III
October 11, 1881
This was not my bed.
Not my home on the fourth floor of the bachelor hotel, The Buchanan.
Even the crisp bite in the air was not that of my city.
I had awoken suddenly. My gut lurched and my head pounded as if I’d spent the night with a bottle of cheap whiskey. Pour, shoot, slam the tumbler. Pour, shoot, slam the tumbler. Over and over until the intoxicating beat embedded itself in my brain. I sat up, gripped my temples, then took a brief look at my surroundings.
The bedside table had several items neatly laid out, perfectly aligned, as if their display mattered somehow. My PDD, which I’d tossed there the evening prior, before sitting down to dinner, had been straightened. Beside it were my shirt cuffs, pocket watch, key, and bowler. My suit and waistcoat were neatly folded on the foot of the bed. I leaned over the edge of the mattress. My shoes were tucked carefully out of the way.
My cheeks grew warm when a recollection roused itself. A whisper. A man’s hand. That’s right. I had been with Gunner the Deadly last night. I had, against my better judgment and the law itself, infused his ammunition with dangerous magic so as to give us the upper hand against Milo Ferguson.
The spell had thrown me for a spin afterward. And then… what? What had happened? I ended up here, in my quarters of this mediocre lodge that was probably as swanky as they came for a Wild West mining town. Had Gunner brought me to bed? Seen to my personal effects?
In God’s name, why?
Why would he bother?
Why would he care?
Knuckles rasped the door, quick and quiet.
I pushed the blankets aside, got out of bed, and padded to the door in my stocking feet. When I opened it, there stood Gunner. He was dressed for the day—in all black, of course—with the Waterbury slung low on his hip. He leaned against the threshold, his face as impassive as ever.
“Good morning,” Gunner stated.
“Oh. Yes. Good morning.”
“How’re you feeling?”
My face warmed again, hot enough to cook a can of beans on. “Fine.”
He nodded a fraction. “Get dressed.”
Something in those blue eyes alerted me, shook off the rest of my grogginess with a suddenness akin to having been dunked in a tub of ice water. “Has something happened?”
“Tinkerer was seen early this morning, stalking the perimeter of a silver mine called Big Mouth—about five miles outside of town.”
I spared a quick glance over my shoulder. The sun hadn’t even broken the horizon yet—the light still a soft and silky blue-gray. “Early this morning?” I repeated, looking at Gunner again.
He removed the pocket watch from his waistcoat and studied the face curiously. “Miners leave at about three.”
“Christ.”
“They sent a scrap of a boy back to report to me.” He tucked the timepiece away.
“On horseback?”
“He ran.” Gunner shifted and pushed himself off the doorframe. “We’ll be on horseback, though. Meet me downstairs.”
“Five minutes.” I shut the door, undressed, and fetched my carpet bag. It’d been delivered by Bartholomew Industries, the airship company, after I’d checked into Bassett Lodge and sent them notice. I removed fresh undergarments, shirt, and stockings, laid them on the bed beside the rest of my suit, then carried a leather satchel of toiletries to the pitcher and basin in the far corner of the room.
I poured water and dragged my fingertips along the ceramic bowl until steam danced across the water’s surface, which was as much to test my magic connection as it was a desire to wash with hot water. The chill in the October air caused my bare skin to pebble with painful gooseflesh. With my nipples erect and balls drawn up, I didn’t waste any more time in producing a bar of soap and clean washcloth. Afterward, I briefly examined my face in a small hand mirror. I could do with a shave, but there simply wasn’t time.
I dressed, buttoned my collar and cuffs, tied my tie, and saw to a bit of Macassar oil in my hair and Crown Fougère on my person. Top notes of lavender and geranium, base notes of cedarwood and patchouli. A crisp, earthy scent that cost a pretty penny, but the gentleman at the boutique said it was sophisticated and suited me. He was merely trying to sell an expensive, London-based fragrance, of course, but the compliment had done something for my constantly battered ego. I’d been faithfully wearing it for a year now.
After slipping on my coat and grabbing my bowler, I headed downstairs. Gunner stood at a window near the front door, staring at the dim street through lace curtains while sipping what smelled like too-strongly-brewed coffee. He glanced sideways at me, then nearly did a double take.
“What?” I asked.
Gunner took a few steps and set the cup down on a nearby table. Then he walked to the door, saying under his breath, “Crown.”
“Pardon?”
“You use Crown perfume.” Gunner put his Stetson on and paused, his hand on the doorknob. “What is it? Not Buckingham. It’s less soapy.”
“Er—Fougère.”
Gunner seemed satisfied by that response. He opened the door and took a step out onto the porch without another word.
I watched him from the threshold, slack-jawed. In the last twelve hours, the outlaw Gunner the Deadly was at odds with the man who I witnessed with my own two eyes. His current behavior did not nullify the fact that he was a vigilante at best, and a murderer at worst, but—world ain’t never been black and white—I hadn’t expected the gruff care he’d shown me last night. He’d unbuttoned my shoes, folded my coat, and tucked me into bed. I hadn’t expected his frank openness regarding his own tendencies, like he’d meant to comfort me with the knowledge: I wasn’t alone. And I certainly wasn’t expecting the country’s most wanted man to be familiar with and have apparent preferences regarding Crown perfumes.
Gunner was… complicated.