Magic and Miracles, page 9
“Kenton, the call came from the telescriber station a mile south. Sounds like they’re having a hard time anchoring to the ground to wait out the storm. Take Brett with you—he’s never worked outside the shop. He could use the experience.”
Kenton nodded and made to leave, but paused to say over his shoulder, “Stanley just scribed that he won’t be comin’ in tonight. Says he’s too sick, but we all know what that means.”
Some of the others standing nearby grumbled and one laughed without humor. The girl sighed, but didn’t comment other than to say, “The rest of you have your assignments. Keep your scribers close, however. The night is only getting messier by the minute.”
Where on earth was Trent? Nick frowned, impatient. He didn’t have time to stand in line and wait for the girl’s attention. As the other men dispersed, she headed away from him, fastening a tool belt as she walked.
Nick caught up to her in a few long strides and grabbed her elbow. “Where’s Trent?” he asked as she looked at his hand and then up at his face.
Her large eyes pinned him to the spot, angry, as if she were stunned at his audacity. The intense aqua color sent a punch to his chest, confirming his earlier guess at her identity. He’d known only one person in his life with eyes that unique color, and he’d not seen her for years.
“Gracie?” He heard the amazement in his own voice. She worked at the mechanic shop? He’d have thought her married by now. “What … where …” He paused. “Are you, are you working for your father? Where is he?”
He saw the moment she finally recognized him. He’d spied her when she was just 18 at the Spring Soiree, but that was four years earlier, and she hadn’t seen him. Awareness dawned and her mouth went slack. “Nicky?” She squinted at him and shook her head as though she couldn’t believe her eyes. She folded her arms across her chest in a gesture that spoke of both defensiveness and defiance. He supposed he couldn’t blame her—he’d broken her young heart, after all.
“This is an extremely bad time for a social call, Nicky. As I’m sure you realize, a storm from hell is upon us and I could use another ten mechanics to keep up with it.”
He frowned. “I’m not here for a social call; the storm is what brings me here. I need to see your father.”
“Then you’ll be waiting for some time, I’ll assume. Provided you even get into heaven, that is.” She sniffed and cast her gaze from his head to his feet and back again in a way that suggested she’d examined and found him wanting in the extreme. “What a shame he lived long enough to see you become the king of the underworld. He’d had such high hopes.”
She turned her back and again moved away from him in confident strides. Calling over her shoulder, she added, “Pity you didn’t even know he’s dead.”
He rushed again to reach her side. He felt a pang of regret in the hollow region that had once housed his heart. That organ wasn’t malfunctioning; in fact, he was hale and hearty as a racehorse. The softer side of his heart, though, was dormant. He’d learned to board it up to keep unwanted emotions at bay. He didn’t have time for it, and people depended on him. The only thing awaiting him on the road to overt altruism was paralysis from the mountains of grief and despair that surrounded him daily. Nicholas Jones’s strength was his detachment.
“I’m sorry to hear he’s dead,” Nick said to Grace as she made her way to a system of shelves along the back wall. “I’ve not seen him in an age.”
She shot a flat look up at him as she grabbed a length of rope and wound it tightly with sure movements. “It’s just as well. He was sick at the end, and seeing you would have made it worse.”
Irritation with her finally flared. “Gracie, I did not intentionally set out to disappoint your father.” He ran his hand through his hair. Time ran short and the storm raged on outside. As if seeking to remind him of the urgency, lightning forked the sky and was followed immediately by a roar of thunder.
She winced at the sound and cast a glance through windows that blurred with falling rain. “Ironic, that. I don’t think you could have done a better job if you’d tried.” She spun to leave, but he grabbed her shoulders.
“Wait,” he bit out and bent his head to look in her eyes. “Just … just wait.” He breathed in and out. “Who is in charge now that your father’s gone?”
“I am. I am in charge. Little girl Gracie. This is my shop, now. If you have a problem with that, you should leave and never come back.” Her lips firmed and nostrils flared lightly.
He wondered how often she was obliged to give that speech. He had to admit, while he’d not been aware of her father’s death, “Trent and Son” still held the reputation as the best airship mechanics in the valley. The “son” designation had been an assumption on her father’s part that he would eventually have one. She’d upheld Trent’s name well.
Nick still clutched her shoulders, afraid that if he released her, she’d bolt again. It was funny, in a way, that she’d referred to herself as “Little Girl Gracie.” Nick had called her that when she was young. The thing was, he realized as he searched her features, that she’d lost the round face of her youth. She’d matured, had become leaner of feature, aged beautifully even in the four short years since the soiree, and as her breath quickly entered and left her chest, he was forced to observe that the rest of her had filled out spectacularly. His attention dropped down several inches to see that while her coveralls were utilitarian and smudged with a day’s worth of dirt, a hint of cleavage was just visible beyond the second button of her shirt.
Her shoulders beneath his hands were tightly muscled and toned, and he absently traced his thumbs along the front of her arms. He stepped closer, frowning, distracted. Was she married? Did she have someone in her life who occupied her free time? “You certainly grew up,” he murmured, talking to himself more than her.
She placed her hands on his chest and shoved. “Yes. I did it when you weren’t here, Nicholas Jones. My father is dead, this business is mine, and you need to leave.”
“Wait!” He reached for her again when she spun on her heel but didn’t touch her this time. “Gracie, I am in desperate need of a ship and your best mechanic. I’ll pay anything—name your price.”
2
Grace Trent studied Nicholas Jones with narrowed eyes, feeling like someone had wrapped a fist around her heart and squeezed. It then beat rapidly, a long-forgotten occurrence when she was with Nick, and she was dismayed to realize the years hadn’t helped quash the surge of emotion and longing.
She wasn’t a child anymore, though; she was 22 years old and running a business in a man’s world where one misstep would mean her downfall. She didn’t have time or energy for distractions from this man or any other.
“I can’t spare my best mechanic tonight, Nick. You see how busy I am right now, and I’m amazed you have the gall to even ask.” She tightened her lips against an instinct to soften toward him. The years looked good on him. He’d be nearing 30 now, or close to it. He’d finally grown into his tall frame and filled it out well. The deep grey eyes, however, hadn’t changed. They were as intense as ever.
“I’ll compensate your losses, just point me to your best man.”
“My best mechanic is me, Nick. I am the best I have, and I am not going anywhere tonight. I can loan a ship, but that’s it.” She was tempted to stay in that spot and keep engaging if only to enjoy the benefit of looking at him. It was for that reason she turned away and crossed the warehouse to her small office at the end. He followed her, of course, and by the time she reached the door she was all but jogging.
“Try another mechanic shop, Nick. There are at least two others within a ten-mile radius.” She swung into her office and grabbed the door. By the time she had it nearly closed, however, he’d wedged his foot in the way and grasped the edge with his strong hand. She released a quiet sigh and closed her eyes.
She stepped back, resigned to having to look at him until she could convince him she was serious and couldn’t help him, not tonight. He slipped into the office and closed the door, taking in a deep breath. She thought he’d resume his demands, but he paused, looking around the small space. His features softened, just a bit, and she swallowed, taking a seat at her desk.
“What is it?” Her question came out a little sharper than she’d intended, but she absolutely must keep her wits about her.
His gaze wandered over the worn wooden planks that covered the walls. She’d waited over a year after her father’s death before giving them a fresh coat of paint. She’d felt disloyal at the thought of making any changes to the business until she finally heard her father in her head, clear as day, saying, “Paint the damn walls, Gracie! This place is yours now.” At his ghostly approval, she finally spruced up the office by putting in a smaller desk and file storage, adding two light sconces, and then partitioning off a small section of space adjacent her office for her own personal water closet.
Nick was quiet for a long moment, and as much as she wanted him to leave, she couldn’t help but crave his good opinion. After his lengthy perusal of her space, his gaze finally landed on her. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth and he said, “It suits you. Looks very nice in here. A much-needed improvement on before, even as good as your father was.”
He motioned to an empty chair she reserved for meetings with customers. “May I?”
She nodded. Thunder crashed again outside, and her jaw clenched at the howling wind. It was a very bad time to be taking an airship into the sky, and she considered rescinding her offer to loan one of hers to Nick. She studied him, his long legs sprawling from the chair, his hand absently combing through his wet hair. He seemed tired. He overwhelmed the small space; he even smelled good. He’d always smelled good to her, and as a young teen she’d imagined how lovely it would be if he would pull her close and let her nuzzle her nose against his neck.
She shook her head. Thoughts like that led nowhere good. She quietly exhaled. “Nicky, you must go. I do not—”
“One of my ships has gone down on the continent.” He eyed her evenly and then looked away. “With … cargo aboard.”
Grace blinked slowly. “Cargo.”
He nodded and met her eyes again.
“Cargo. You want me to leave my business in the middle of a storm to help you chase down cargo.” Her anger grew the longer he paused. She knew Nick had grown an underground network empire of informants and questionable resources. “Illegal cargo, I presume?”
He sighed. “Technically. It is sensitive in nature.”
She gaped at him. “How dare you? Do you think I’m short on funds? That I’m willing to compromise principals in order to throw in my lot with someone as disreputable as you?”
Slight narrowing of his eyes gave her the only indication she’d hit a nerve, and she squelched the irritating sense of regret that she’d taken a cheap shot.
He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and looked at her. “It’s children, Gracie,” he said, his voice low. “The cargo is children.”
Her brows drew together, and she couldn’t make sense of his statement. “I don’t understand.” A nauseating thought struck, and her eyes widened. “Are you selling children?” she hissed.
“Of course not!” A muscle ticked in his jaw. He sat up straight and shook his head. “Surely you’ve noticed the increase population in the children’s workhouses of late?”
“Yes.” She frowned.
“Mr. Benaro owns the largest, and it is little better than the adult debtor prisons. Children are hauled in for the simplest of acts because Benaro uses them for illegal labor in the mills just outside of town.”
Grace curbed the impulse to pepper him with questions—she’d known the problem had become worse especially in the last year, but she hadn’t known salacious details. She thought of her own younger siblings and felt a surge of concern. She never needed to worry they’d be arrested for stealing food—the business provided well enough for the family’s needs—but she hadn’t trusted Benaro since meeting him the first time while accompanying her father on a service call to his property. The man had eyed Grace, who had been only eleven years old at the time, and it made her uncomfortable, even though she couldn’t say why.
“So, what has this to do with you?” she asked.
He hesitated before continuing. “I’ve been arranging adoptions for the children who have no families. It’s an intricate and dangerous process that very few people know about.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, sinking back into the chair. “I was leery about letting my pilot make a run tonight, but it was the only window of opportunity for the four children involved. I’ve a woman on the inside of Benaro’s operation but he’s grown suspicious of her.”
Grace’s head spun. “What is the condition of the ship that crashed?”
“I received half of a message from the pilot before the storm took out the tesla coils near the tavern. I do not know the exact nature of the damage.”
“And the children?”
His lips tightened. “I do not know.”
Grace released another quiet sigh and studied the man who had featured in more than a few of her favorite dreams. Helping him rescue children was a bit more difficult to turn down than helping him retrieve illicit substances.
Thunder crashed again, and Nick winced. “Gracie, I wouldn’t ask it of you, especially on a night like this one, if I weren’t desperate.” He paused, frowning. “I was hoping Jackie would be here—her ship is gone.”
Grace nodded. “I’m concerned—she left some time ago and I’ve not seen her ship in hours.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m not nearly the pilot Jackie is, and I can’t guarantee we won’t crash into the ocean.” She looked directly at Nick. “Are you certain this won’t wait until the storm clears?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I’m not willing to risk a delay. You’ll help me?”
“Yes,” she muttered before she could change her mind and scooted her chair back, rising. “I’ll not be the reason that abused orphan children are denied a good home.”
Nick barked a quick laugh and seemed almost surprised by it. Or perhaps he was surprised by her. He’d not known her as an older teen, as a young adult. Her sharp sense of humor would be an unfamiliar facet to him. He stood, and in the small space, he was much too close. He lifted a hand as though to touch her arm, but dropped it. “I shall owe you more than just money for this, Gracie. I’ll owe you a debt of gratitude, anything of your choosing, any time.”
She smiled tightly. There was a time when she’d have blurted, “You! I want only you.” She was now, thankfully, much more reserved. It was a lesson she’d learned the hard way. The humiliating way. “I shall bear that in mind.” She motioned to the door. “Wait for me near the small airship on the far side. I need to change my clothes.”
He nodded. “Can I carry any tools over?”
“Everything I need is already aboard. Except this.” She reached into the corner and lifted her small, personal bag that contained items she never left behind. They were the first tools her father had given her, and they’d kept her company on more than a few service calls.
Nick took the handles and his hand brushed hers. “Your father’s bag,” he said, and his smile seemed wistful.
She was impressed at his memory. The bag had been at her father’s side her entire life. The patch affixed to it, an embroidered piece of heavy fabric her mother had made, Trent, was faded and frayed at the edges, but still firmly attached.
She nodded, grateful when he opened the door and closed it behind him. Drat the man for his tender memories of her father. It made hardening her heart against him more difficult. Before she did something maudlin, like crying sad tears, she quickly busied herself by changing into clean clothes. A fresh set of black breeches and long-sleeved black tunic that was form-fitting and stayed largely out of her way when working, plus her sturdy work boots she’d thankfully just had re-soled. She threw on her long outercoat and grabbed a fresh set of coveralls that she could step into once they found the downed ship. As an afterthought, she ran back into her office and snatched up a bag holding bread and cheese she’d not eaten for dinner.
Locking her office door, she crossed the room to speak with Drummond, her second in command. “It’s a matter of some urgency,” she told him when he gaped at her in surprise. “I would never leave otherwise. If something happens, contact Kenton—he’s with Brett on a call. I’ll return as soon as possible.”
Drummond had worked with her father and stayed on after Grace took the reins. She trusted him with her life and felt horrible for leaving the shop in the midst of such chaos.
“Go,” Drummond said, recovering himself, and nodded toward the airship. “We’ll be fine.”
With a smile of thanks, she jogged across the huge warehouse and called to one of the men on the ground to open the door nearest her ship once she was fired up and ready to go. He whistled to four others, who hurried over to work on the moorings. She quickly ran up the metal staircase that led to the ship’s lower deck where Nick waited. She registered one of the men down below shouting for another to wheel the stairs away. She’d built a loyal crew of employees that had learned to operate as a well-oiled machine, unthreatened by the reality of a female employer.
She motioned her head to Nick and jogged up the steps to the quarter-deck, sifting through her keyring and unlocking the door to the wheelhouse, which was glass-walled and neat as a pin. Nick followed her inside and followed her curt instructions as she went through the process of flight preparation as quickly as she deemed safe.
The ship was small and fast, and built to be handled by the barest of crew. That was a fortunate fact, as Grace didn’t dare take anyone else along; she and Nick would have to manage on their own. In addition to keeping as many employees as she could in the warehouse for calls during the storm, she also realized the nature of what Nick was doing. Airevale was full of both intrigue and corruption at the highest governmental levels; she hoped he knew what he was doing.
