“I won’t argue with you on that one,” she said. Nigel had told her to play nice, and she fully meant to, but James said it first, and wasn’t it polite to agree with a guest? Westie sighed. “I’m sorry for snapping at you during supper last night.” She spit out the apology and screwed up her face as if it were earwax on her tongue.
James’s lips split into a grin. “That’s very touching. Thank you.”
She shrugged.
“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink at the tavern tonight? We can start over.”
She took slow breaths as a familiar craving wakened in the pit of her stomach. It had been two years since Westie had had a drink, but every day was a struggle to keep sober. She’d started drinking when she was fourteen, to numb the pain of the nightmares of her past and Alistair’s rejection. It started with just a shot of whiskey in the morning, and then one more before bed to get to sleep. At some point, without her even realizing, her drinking had turned into a habit.
Alcohol had made everything seem more fun, and it disrupted her thoughts of Alistair, so she drank a lot. One night, after she and Isabelle had gone to a barn dance and Westie had woken the next morning nearly drowned after passing out in a pig’s wallowing hole, Nigel made a deal with her. If she continued her school lessons and promised never to take another drink, he would provide her with the weapons and training she needed to hunt the killers of her family, something she’d been begging him to do for some time. She’d made that deal with him and fully intended to keep it.
“I don’t drink,” she said.
Westie watched as Alistair took the rope and was lifted into the air with the other men.
“Looks like your friend could use some help,” James said.
Westie laughed, but the sound was lost in engine noise. She ran—as much as one could run beneath the weight of all that fabric—and stood below them. Reaching up with her machine, she took hold of the knot at the end of the rope, pulling the men to safety.
The airship sank toward the earth and bounced to a stop. She cringed at the wail of the engines shutting down. Nigel was a genius, she knew, but she’d never imagined him capable of inventing something so immense.
Westie joined her family to watch the people on the airship emerge from their cabins onto the deck.
“There he is,” Nigel said warily as the mayor climbed down the companionway and descended the gangplank.
Westie had never seen the mayor before. Though he was in charge of all the territories in the Sacramento Valley, he rarely, if ever, came to town. He was soft pink and nearly bald, pushing fifty if not already there. He wore a green paisley suit, rattlesnake-skin boots, and a bolo tie adorned with turquoise even though it was an Indian stone, and, according to Nigel, he’d fought diligently to keep the natives out of the city.
The mayor talked around a cigar clamped between his teeth. “Nigel, my good man.” He patted Nigel on the shoulder with a pudgy hand. He had a hearty laugh. Pearls of sweat hung from his upper lip. “These must be your automatons I’ve heard so much about.”
Westie’s hackles rose. She doubted the insult was intended, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to shove her machine up the fat man’s—
“Alistair Butler, at your service.” Alistair stepped forward, offering his hand. Though Nigel had never officially adopted him, Alistair used his surname.
The mayor gave it a quick tug.
“How do you do?” Westie extended her copper hand for the mayor to kiss or shake, it didn’t matter which—either way she meant it to be an introduction he wouldn’t forget. Nigel had warned her to behave around the investors, but he hadn’t said anything about the mayor.
Nigel stepped in before she could make contact. He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a painful squeeze. Wincing, she smiled at the mayor.
“And this beauty is Miss Westie,” Nigel said.
“A beauty indeed.” The mayor was full of smiles until his gaze wavered on her copper arm. “Indeed,” he said again with less enthusiasm.
“How was your flight, Mayor?” Nigel asked.
The mayor patted his ample belly, where the buttons of his shirt stretched holes into the fabric, showing the sweaty hair matted beneath. “Just fine, thank you, but please call me Ben. There’s no point in using formalities when we’re in wild country surrounded by creatures and Indians, wouldn’t you say?”
He glared at Bena, who stood beside Nigel looking unimpressed by the mayor, the airship, and the people getting off it.
“Where are the investors?” Westie asked. It was a hundred and hell out, and it felt like swampland beneath her skirts.
“They should be coming.” The mayor looked toward the ship. “Yes, there they are.”
Westie followed his line of sight toward the passengers on the ship. It was as if someone had reached into her chest and pulled out her lungs. Suddenly the air around her disappeared, stolen by the couple walking down the gangplank.
Six