Devon Monk - Cold Copper

The way he said it all, it sounded like poetry. Rose folded the books against her chest and studied her companion. “Do you live here in town, Mr. Wicks?”

“Presently.” He tucked his hands behind his back and bent nearly in half, browsing the books on the lower shelves.

“What is your occupation?”

“Currently? A purveyor of fine literature. Previously? A railroad and express agent. And before that, other, less interesting things.”

“You’ve worked for the railroads?”

“Just so.”

“How exciting,” she said. “Have you been to all the great cities, then? Boston? Philadelphia? New York?”

His shoulders tightened just a bit at the mention of the cities. He pulled himself up to his height again, then, casually: “If one may consider them great. Yes. Those places and many more.”

The way he said it, she suddenly wondered why he had left them for this rather out-of-the-way spur in Kansas.

The wind battered at the shingles and sieved through the cracks around the door, reminding her that outside this cocoon of ink and page, winter was on a wail. Time had slipped away. It was dark out, and here she was lingering with a perfect stranger after hours.

Best she be moving on.

“Well, then,” she said, giving her words a lift. “Thank you for showing me around the place, Mr. Wicks. I’ll just be signing out and on my way.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.” He seemed to choose a book at random off the shelf, then picked up his jacket and coat. “I do hope you’ll allow me to see you to your front step?”

Rose narrowed her eyes. What did she really know about this man? Nothing other than the rather idle chitchat over the last few hours. He seemed a kind, polite, and guileless sort. But it had been her experience that sly-hearted people often hid behind kind smiles.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to be bothering you,” she said. “I know my way about. Why, I suppose Mr. Davis might be headed out to the farm, and I’ll just hop his wagon.”

He frowned while donning his outercoat. “It has never been my experience that Mr. Davis is reliable. It must be—”

A train whistle hooted, two short, one long howl. When it softened a bit, Rose was sure she could hear the call of the conductor, urging passengers aboard.

“—five o’clock exactly.” He tucked his watch into his pocket. “Mr. Davis should be halfway to the creek by now.”

“Do you pay such close attention to all of Hays City’s residents?” Rose wandered up to the librarian’s desk and placed the books down.

“Well, no. But you have to admit he is difficult to overlook. I think he quite prefers it that way.”

That was true. Mr. Davis had a bit of a drinking habit, and by evening each night as he rambled out of town with his tinker wagon, he was usually singing at the top of his lungs.

“Is that everything now?” Miss Bucker wore round glasses much like Mr. Wicks, only hers had glass in them as thick as a thumb. That glass didn’t appear to be strong enough to take the squint out of her eyes as she flipped each book over and took note of the title and author in the ledger at her side.

She picked up the fountain pen and quirked her head to one side, pen raised, looking down her nose at the same time as looking up at Rose. “Name, my dear?”

“Miss Rose Small. I’m currently at Miss Adaline’s farm.”

“Is that so? I heard an airship came crashing into the orchard just a few months ago. Were you there to see it?”

Rose had indeed been there. She’d been injured, very sick, and aboard Captain Hink’s airship, the Swift . They nearly hadn’t made it to the farm that was owned by the coven of witches where Mae had been raised. The Swift hadn’t so much crashed as barely limped the winds to come down less than easily in the orchards.

“I didn’t see a ship crash at all,” Rose said quite truthfully.

“Well, I expect such things to become common now,” Miss Bucker said. “Such comings and goings with the rail line and ships and strange travel devices. This town used to be a quiet place. A nice place.” She planted her pen back in the ink pot and shook her head. “Look at it now. New faces every day, bandits and roughs just adding to the mess of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if we burst our boundaries by next spring.”

“Hays City is busy,” Mr. Wicks said. “That is the price for the advance of civilization, I’m afraid. But it’s not growing as quickly as some other towns. The rail connections in Council Bluff and Des Moines have more than tripled the size of those cities in under a year.”

“Civilization can advance all it wants,” she said with a huff. “In those cities.”

He grinned at Rose when Miss Bucker wasn’t looking, then slid his book onto her desk.

“Oh, you can take it, Thomas,” she said more kindly. “I know you’ll have it back by the morning.”

“Thank you, Miss Bucker.”

Rose tucked the books inside the inner pocket she’d sewn into her heavy coat; then, knowing the books were safe from the elements, she tugged the door open and stepped out into the night.

Wet, dark, and cold. It wasn’t snow coming down; it was waves of freezing sleet that the wind snapped out like sheets on a line.

Rose swore under her breath. She hadn’t ridden into town. She’d stormed her way on foot, five miles or so, without once thinking how she’d get back in the dark.

Well, she knew the way, and there wasn’t anything wrong with her feet. She’d be cold and wet by the end of it, but neither of those things would be her death.

Time to get walking.

She’d made it down to the end of the block when Mr. Wicks called out.

“Miss Small.” He all-too-quickly caught up to her strong stride before she’d even reached the hardware store. “You aren’t going to travel the night alone are you?”

“Yes, I am, Mr. Wicks. Don’t bother yourself over my welfare. I can take care of myself.”

“It isn’t a bother—”

A horse loped down the street toward them. Rose paused on the wooden sidewalk, squinting against the sleet catching like sparks of gold in the wedge of shop light.

She knew that rider. Captain Hink.

“You’re coming home,” he said, pulling the horse up short and glaring down at her.

“Not with you, I’m not,” she said.

“Excuse me,” Thomas said. “Are you a relation to Miss Small?”

“No,” Rose said. “He most certainly is not. My relations aren’t lying, cheating dogs.”

“How would you know?” Hink asked. “You run across one of your real relations lately?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Rose Small, I do not know what has gotten into you.” Hink pushed his hat back off his eyes a bit.

“Give me your horse.” She held her hand out.

“What? No.”

“You won’t need it, will you?”

He leaned forward a bit to drape one arm on the saddle horn and the sleeting rain shattered down like diamonds from the brim of his hat. “If I wanted to be standing in the street with my boots in a puddle, that’s where I’d be. What has gotten into you, woman?”

“Clarity,” she said. “You don’t need the horse. You have a warm bed waiting for you right down Whore Street.”

Hink opened his mouth, but instead of yelling, he laughed.

He laughed.

Rose took a deep breath and clenched her hands into fists. Hot white fury filled her, and the taste of melted metal filled her mouth. How dare he make fun of her. How dare he try to laugh his way out of his betrayal.

Did she mean so little to him?

“Is that what this is all about?” he asked. “My…other interests? I suppose you’ve made up your mind without once hearing my explanation.”