The man jerked his gun. “Put that peashooter of yours on the floor, and kick it to me,” he said.
Hink reached for the gun under his coat.
“Slowly.”
Hink reached slower for the gun under his coat.
He pulled it out, holding it by one finger, then dropped it on the floor.
“Good. Now kick it.”
Hink put the sole of his boot on the gun. He didn’t say anything, but there was tenseness in him, like a coil wound too tight.
Rose knew that was her signal. It was time to throw the flare.
She slid her hand up her sleeve and struck the flare, then hurled it at the man. The crate filled with blinding orange light.
Rose ducked and dug in her satchel for her gun, but Hink was already rushing the man, then was on him, fists slamming into his face and stomach.
The man got off a shot or two, then both of them fell to the floor, just as the entire crate tipped alarmingly to the side, forcing everything not tied down to slide from one end of the car to the other.
Rose slid too, but held tight to her gun as she thunked against the crates and coffins. The flare went out and darkness thumped down so thick it felt like a blanket fell over her eyes.
The freight car leveled somewhat, and she stood with the help of the ropes tied around the freight.
She couldn’t see anything. But she heard someone breathing heavily. Then a groan.
“Rose?” It was Hink.
“I’m all right,” she said. “The gunman?”
“Out cold. Find a light, will you?”
He groaned again, then moved off to her left, probably toward the man. Maybe to tie him up.
Rose felt her way along to a wall, and then felt for the lantern that should be hanging there. Found it. It only took a moment to bring the wick to a cheery yellow fire.
Hink sat back on his heels, looking down at the man, who was not moving. She didn’t think he was alive.
“Is he dead?” Rose asked.
“Hope to hell he is,” Hink said. “Don’t feel like breaking my knuckles on his face again.”
Hink stood, and lifted his hands out to the side for a second, gaining his balance. But the car was level and smooth at the moment.
That’s when Rose noticed the blood on his shirt.
“You’ve been hurt,” she said.
“Not my blood,” he said.
Rose got around in front of him and pulled his coat open. Steam from the heat of his blood wafted up from his shirt, which was soaked. “Yes, it is,” she said. “Sit down and let me try to stanch it.”
“Stanch what? I said I’m not wounded. I feel fine. We need to knock out one of these boards so we can see where this crate is flying.”
Rose pressed her fingers against his ribs and he hissed in a hard breath.
“Good God, woman. Why you have to be jabbing at me like that?”
“Let me take care of the bullet hole in your hide.”
He shook his head.
“Paisley Cadwaller Hink Cage, “she said sternly. “Sit down before I kick out your kneecaps.”
He blinked hard, then gave her half a smile. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
“Faster than you could say Nelly.”
“Don’t know what I did to deserve the likes of you,” he muttered as he made his way over to a stack of crates and carefully—very carefully—lowered himself to sit in the dust.
“Well, it wasn’t all those years of you being an altar boy,” she said, kneeling beside him.
He chuckled and pressed his hand over his side. “Never quite got the hang of spiritual purity. Or any other kind of purity for that matter. Too many interesting things that needed being done.”
“Move your hand.” Rose set the lantern down and dug in her satchel. She didn’t have much in the ways of medicine, but had kept the black salve Mae used on her shoulder wound when she’d been hit with that piece from the Holder, and she had her sewing kit.
“Hold this.” She placed the jar of salve in his palm and then unbuttoned his shirt.
“Had dreams about this sort of thing,” he said in a soft drawl. “Me, you. A dark train car. You ripping off my shirt…”
“You’re delirious,” she said.
“I’m clear as a bell.”
“Well, then your bell is cracked,” she said. “A fact I’m willing to ignore since you are also bleeding. Oh.” She lifted the lantern to better see the wound. A wet, stone-red gash in his side was pouring blood rather freely.
“I think it went straight through,” she said.
“Told you it was just a graze.”
“You said no such thing.”
“Huh. Did I mention me dreaming about you pulling off my clothes?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want to die without you knowing that. The things I think about you.”
“You are not going to die.” She twisted the lid off the jar and dipped her fingers into the mixture. “And I know exactly what you think about me.”
“I really don’t suppose you do.”
She spread the salve on as gently as she could, and he held his breath through it. Even though there was no bullet buried in his gut, that gash had to hurt. She pulled out her sewing kit, grateful she’d left the needle threaded.
“You think I’m young, untested in the world, and innocent,” she said as she pushed the needle through the skin as quickly as she could.
Hink winced, but remained silent, watching her.
“You think I don’t know what a man can have on his mind when he looks at a woman. Or visits them in their parlors for weeks at a time.”
She tied a knot and then cut the thread with her sewing scissors. The stitches should help slow the bleeding. But this was not a minor wound. She reached over for another fingerful of the salve.
He caught her wrist gently. “Rose Small. There aren’t many people who bring the truth out of me, but you are one of them. I did not sleep with those women. There’s only one woman who has the key to my heart. Only you.”
This close, she knew he was not lying. Knew he meant every word he said.
But she wondered if she could give as fully her heart to him. She’d just barely begun to see this great and wild world. Tying her star to this man would mean not meeting any others. It would mean settling for the sort of life he intended to lead, just as much as it would mean him settling for the things she intended to do.
Of course, given the chance, they’d both jumped on a train car being stolen off the rail by a massive and unidentified airship, without so much as a pause. Maybe their intentions were compatible.
“At least you’re smiling,” he said, letting go of her wrist so she could spread the salve. “I prefer my doctors to be in a forgiving sort of mind-set when they’re jabbing fingers in my innards.”
“Hush,” she said as she reached into her satchel for a clean handkerchief. She pressed that against the salve-covered wound. “Do you think you can hold this here while I try to make a window we can look out of?”
“I’ll help.”
“You’ll help by staying right here and concentrating on not bleeding.”
He took a deep breath to argue, but must have thought better of it since he stopped with a wince, halfway through. “Might be something in the crates you can use,” he said.
“My thought exactly.” Rose swung the strap of her satchel off over her head and left it there next to Hink. She took the lantern and first walked over to check on the gunman. She placed her hand over his mouth, felt no breath, then placed her fingers on the side of his neck, searching for a heartbeat there.
Nothing. Rose tried not to let his death bother her. He’d been more than prepared to kill her and Hink. And she didn’t think he’d have any regrets if he’d done just that. She lifted the lantern, spotted a sheet of canvas, and pulled it over the man’s prone body.
Then, with more delight than she should probably be feeling, she started digging into the boxes and crates to see what sort of useful thing she could build.