Winter Kill. William W. Johnstone
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here on business.”
Frank arched an eyebrow.
“I know, not many women are involved in business,” Fiona said. “But as I told you, I’m a widow, and I have to do something to provide for myself.”
“You’re still young. You could—”
“Marry again?” she broke in. “I suppose I could. If I could ever find someone I wanted to marry. The problem is that I’m very selective. Are you in the market for a wife, Mr. Morgan?”
Frank sat up straighter and frowned. “Me?”
She laughed. “Take it easy. I was just joshing you.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good, because I’m not looking to get married.”
Not after he had buried two wives because of the violence that followed him.
“What brings you to Seattle?” Fiona asked.
“My horse.” Frank smiled. “I’m what they call a drifter. A saddle tramp, I guess you could say.” He paused, thinking again of Jacob Trench. “But as it turns out, I’ve got some business I need to take care of, too.”
Fiona lifted her coffee cup. “Well, then, here’s to good luck for us both in our endeavors.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Frank agreed.
“Although it would be more fitting with a nice slug of brandy in this coffee, wouldn’t it?”
He grinned. “I reckon so. You think we should ask the waitress?”
“I think we’d give the poor girl palpitations if we did.”
The coffee cups clinked together.
Chapter 4
Over the years, Frank had seen too much violence and sudden death to let it affect him too much. Because of that, he was able to sleep soundly that night, although as he dozed off he did feel a moment of regret over what had happened to Jacob Trench.
He thought about the mysterious Fiona as well. They had parted company in the lobby after dinner. She was staying at the hotel, too, and Frank had a feeling she didn’t want him to know which room she was in. That was fine with him. He wasn’t looking for a romance, although he had definitely enjoyed her company during dinner.
He woke rested the next morning. The bed was comfortable, and after decades of spending a lot of nights on the trail, he enjoyed a few creature comforts every now and then. When he went downstairs to eat breakfast, he looked around the dining room, thinking that Fiona might be there. He didn’t see any sign of her, though.
When he had finished washing down a mound of flapjacks, eggs, and bacon with several cups of strong, steaming coffee, he went out to the lobby and stopped at the desk to see if there were any messages for him. There was one, from the coroner’s office: The inquest into the deaths the night before would be held at eleven o’clock that morning, at the King County courthouse.
Frank left the Majestic. He planned to go by the livery stable to check on Dog and the two horses, and then he supposed he needed to locate the Montclair and have that talk with Captain Hoffman, as Trench had asked. He figured he would have time to tend to those two errands before the inquest.
The misty rain of the night before had blown on out of the area. It was a beautiful morning. The air was crisp and cool and so clear that Frank could see Mount Rainier, miles away to the southeast along with the rest of the Cascade range. Across Puget Sound to the west lay the Olympic Mountains, also clearly visible.
Frank hadn’t been to Seattle in a number of years, and the town had changed some, he saw now that he got his first good look at it in the light of day. He recalled hearing that a disastrous fire had destroyed much of the downtown area seven or eight years earlier. The buildings that had been rebuilt were of brick now, rather than wood. That give the town a modern look, but it still retained its rugged frontier atmosphere. How could it not, when the streets were full of prospectors, loggers, cowhands, and Indians?
A different hostler was working at the livery stable this morning. He greeted Frank by asking, “Are you the fella who owns that blasted wolf?”
“I don’t own him. We just travel together. And he’s not a wolf,” Frank said. “He just bears a certain resemblance to one.”
“Enough of a resemblance to spook all my other customers. They’re a mite leery of leaving their horses around a creature like that.”
Having heard Frank’s voice, Dog came bounding up the big barn’s center aisle from the stalls where Stormy and Goldy were being kept. The hostler flinched nervously as the big cur went past him. Dog reared up, put his front paws on Frank’s shoulders, and licked his face. Frank laughed and roughed up the thick fur around Dog’s neck and ears.
“If he’s gonna stay here, I may have to charge you a little more,” the hostler went on. From the sound of it, he was the owner of the stable as well.
Frank had been debating what to do with Dog and the two horses, whether to take them with him on the ship or leave them here in Seattle. He had been leaning toward taking them with him anyway, since it might be five or six months before he was able to return, and the hostler’s comments just helped him make up his mind. He didn’t want to leave his old friends anywhere they wouldn’t be taken care of properly.
“Don’t worry, we’ll all be leaving in a day or two,” Frank said. The look of relief on the hostler’s face told him that was welcome news.
After checking on Stormy and Goldy and seeing that they were all right, Frank left the livery stable. The shore curved inland around Elliott Bay a couple of blocks west. Frank headed for the waterfront. He didn’t know where the Montclair was anchored, but he figured he could find someone who could tell him without much trouble.
Like the rest of Seattle, the docks were a busy place. Tall-masted ships were tied up at most of the wharves, and there were also a number of steam-powered vessels with tall smokestacks. Not only was there a heavy traffic to Alaska these days, but a lot of shipping plied the Pacific Ocean between here and the Orient, as well.
Frank walked over to a man holding a sheaf of papers who was supervising the unloading of cargo from one of the ships. “Can you tell me where to find the Montclair?” Frank asked.
“No, but I’ll tell you where to find somebody who can,” the man replied. He waved the papers in his hand toward a frame building nestled between two looming warehouses made of brick. “The harbormaster’s office is in there. He can help you.”
“Much obliged,” Frank said with a nod.
“Headed to Alaska, cowboy?”
Frank had started to turn away, but he paused and nodded. “Looks like it.”
“Better not waste any time, then. Only a few weeks left before the weather turns bad.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Frank said, once again thinking that maybe he had made a mistake by going along with what Jacob Trench wanted. When it was a man’s dying wish, though, what else could you do?
The clerk in the harbormaster’s office told Frank that the harbormaster himself was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. However, the man was able to give Frank the information he needed, telling him where the Montclair was anchored and how to find the ship.
“That’s a popular ship this morning,” the man commented.
Frank was about to ask him what he meant by that, when the door of the harbormaster’s private office opened and a florid-faced man with a gray mustache looked out.
“Boyd, step in here and bring those manifests with you,” the man ordered.
“Yes, sir.” The clerk stood up and moved toward the office, already forgetting about Frank, who glanced idly through the open door as he turned toward the street.
He