Winter Kill

“Oh, I never doubted that, Mr. Morgan,” the storekeeper said quickly. “I didn’t mean no offense.”

The story of Fiona’s trip to Alaska with the mail-order brides wasn’t the only information that had gotten around Seattle, Frank thought. So had the news of the two gunfights in which he had been involved the night before. The storekeeper knew that he was dealing with the notorious Drifter.

“I’ll be glad to take your draft, Mr. Morgan,” the man went on. “I was just a mite confused, that’s all. I was under the impression you’re workin’ for Mrs. Devereaux.”

“I am,” Frank said. “I just thought I’d help her out a little.”

The amount was more than a little, of course, but Frank knew he would never miss the money. When his attorney, Claudius Turnbuckle, got wind of the expense, as Claudius always did, he might raise an eyebrow, but he had learned over the years that Frank usually did as he damned well pleased, and arguing about it didn’t serve any purpose.

The arrangements concluded, Frank left the store and headed back to the hotel. It was late in the afternoon by now. Along the way he stopped at the livery stable and informed the proprietor there that he would be picking up Stormy, Goldy, and Dog first thing the next morning. The man’s sour expression as he nodded indicated that it couldn’t be soon enough to suit him.

By the time Frank got back to the hotel, people were going into the dining room for supper. He looked through the arched entrance for Fiona, but didn’t see her. Turning instead to the stairs, he started up to the second floor.

Fiona appeared at the landing when Frank was halfway up, followed by the twelve young women. Frank stopped and watched as they started to descend, talking and laughing among themselves. It was a sight to behold, he thought. True, not all of them could be considered beauties, but they were all sweet and appealing, even the somewhat prissy Gertrude. Frank was old enough to be their father, of course, so he didn’t feel drawn to them himself, but he could imagine how some miner stuck in the wilds of Alaska would react to any one of them. It was no wonder that Fiona’s business was successful. A man could get mighty lonely, and only the soft touch of a woman could ease the ache he felt inside.

Fiona paused and smiled at him. “Is everything ready, Frank?” she asked.

“It will be. Our supplies will be delivered to the boat tomorrow morning in plenty of time for Captain Hoffman to sail on schedule.”

“That’s wonderful!” She came on down the steps and linked her arm with his. “You’ll join us for supper?”

“Well, I thought I might clean up a little…” He didn’t mention that he’d been rolling on the deck of the Montclair a couple of hours earlier, tussling with Brewster.

Meg came down the steps and took his other arm. “I think you’re fine just the way you are, Mr. Morgan,” she said. “Don’t you, girls?”

Several of them smiled and nodded. Frank had no choice but to say, “All right, then. I’d be honored to join you ladies.”

He thought about all the solitary meals he had eaten on some lonely trail, often with men pursuing him who wanted to kill him, not knowing if he would live to see the sun rise the next morning. Now he was about to sit down to eat at a table with a snowy white cloth on it, set with fine china, surrounded by a dozen young women and a somewhat older one who was even lovelier. He regretted Jacob Trench’s death, of course…

But right now he was sort of glad he had come to Seattle.

Chapter 8

The next morning dawned cold and blustery, with gray clouds scudding through the sky and occasional bursts of light rain spitting down on Puget Sound. Frank wore a sheepskin coat as he left the hotel and headed toward the livery stable to collect Stormy, Goldy, and Dog.

The horses and the big cur were glad to see him. Frank settled up with the liveryman, then saddled Stormy himself and rode out of the barn, leading Goldy. Dog trotted along beside them. His ears were up and tilted forward a little as he took in all the sights and, more importantly where he was concerned, the smells of the port settlement.

Frank rode along the waterfront until he came to the wharf where the Montclair was anchored. A couple of wagons were drawn up on the dock and crates were being unloaded from them and carried aboard. Frank spotted the storekeeper he had dealt with the day before. Obviously, the man had come along to supervise the loading of the supplies himself.

He raised a hand in greeting when he saw Frank. “Mornin’, Mr. Morgan. Got everything you wanted.” He waved toward the crates. “It’ll all be on board in a little while.”

One of the boxes seemed to be pretty heavy. Frank watched two men pick it up and lug it up the gangplank.

“Rifles, pistols, and ammunition,” the storekeeper told him. “Just like you said.”

“Much obliged. I’m sure the ladies will appreciate it, too.”

The man looked around. “Are they, uh, here yet?”

Frank suppressed the urge to grin. The storekeeper hoped to catch a glimpse of those mail-order brides he had heard about, Frank figured. That was another reason he had come along with the wagons.

“I think they’re still at the hotel,” Frank said. “They’ll be along directly.”

“Oh.” The storekeeper tried not to look or sound too disappointed. All the supplies had been unloaded now, so he no longer had an excuse for hanging around the dock. “I wish you good luck, then, Mr. Morgan.”

Frank leaned over in the saddle and reached out to shake hands with the man, who was sitting on one of the wagon seats. “Thanks. I’m hoping we won’t need luck…but I’ll bet a hat that we will before we get where we’re going.”

The wagons rattled off a minute later. Frank swung down from the saddle and tied the horses’ reins to one of