All intimidating, although some more than others. All handsome in a rugged, rebellious way. Again she marveled at the varied races. Indian, Oriental, Scandinavian. Eli Boone, though absent just now, had impressed her as a fine-looking black man with large, kind eyes. Axel had fierce features and an odd accent, although his surname and flaming red hair suggested Irish descent. She realized suddenly that every man was scrutinizing her as intensely as she was studying them.

Amelia detected a combination of interest and aversion. Unsettling on both counts. She decided then and there that a brazen demeanor would be her best defense.

"When you're done gawking at Miss Darcy," Tucker told his men, "help Axel upload her dig."

"You mean that mangled heap of rubble?" Chang asked.

Axel smirked. "She's gonna fix it."

I'll fix you, Amelia wanted to say, but she was suddenly too weary to fight. Her thigh hurt to distraction now, and when she s.h.i.+fted she yelped.

Doc frowned. "You didn't say she was hurt, Marshal."

"She said she was fine." Tucker crouched to inspect her ankle. "What the..."

"Boot's soaked with blood," StarMan noted.

Light-headed now, Amelia grasped the rail. "It's my thigh."

Tucker lifted away the hem of her duster. "Ah, Christ."

Doc leaned in, then just as quickly pushed off. "Take her below. I'll get my bag."

"My cabin!" Tuck called after the man.

Amelia tried to look but couldn't see. The injury was on the back of her thigh. "I thought it was a bruise."

"That ain't no bruise," Axel said, his unlit cigar dangling from his lower lip. "d.a.m.n, girl."

The other men whistled and shook their heads.

Panicked a little now, Amelia swallowed hard. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothin' Doc can't fix," Tucker said. "Hush now, darlin', and don't fuss."

When Tucker rose, he lifted her up and over his shoulder. Before she could argue, he ordered the men to attend to Bess, then, toting Amelia like a sack of flour, carried her toward the stern and down a ladder. She tried to absorb her surroundings, but her upside-down vantage point was most disconcerting. From what she could tell, though, the Maverick, unlike the Flying Cloud, was in top form. Wood and bra.s.s gleamed, and the scents ranged from lemon polish to grease to engine fumes, coffee, and leather. At one point she thought she smelled fresh hay and licorice.

She tried not to think about the b.l.o.o.d.y awful pain in her leg, about what those men had seen and why they'd looked disconcerted. Surely it couldn't be that bad. She thought about poor Jules and how his leg injuries had resulted in a permanent limp. There are worse things, she told herself. She could fly with a limp. Although maybe not the kitecycle. What if she could no longer pedal?

"Is Doc really better at fixing food than people?" Amelia asked, cursing the wobble in her voice. "Not to offend, but he doesn't appear old enough to have much experience in the medical field."

"Doc's an enlightened soul and a man of many talents." Tucker kicked open an ajar door and moved into a dark-paneled room. The last light of day streaked through the windows in tandem with the artificial light beaming from at least three lamps. She pondered the brightness and realized the halls had been illuminated as well, though she hadn't smelled kerosene. Electricity?

"Put her on the bed," Doc said.

She spied a ma.s.sively large mattress covered with an exquisite bone-and-black woven coverlet and several pillows. "Is that your bed?" she asked Tucker. "I cannot-"

"You can and you will."

"Need access to that wound," Doc said as he rifled through his black bag.

"Hold tight to me when I set you down, Flygirl, and don't put weight on your injured leg."

Amelia blanched as Tucker set her gingerly to the floor. "I'm not taking off my trousers." No man had ever seen her in her bloomers, and these particular homespun bloomers were somewhat snug and spa.r.s.e in material-as was needed when wearing her formfitting flight pants.

"Then I'll have to cut away enough leather for Doc to work," he said.

She mourned the potential loss of her flight pants. "So be it."

Feeling woozier by the minute, she held on to the lapel of Tucker's coat, using one hand to aid him in ridding her of her scarves and coat. Beneath she wore her unconventional leather breeches and a wool brocade corsetlike bodice over a loose white blouse.

The Sky Cowboy's gaze fell to her bountiful cleavage but did not linger. She knew not whether to be insulted or impressed. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, she couldn't think straight-although she knew for certain that her mother would condemn her for lying upon this virile man's bed. Inappropriate. Scandalous. Amelia almost smiled.

He indicated the mattress, which sat quite high on an ornate frame. "Do you need help or can you manage?"

"I'll get blood on your coverlet."

"I don't care-"

"But-"

"Dammit, woman." He swiped away the quality piece and replaced it with an ordinary green wool blanket.

Doc turned and she noticed he had traded his tinted goggles for blue-tinted spectacles, although they resembled goggles, given their thick frames and wraparound fas.h.i.+on. "Do you prefer laudanum or chloroform?" he asked.

"Neither."

"Whiskey then."

"No."

This time Tucker got in her face. "It's gonna hurt like h.e.l.l, Flygirl."

It hurt like b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l now. "Why?" she asked, swiping off her flight cap and pivoting on her good leg to lie across the bed. "What is it? A cut? Do I need st.i.tches? I've had them before. I a.s.sure you I can stand the p.r.i.c.k of a needle."

She was bl.u.s.tering a bit with that last part. Times before the physician had dulled the pain. Just now she needed her wits about her. Lord forbid she slip about her true mission due to a drug-induced stupor. She did not trust Tucker Gentry and his gang-or any man, for that matter-not to rob her of her invention of historical significance. Surely they knew about the jubilee contest and prize.

Tucker rounded the bed, shrugged out of his overcoat, and stooped so he faced her eye to eye. "You've got a metal shard lodged in your thigh, Amelia. Doc's gonna have to extract it. Then he's going to disinfect the wound and st.i.tch it closed."

"Oh." She swallowed hard. "Right then. Be done with it."

He swore under his breath, then moved behind her. The mattress sagged with added weight, and her cheeks burned at the thought of sharing his bed. Next she felt big hands-Tucker's hands-on her leg, felt him cutting and ripping the leather. She squeezed her eyes shut, mortified and more than a little nervous.

She heard someone else enter the room.

"Your instruments, Doc. Fresh out of boiled water, as requested."

From the slight Asian accent, she a.s.sumed that was Birdman Chang.

Her mortification mounted. "Please go."

"Stay," Tucker commanded. Next thing she knew he'd rounded the bed once again. He took her hands, squeezed. "Look at me, darlin'."

The endearment was inappropriate, although, at this moment, oddly comforting. She should dissuade him from such intimacy, and she would. At some point.

"Hold her steady," Doc said to Chang.

She felt strange hands upon her person and wanted to die. The need to live, however, was much stronger. She needed to save her family from financial ruin, to resurrect their reputation, her papa's name.

"How'd you come by those other injuries?" Tucker asked. "The ones that required st.i.tches."

She knew he was striving to distract her and blessed him for it. "Flying incidents."

His lip twitched just as she felt a painful tug at her leg. She bit back a yelp, and breathed deeply. "Tell me about the engines on deck. Do they power the blasterbeefs? Supply the s.h.i.+p with electricity? How did you...How does it work?"

She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as Doc Blue pulled metal from muscle. Never had she felt such blinding pain. She jerked and moaned, but she did not scream or cry. Show no weakness. She focused on Tucker's steady words-something about steam turbines-but then Doc bathed her wound with something that stung like a thousand wasps.