Her Sky Cowboy by Beth Ciotta Page B

material—as was needed when wearing her formfitting flight pants.
    “Then I’ll have to cut away enough leather for Doc to work,” he said.
    She mourned the potential loss of her flight pants. “So be it.”
    Feeling woozier by the minute, she held on to the lapel of Tucker’s coat, using one hand to aid him in ridding her of her scarves and coat. Beneath she wore her unconventional leather breeches and a wool brocade corsetlike bodice over a loose white blouse.
    The Sky Cowboy’s gaze fell to her bountiful cleavage but did not linger. She knew not whether to be insulted or impressed. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, she couldn’t think straight—although she knew for certain that her mother would condemn her for lying upon this virile man’s bed. Inappropriate. Scandalous. Amelia almost smiled.
    He indicated the mattress, which sat quite high on an ornate frame. “Do you need help or can you manage?”
    “I’ll get blood on your coverlet.”
    “I don’t care—”
    “But—”
    “Dammit, woman.” He swiped away the quality piece and replaced it with an ordinary green wool blanket.
    Doc turned and she noticed he had traded his tinted goggles for blue-tinted spectacles, although they resembled goggles, given their thick frames and wraparound fashion. “Do you prefer laudanum or chloroform?” he asked.
    “Neither.”
    “Whiskey then.”
    “No.”
    This time Tucker got in her face. “It’s gonna hurt like hell, Flygirl.”
    It hurt like bloody hell now. “Why?” she asked, swiping off her flight cap and pivoting on her good leg to lie across the bed. “What is it? A cut? Do I need stitches? I’ve had them before. I assure you I can stand the prick of a needle.”
    She was blustering a bit with that last part. Times before the physician had dulled the pain. Just now she needed her wits about her. Lord forbid she slip about her true mission due to a drug-induced stupor. She did not trust Tucker Gentry and his gang—or any man, for that matter—not to rob her of her invention of historical significance. Surely they knew about the jubilee contest and prize.
    Tucker rounded the bed, shrugged out of his overcoat, and stooped so he faced her eye to eye. “You’ve got a metal shard lodged in your thigh, Amelia. Doc’s gonna have to extract it. Then he’s going to disinfect the wound and stitch it closed.”
    “Oh.” She swallowed hard. “Right then. Be done with it.”
    He swore under his breath, then moved behind her. The mattress sagged with added weight, and her cheeks burned at the thought of sharing his bed. Next she felt big hands—Tucker’s hands—on her leg, felt him cutting and ripping theleather. She squeezed her eyes shut, mortified and more than a little nervous.
    She heard someone else enter the room.
    “Your instruments, Doc. Fresh out of boiled water, as requested.”
    From the slight Asian accent, she assumed that was Birdman Chang.
    Her mortification mounted. “Please go.”
    “Stay,” Tucker commanded. Next thing she knew he’d rounded the bed once again. He took her hands, squeezed. “Look at me, darlin’.”
    The endearment was inappropriate, although, at this moment, oddly comforting. She should dissuade him from such intimacy, and she would. At some point.
    “Hold her steady,” Doc said to Chang.
    She felt strange hands upon her person and wanted to die. The need to live, however, was much stronger. She needed to save her family from financial ruin, to resurrect their reputation, her papa’s name.
    “How’d you come by those other injuries?” Tucker asked. “The ones that required stitches.”
    She knew he was striving to distract her and blessed him for it. “Flying incidents.”
    His lip twitched just as she felt a painful tug at her leg. She bit back a yelp, and breathed deeply. “Tell me about the engines on deck. Do they power the blasterbeefs? Supply the ship with electricity? How did you…How does it work?”
    She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth