Her Sky Cowboy by Beth Ciotta Page A

rebellious way. Again she marveled at the varied races. Indian, Oriental, Scandinavian. Eli Boone, though absent just now, had impressed her as a fine-looking black man with large, kind eyes. Axel had fierce features and an odd accent, although his surname and flaming red hair suggested Irish descent. She realized suddenly that every man was scrutinizing her as intensely as she was studying them.
    Amelia detected a combination of interest and aversion. Unsettling on both counts. She decided then and there that a brazen demeanor would be her best defense.
    “When you’re done gawking at Miss Darcy,” Tucker told his men, “help Axel upload her dig.”
    “You mean that mangled heap of rubble?” Chang asked.
    Axel smirked. “She’s gonna fix it.”
    I’ll fix you
, Amelia wanted to say, but she was suddenly too weary to fight. Her thigh hurt to distraction now, and when she shifted she yelped.
    Doc frowned. “You didn’t say she was hurt, Marshal.”
    “She said she was fine.” Tucker crouched to inspect her ankle. “What the…”
    “Boot’s soaked with blood,” StarMan noted.
    Light-headed now, Amelia grasped the rail. “It’s my thigh.”
    Tucker lifted away the hem of her duster. “Ah, Christ.”
    Doc leaned in, then just as quickly pushed off. “Take her below. I’ll get my bag.”
    “My cabin!” Tuck called after the man.
    Amelia tried to look but couldn’t see. The injury was on the back of her thigh. “I thought it was a bruise.”
    “That ain’t no bruise,” Axel said, his unlit cigar dangling from his lower lip. “Damn, girl.”
    The other men whistled and shook their heads.
    Panicked a little now, Amelia swallowed hard. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
    “Nothin’ Doc can’t fix,” Tucker said. “Hush now, darlin’, and don’t fuss.”
    When Tucker rose, he lifted her up and over his shoulder. Before she could argue, he ordered the men to attend to Bess, then, toting Amelia like a sack of flour, carried her toward the stern and down a ladder. She tried to absorb her surroundings, but her upside-down vantage point was most disconcerting. From what she could tell, though, the
Maverick,
unlike the
Flying Cloud,
was in top form. Wood and brass gleamed, and the scents ranged from lemon polish to grease to engine fumes, coffee, and leather. At one point she thought she smelled fresh hay and licorice.
    She tried not to think about the bloody awful pain in her leg, about what those men had seen and why they’d looked disconcerted. Surely it couldn’t be that bad. She thought about poor Jules and how his leg injuries had resulted in a permanent limp.
There are worse things,
she told herself. She could fly with a limp. Although maybe not the kitecycle. What if she could no longer pedal?
    “Is Doc really better at fixing food than people?” Amelia asked, cursing the wobble in her voice. “Not to offend, but he doesn’t appear old enough to have much experience in the medical field.”
    “Doc’s an enlightened soul and a man of many talents.” Tucker kicked open an ajar door and moved into a dark-paneled room. The last light of day streaked through the windows in tandem with the artificial light beaming from at least three lamps. She pondered the brightness and realized the halls had been illuminated as well, though she hadn’t smelled kerosene. Electricity?
    “Put her on the bed,” Doc said.
    She spied a massively large mattress covered with an exquisite bone-and-black woven coverlet and several pillows. “Is that your bed?” she asked Tucker. “I cannot—”
    “You can and you will.”
    “Need access to that wound,” Doc said as he rifled through his black bag.
    “Hold tight to me when I set you down, Flygirl, and don’t put weight on your injured leg.”
    Amelia blanched as Tucker set her gingerly to the floor. “I’m not taking off my trousers.” No man had ever seen her in her bloomers, and these particular homespun bloomers were somewhat snug and sparse in