and make yourselves useful, whereas I must be satisfied with getting in the way and being rescued repeatedly.”
She slowed under the lamps Mike had burning outside the door of the half-round pipe shape of the honkytonk.
“Of course you’re useful.” She could hardly credit what she’d heard. “You’re one of the most brilliant scientific minds in England—you heard Count von Zeppelin. Even he reads your monographs. Why on earth would you think that? It wasn’t your fault some crazypate shot at you.”
“Perhaps not.” He seemed to find the posts that held up the awning over the door highly interesting. “But the fact remains that my usefulness on this voyage has been limited to partnering ladies in the ballroom and not much else.”
“There’s men who make an entire career of that,” she said dryly. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, man. If you’re coming in, then fine—do me a favor and keep your ears open. There are who knows how many gunmen and only two honkytonks on this quadrant of the field, if you get my meaning.”
One eyebrow rose. It was such an appealing sight that she turned away and grasped the door handle.
“You mean that there’s a fifty percent chance that whoever shot at us might have come here for a drink to celebrate?”
“See?” She grinned over her shoulder as she pushed the door open. “You’re not so useless after all.”
He straightened his shoulders and waited outside for a count of ten while she let the door swing shut behind her. When she looked again, he had come in and was making jokes with a group of mechanics.
Her idol thought he was useless. Honestly, it was no wonder she stuck to automatons. People were too hard to understand.
She bellied up to the bar and held up a finger when Mike glanced over. “Mescal?” he asked, setting a glass down in front of her.
“Not a chance. Do you have elderberry cordial?”
He snorted. “Use it for flavoring.”
“One, please.”
Shaking his head, he unearthed a bottle of cordial from beneath the bar. The smell of it reminded her of the days when she’d been a little girl, curled up in her mother’s boudoir while they waited for her pa to get home from the mine. They’d share a glass of cordial and tell silly stories and forever after, she would miss the woman her mother had been. Once her pa had gone for good, Nellie had changed her name back to Benton, found her way to Resolution, grown a carapace over her heart, and taken up the only profession open to her.
Mike filled the glass with purple liquid. “Been talking to some of the fellows hereabouts. It seems a mechanic with one blind eye was working the cargo ships a couple years ago.”
“Cargo ships c">Cre ? For the mines?”
Mike nodded. “Not much grows up that way, nor eats what grows neither, except for three months in summer. The cargo ships keep foodstuff and parts coming in, except for when the weather closes everything down from November to April. Seems this man was working the routes keeping the boats in the air.”
“Is he still?”
With a shrug, Mike topped up her glass, though she’d only taken a sip or two. “No telling. Other than that, I couldn’t dig up a word. Either your pa didn’t associate much, or he just ain’t been around for folks to notice.”
With a nod, she swallowed half the drink. “I appreciate your taking the time.”
“You remember what I said.”
With a smile, she repeated, “‘Tell Nellie Benton Mike Embry sends his regards.’ You ought to take a trip to Resolution, Mike, and tell her yourself. She runs the Resolute Rose—you can’t miss it. It’s the only garden of desert flowers in town.”
“I might just do that if I get tired of this place. Cold gets to me in the winter, and it’s coming on. Ships’ll be clearing out soon.”
“Clearing out?”
He stopped wiping glasses and frowned at her. “You mean the port authority didn’t tell you? Foreign ships got to lift and be out of here before the snow flies; otherwise, they’re grounded until spring.”
And the countess wanted to fly even farther north? How come nobody in their party seemed to know this? “Because of the snow?”
“Nope. The ice. Behaves peculiar-like up here. Ships get coated with it and the gas bags contract. If the foreign ships didn’t leave, we’d have a field full of ice balloons, until the weight collapsed the fuselages and crushed the gondolas under ’em. And don’t get me started on