Like a Wisp of Steam, Thomas Roche [list of e readers txt] 📗

eyes met hers, and there was a sheen of wetness to them, barely restrained tears. "I can offer you a sum of twenty-five dollars a week, free board in our comfortably quaint wagons, and three squares a day."

The quality of the meals dubbed "squares," Trista figured, would undoubtedly depend on how well Heck's show did at any given location. A part of that required all the marvels and attractions working out. It was work she could certainly sink her teeth into, work made all the more enticing because her own savings were nearly gone.

Was this not everything she had hoped for?

Well, not quite.

But it would do.

"I am interested, Mr. Lansdale," Trista said, "Please tell me more."

* * * *

So began a life of work where Trista labored solely behind the scenes doing the difficult, thankless, and often grimy work of keeping up poor Benjamin, the world's oldest clockwork and steam-powered replica of a man, far from the more cutting edge of the New Science that she was familiar with. But it was among the ranks of Heck's crew that she made the acquaintance of Maggie Douglass, the Shooting Lady. "So skilled," ran Maggie's bill of introduction, "that both Wild Bill Hickock and Billy the Kid refused to spar with her, on account of fear that they might lose to a gal." That both these gunfighters were long deceased (and one had the gall to shuffle off this mortal coil before Maggie was old enough to hold a gun) had little real effect on the crowds. They were happy enough to hear the story, happy enough to pay their two bits to see her perforate papers or wear a blindfold while taking a pair of stacked apples off a "helpful volunteer's"

head. If a story is even remotely interesting, then most folks let the smaller lies slide (so long as no one's getting robbed blind or harmed).

Maggie was a brusque but kindly soul, a woman over thirty, with age lines around her eyes, weariness to her shoulders, and the pronounced inability to really smile. Her dark hair was touched with occasional strands of silver, and her face was that of a woman nearly twenty years older.

Upon first meeting Trista alone, she sized the younger woman up and said, "Get out of the business just as soon as you can."

"I don't intend to stay any longer than needs be."

"You need something firmer than that, my dear. Give yourself a time to mosey by, and if that time comes and you're still here, then make scarce. Don't make excuses."

"I was figuring on having it be one year," Trista said.

"Does that seem short enough?"

Maggie's considered this and nodded. Though she did not smile, there was a puckish light to her. An aura of humor.

"This life can wear a girl out, Trista."

"I figured."

"You look like a smart gal," Maggie said. "You figure a lot?"

"Not enough about this life I've been leading. Just when I think I have it rationalized away, it throws a curve into my plans. That's just plain rude, wouldn't you say?"

"I think we're going to get along just fine," Maggie said, and she was right.

In time, Trista came to discover that Maggie was what folks might call a "confirmed maiden," with no interest in men as anything other than business partners (Heck Lansdale) or associates (just about everyone else). Three months after the show carried Trista away from the chill, windy streets of the White City, she found herself warming to Maggie as they talked long into the night over glasses of amber liquid, learning the intricacies of firearms and...Maggie was not searching for a life mate, and yet Trista could more than empathize with the loneliness she talked about. They were like twins of spirit, and it was only a matter of time before she understood the degree of attachment she felt.

In the dark countryside en route to Arizona, Trista found a warmth in Maggie's arms that had been missing from her since that fateful night over (and, well, in) Fort Detroit.

The wagons were small affairs modeled after the colorful transports favored by Old World gypsies, made to house two but stuffed with four or more tenants. They were not places of escape, but mere spots to lay one's pillow for the night. But Maggie, as part owner and financier to the show, lived alone.

Her wagon had decorations from a lifetime spent as an entertainer, posters and memorabilia that she could expound on for hours in fascinating ways. Rich, crimson curtains hung across the windows, and the floor was tastefully decorated with a matching carpet. The place was stuffed to gills with the makings of parlor and bedroom, separable by a dark, sliding curtain should she wish to entertain polite company.

They were soused, not at all how ladies "should be," but in the fashion of frontier chums. Trista was talking about the night over Fort Detroit, painting rosy (and perhaps somewhat bawdy) pictures of the mishap. Maggie sat enraptured, showing perhaps an unhealthy interest in those bawdy aspects—she really could drag the most wicked confessions out of a girl—and Trista was lost in the telling, feeling those sensations all over again. Then, she offered to demonstrate (a joke, a joke!), and Maggie had surprised her by sitting up straight and inviting her over with a glance. That glance was one part enticement and one part ... vulnerability.

Trista was aware that poor, lonely Maggie offered up her heart in that moment. If she had a desire or spiteful nature, she could easily dash it to the floor. Ruin that heart and thereby, through the special connection they shared, ruin Maggie. There was something undeniably beautiful and meaningful in the moment. In the offering.

She did not ruin her friend.

Trista leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth, instead.

Maggie's lips were not soft like Cecilia's, but there was a pleasure in the roughness. Her kiss was nearly shy, startled.

Then, the Shooting Lady's strong arms came around Trista like a blanket, and her mouth opened, their