Then, faster than I knew the old man could move, his hand snapped out and grabbed my collar. He yanked. “Come on, then, Striker. Don’t wanna keep Captain Cochran waitin’ no longer—it’ll only make this worse, and I need you alive t’work the engine. Or”—he towed me into a walk, throwing me a milky-eyed glare—“I need you mostly alive.”
Moments later I found myself in the blacksmith’s office, the tiny room beside the engine room where we mended broken parts and made new ones. Chains and hatchets and screws gleamed at me from all corners of the tiny room, building terror in my chest.
I’d insisted I could walk myself, but Murry had, in turn, insisted he didn’t trust me. So he’d dragged me by the collar the whole way before shoving me inside with a cackle that was still ringing in my ears.
And then he’d left me. To wait. And with each passing second, my fear ratcheted up another notch. I had no idea what I’d done, but it had to be bad if the captain wanted to see me . . .
When Cochran finally slammed inside, my panic boiled straight into my skull. With his huge shoulders tensed straight to his ears and his eyes on fire, I knew I was in for it.
Shit. I scooted backward until my legs hit the low anvil in the center of the room.
“As soon as we reach New Orleans,” Cochran said in a voice lethal and low, “you are off this ship.”
My jaw sagged, surprise briefly stifling my fear. “What?”
“What, sir,” he snapped. “And you heard me. As soon as we hit New Orleans, you’re gone.”
“Why?” I asked—but when his face turned even darker red, I quickly added, “Sir. Why, sir?”
“I ain’t blind, Striker.” He took a long step toward me. “I know damned well how you feel about my daughter, and if you think you can kiss”—spittle flew with the word—“then you’re wrong. Murry saw the two of you, and there’s no way in hell I’ll stand for it. When we hit New Orleans, I’m turning you in.”
“But I haven’t kissed her.” I gaped at him. “I swear, Cap’n. I didn’t t—”
His fist hit my eye faster than I could blink. I crumpled to the floor—just in time for his boot to smash into my ribs. My back hit the anvil with a crunch, and I toppled onto my stomach. My skull was on fire. My ribs screamed.
“You think I don’t know who you are?” he snarled, towering over me. “I have news for you, Sure Hands. I’ve known about your past for quite a while now.” He smiled, clearly pleased with himself, and it took all my self-control to keep my face blank as he went on.
“You see, Striker, there’s a man named Clay Wilcox, and he has a reward out for a boy your age. He says this ‘Sure Hands’ fellow killed a factory guard over in Philadelphia. That he blew up the factory, and—imagine this!—the picture of Sure Hands looks just like you.”
Don’t react! I shouted at myself. Don’t react. But it was damned near impossible. Why was Clay Wilcox still looking for me? He had set me up to die in that explosion—set me up to take his fall and rot in prison for his crime. I had killed the guard on accident, but I sure as hell hadn’t blown up the factory.
“The thing is,” Cochran drawled, “I’m not the sort of man to miss out on easy money. I’ve only ignored this reward money because you’re so good with an engine. I’ve kept you on this long because my steamer needed you. . . . But now?” His boot suddenly slammed into my kidney. Black rolled through my brain.
“That boy ain’t me,” I finally ground out. “I ain’t been to Philadelphia, and I ain’t kissed—”
Another kick and another black wave. Then more kicking, over and over again, until I prayed that unconsciousness would overtake me.
But finally—finally—after twenty kicks or maybe a hundred Cochran made a satisfied grunt, as if pleased I would never budge again. Then his footsteps moved away from me, and I heard the door click open.
I peeled my eyelids back. “You’ll . . . lose,” I rasped.
For a moment he stood frozen before the door. Then it clicked softly shut, and his boots stomped back to me. Next thing I knew, Cochran was crouched beside me, his face in mine. “What did you say?”
“You’ll lose . . . the race.” I sputtered a cough and gulped in fresh air. “Murry and Schultz . . . can’t work as fast as me. . . . You need me . . . sir.”
His lips curled back, but I could see in the way his eyes darted that he was considering my words. “Fine,” he hissed at last. “You can stay until after the race and then you’re off.”
“But there’s no reason for me to win now—”
Hands grabbed my shirt and yanked. The world spun in spurts, moving in time to my pulse . . . until suddenly I was back on my feet, Cochran’s breath rolling over my face and his grip tight.
“Do not play games with me, Striker. The bounty on your head says nothing about you being alive.” He pulled me even closer, his eyes boring into mine. “But if you want incentive, then I’ll give it to you.” Gripping my head, he twisted it to one side and whispered directly into my ear. “If you stay until the race and if you win, I won’t turn you over to Clay Wilcox.”