Born of Treasure (Treasure Chronicles Book 2) (2 page)

“You told me the clock smith wouldn’t be back for hours,” Clark hissed. “You said he was eating lunch with his sweetie.”

“They must’ve had an argument.”

His heart thudding, Clark bent his knees to peer through a hole in the curtain. A stout man with gray hair bushing around his scalp stepped into the ballroom, peeling a blue jacket off his arms. He scowled as he tossed it onto a grandfather clock with a missing pendulum.

The brass cuff around the top of Clark’s right ear beeped and Amethyst’s voice sounded: “I lost track of the clock smith. He’s not in the café.”

Clark pinched the cuff to turn it off, but the man near the door stiffened. He turned his head as he studied the room. Despite the ticking clocks, stillness settled. Clark could almost taste the age in the air.

Good job, Am. Thanks for warning me
after
he came in.

The man strode around the tables, stepping over piles without looking down. He unbuttoned his vest as he walked, his gaze on the props on the stage. Clark held his breath as dust lifted off the curtains to tickle his nose. He would not sneeze.

Amethyst would know enough to wait at the café or on one of the benches, if the café closed before Clark could find an escape route. He swung his gaze around the ballroom, but the main door seemed to be the only one. There might be a back one behind some of the props, but that would mean moving them to find out. A click snared his attention back to the clock smith.

The man pulled a handgun from his holster across his chest, bared by the open vest, and snapped the barrel back in place. He aimed it toward the floor, his arms stiff; he’d checked for bullets and must’ve found he had the weapon loaded.

“Come on out,” he rasped. “I know I ain’t alone in here. Git out and face me, you sniveling crook.”

So much for waiting for the man to leave so he could dash out.

Clark breathed through his nose to calm himself. He couldn’t pretend he’d gotten lost. No one who was lost wound up in a locked clock shop. He couldn’t get out of the situation by explaining who he was, like he’d done at Douglas’s ranch. This man wouldn’t care his father was Eric Grisham, and he wouldn’t give his timepiece to Eric’s son just because he was Eric’s son. This man had somehow gotten the pocket watch from a Tarnished Silver. The original owner wouldn’t matter.

Clark shouldn’t kill the clock smith, either. He
was
stealing from the man, who’d done nothing wrong other than love timepieces.

“Trap door in the ceiling,” Eric said.

Clark rocked back on his heels to squint up. In the corner, hidden by the curtain and shadowed from lack of sunlight, he spotted the rectangular outline of a trapdoor. A metal ladder had been nailed to the wall leading up to it.

The clock smith crouched to look under the tables. “I ain’t fooling, you idiot.”

Clark held his breath to keep his chest still as he eased away from the curtain, careful to keep the thick velvet from moving. He stepped to the ladder on his tiptoes, dreading a creak, but the ancient boards remained steady.

“We’ll just talk,” the clock smith sneered.

Talk. Right, with a handgun barrel pressed to his skull.

Clark grasped a rung and swung up.

The floorboard creaked.

“Aha,” the man called.

“Brass glass.” Clark scrambled upward. The metal bit into his gloved palm and his soles thumped against the rungs. The trap door had better not be locked. He didn’t have time to pick it.

“Think you can make off with my stuff, eh?” The man scrambled onto the stage.

Clark slammed his fist into the trapdoor and it lifted with a moan, dust falling around Clark like snow. He coughed, blinking to clear his stinging eyes.

“He’s aiming at you,” Eric exclaimed.

Who cared what lay above? He’d had to have spent a night before in worse squalor than whatever waited for him up there. Clark grabbed the edge of the opening and pulled himself up. A bullet pinged against the ladder as the boom of the handgun echoed through the ballroom.

“Ain’t getting away from me,” the clock smith hollered.

Clark rolled from the opening and yanked a linen handkerchief from his jacket to wipe dirt from his eyes. Light entered from a grimy window to illuminate more props and trunks. An old dress hung over a dressing screen in the corner… near a door.

“I’ll getcha!” The metal ladder clanked as the clock smith grabbed it.

Clark bolted across the space, leaping over a carved tree prop fallen on its side, and grabbed the door. Locked. “Brass glass it all.” No time to pick it. He yanked his pistol from his belt holster, aimed it at the lock, and fired. It snapped open and he shoved through, his boots pounding the floor, into a hallway somewhere in the bowels of the train station.

“Next time, Pa, I’m studying blueprints.” He ran down the hallway as another bullet ricocheted off the doorway

The hallway headed to stairs leading up. He took them two at a time. It would be better to go down, but as long as he got away, he’d be good. There had to be a space to hide; a closet, maybe. If he had to, he’d fire back, but he’d rather leave the innocent man alive.

Another hallway. With a gaping doorway. Clark barreled through it and slammed the door behind him. He needed something to lock it with—there, a chair. He propped the high back against the doorknob. That would stall the clock smith.

Great, another hallway.

With a heating grate as tall as his waist. Clark kicked the metal and dug his pocketknife into the corner. The old nails pinged as they sprang free.

“They use that to get behind the walls and fix the clocks,” Eric said.

“More clocks,” Clark muttered. “Wonderful.” At least the passageway curved a few feet in so the man couldn’t shoot him without entering. Clark crouched as he dashed through, the muscles in his back and knees protesting at the awkward position. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the tunnel. A black spider as large as a silver dollar scrambled away from his feet. Next would be rats. Rats always followed spiders.

He turned the corner again and boots sounded behind him.

Around the next bend, Clark spotted another grate. Voices drifted through it, a jumbled mix. He dropped to his butt to kick it out. The first contact of his boot against metal sent a jolt up his leg. The next kick sent the grate spinning out. He rolled through just as the clock smith fired again.

He stood on the balcony of the second floor overlooking the waiting area below, mahogany benches sprinkled with passengers. The ceiling above consisted of a glass dome. The late morning sunlight streamed through, warming the air. A couple stood on the other side of the balcony, gaping at him.

Clark dashed for the stairs, tucking his pistol into its holster. As he reached the steps, the clock smith shouted, “Stop, you!”

The man might remember Clark’s unbound blond hair, long enough to brush his shoulders, and his tanned skin, but if he ripped off his black jacket, Clark might be able to mesh with the crowd below. He’d blanched at the price when Amethyst bought it—for that money, he could have fed a whole ranch of hired hands for a year—but he could afford another, and a pauper might find it for covering. He jumped the last steps as he jerked off the leather and tossed it over the banister.

“Thief,” the man bellowed.

The crowd yelped as Clark shoved through them toward the café. He jumped over a valise and skidded onto the nearest bench. The man next to him glanced up from his newspaper, a top hat shadowing his eyes.

Clark drew a deep breath to sound clearer. “Do you know when the next train to Hedlund City leaves?”

“Check the board.” The man’s thick mustache twitched.

The clock smith pummeled by and tripped over the valise Clark had hopped. He sprawled on the floor and his pistol rolled away. An elderly woman screamed.

“He’s going to shoot us,” another female shouted.

“I’m not,” the clock smith sputtered. “A thief in my office.” If he wanted to call his jumbled mess of timepieces an office, good for him.

As people scrambled away from the fallen man, Clark blended in with them, steering toward the café. He pulled a leather thong from his pants pocket to fasten his hair back; it might make him a bit less conspicuous.

He ducked through the glass door into a world where waitresses in black dresses glided by carrying silver trays of food. Couples and friends laughed at the small tables.

A girl in a bright yellow dress sat at a center table, a pillbox hat resting crooked atop her pale ringlets. Young men and women crowded around her, some turning their chairs from other tables, and more standing in the background.

Clark bit back a groan as he sauntered toward her, her laughter rising amongst the chatter.

“Yes,” she sang. “Indeed I do know
the
Amethyst Treasure. She’s a total doll. The best person you’ll ever meet.” She flicked her wrist, her hand garbed in a white silk glove trimmed in pink lace. “The first time I met her, I told her my name was Amethyst Grisham and she nearly died. We both have the same name, you know. It tickles her near to death!”

A gentleman in a suit caught her hand and kissed her clothed knuckles. “I can tell why she’s delighted by you.”

Amethyst flashed him a smile of straight white teeth. “We’re bosom friends. She tells me all her secrets. I’m her only confidante.”

Clark gritted his teeth as he bumped through the crowd. “Grandfather’s train came in. He’s ready to depart.”

She blinked her painted lashes at him and sighed. At least it was in relief and not annoyance. Leave it to Amethyst to gain a following when she was supposed to act as look-out. “It seems I must be going. You’re a splendid audience.” She pushed her chair back, her gaze focused on Clark.

His stomach did that happy clench he’d come to enjoy.

“Who might this be?” asked the man who’d kissed her hand. He stood, folding his arms.

Clark rolled his eyes and rested his hand on his pistol. “I’m her husband, chap.” They would have to go over, again, how it wasn’t a good idea to bring attention to themselves when they were stealing. Amethyst would’ve never survived alone as he’d done growing up.

The man rocked back on his heels, stroking the two pistols at his belt. Awesome, they could have a shoot-out in the train station café.

“So,
darling
,” Amethyst cooed as she wove through her group to clasp his hand. “They had a wonderful selection of lotion in the gift shop. I bought a bottle of Shea butter with chamomile.” She slid one arm around his neck, rising to her tiptoes. His groin clenched—brass glass, the operation to get the pocket watch had to keep fumbling.

“You’ll have to show me later.” His hand on the small of her back, he turned toward the entrance. Of course, Amethyst, being Amethyst, turned to face him.

She bit his lower lip before pushing against his front. Her tongue darted into his mouth and she moaned, lifting her right leg to drape it around the back of his knee. She tipped her head back, eyelids lowered, with that timid smile she only seemed to give him, as if she still craved his approval. Yes, she was his.

“I can rub it all over you.” A little fun couldn’t hurt so long as they didn’t earn bullets in their brains. He trailed his finger along her jawline. “I know just where you like it… the most. Then I get to enjoy those little giggles.”

She nuzzled her nose against his neck, whispering, “You should’ve answered me. I didn’t know what had happened to you.”

The women sighed from behind them, as if envious of their public love fest. Clark heard the men shifting their stance.
Buck down, boys. She’s made her choice.

“Thief!” The clock smith roared into the café, waving his handgun overhead, his cheeks flushed and eyes wide.

“Brass glass.” Clark pushed Amethyst behind him and lifted his arms to shield her. A waitress screamed and another dropped her tray. Porcelain dishes smashed against the marble floor.

“You stole from me.” The clock smith’s hand wavered as he aimed the gun at Clark’s chest. “You give it back. We’ll duel like men.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You ain’t a man. You’re a crook.”

The pocket watch had better not show around his neck. “You have me mistaken for someone else, sir. My wife and I were enjoying a meal here while we waited for my grandfather to arrive.”

“I didn’t see this fellow eating,” the man who’d kissed Amethyst said from the crowd. Why couldn’t he have stayed quiet like the others? Clark should’ve kneed him in the balls the second he touched her.

“You just came in, how would you know?” Amethyst swung around Clark, her yellow skirt swishing around her legs. She pushed the clock smith’s hand aside using her parasol. “This is a reputable establishment. You’re besmirching my husband’s good name when all he wanted to do was help his grandfather return home.”

They would have to go over the best way for Amethyst to knock a gun aside. It should aim at the floor, not toward a quaking waitress with tears on her cheeks.

“Where is this grandpa?” The clock smith curled his lips.

“He’s waiting at our buggy,” Clark said. Lies needed to be kept simple and believable. Most of the people would have buggies, and a gentleman would assist his grandfather to the rig before fetching his wife from her entertainment.

“I won’t bring a feeble, elderly man into this absurd ruckus,” Amethyst exclaimed. “Wait until my best friend, Amethyst Treasure, hears about this. She’ll love contributing this amusing story about how backward the west is. She has the ears of all the major Eastern newspapers, you know.”

The clock smith licked his thin lips. “I know it was you, fella. You stole something from me.”

He had no proof. He couldn’t have noticed one missing timepiece within the few minutes he’d attacked.

“You think I took something from you, sir. What, pray tell, would that be?” It was almost fun to use civilized words. If Clark were back in the gang, he would’ve shot the man dead and moved on. Maybe it would be easier to take him outside for a duel. The clock smith’s hand shook—he couldn’t be a better shot than Clark.

“I can call the sheriff,” a waitress offered. Any moment, the owner of the establishment or the train station master would appear to make the mess worse. Being detained for questioning wouldn’t help a thing, especially with the pocket watch on his person.