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East.” He paused, unsure of how to free his hand from her grasp. He could just yank it back out, but the rough, leathery skin of her fingers seemed like such a delightful contrast to his own skin. And it would be impolite, to say the least.

    “Sir.” The word shocked him out of his reverie. She faced him with a soft smile, wiping all thoughts from his mind. “You may dress yourself again.” Releasing his hand, Sam stepped back. She brushed the front of her leather coat with both hands, studying the floor. She was still flushed as she retreated back to her corner, turning away to allow him some privacy.
    “Thank you,” Jon said, trying to dampen the burning in his face.
    Jake pulled up one of the few stools and sat down with a wheezing noise. He watched Jon pull on his shirt, the loose sleeves flopping around over the brace. “A fine piece of craftsmanship, it is. Must have cost a pretty penny.”
    Jon continued to dress. He fumbled with the buttons. “My father was a very determined man. He decided to do what he thought was best.”
    “Ah. And a rich one.” Jake coughed, pulling out a dirty handkerchief to cover his mouth. “Pardon me.” He turned his head to one side and spat towards the fire, the saliva popping from the heat as it landed near the stone hearth. “British, yes?”
    Jon adjusted the sleeves on his jacket with sharp tugs. The gloves were back on his hands, hiding his deformity. “Yes, sir. London, to be precise.”
    “Hmph.” The older man wiped his mouth. He folded the grey fabric into a neat, tidy square and put it back in his pocket. “And what brings you to Prosperity Ridge? Not a whole lot of England out here.”
    “Father…” Coming from the petite woman, the warning tone startled Jon. She advanced on the pair.
    “Leave our customer alone. His personal business is exactly that, his business.” She turned her attention away from her father, back to Jon. “Give me one or two days to see what I can come up with.”
    His right eyebrow arched sharply. “One or two days?” The competition would be over or nearly over by then. And without his hand up to full strength, Jon doubted he could accomplish his task.
    “Yes, two days.” Her right hand shot up before he could respond. “And don’t even ask me the cost right now. I’ll draw you up a receipt after we figure out whether we can modify a spring or whatever. I don’t like to give estimates because they always tend to undercut our costs and we are not running a charity here.” Stepping over to another desk, Sam pulled out a fresh, clean sheet of paper from a tray underneath the table. Placing it on the surface, she smoothed out the wrinkles. “Now, please—the broken spring. It’ll make it easier for me to find or make your replacement.”
    After gently drawing the fabric bundle from his pocket, Jon retrieved the two pieces and placed them on the blank page in front of her, then pocketed the handkerchief again. “I’m staying at Mrs. McGuire’s rooming house, if you need to contact me.”
    She waved him away, eyes on the small spring. A pencil appeared in her hand, scribbling madly on the empty paper. “Thank you.”
    Jon felt a tugging at his sleeve. Turning his head, he saw Jake smiling at him. “Best to leave her be.
    Come on.” The old man led him to another workbench where the remains of an old grandfather clock were spread across the scarred and burnt wood. The gears and springs were laid out with precision, the mechanical autopsy almost beautiful in the presentation.
    “When she gets an idea in her mind, she grabs onto it like one of your old English bulldogs. Shakes it, twists it, and then comes up with something that I’d never think of. It’s part of what makes her so good at what she does.” A small door on the wall opened to reveal a bottle of whiskey, or what appeared to be whiskey—there was no label. Without asking, Jake pulled out two relatively clean shot glasses and placed them on the table.