White Silence (8 page)

The girl sat down next to the Negro who’d been playing jagtime tunes for the whole of the time the three Immortals had been in the place.

Danny lowered his glass. It was his third drink from the bottle Slim Jim had bought. For them to celebrate their luck in actually catching a crook in Skagway, he said. Danny had planned on it being his last, anyway. The memory of his night out in Seattle, like the tattoo on his forearm, still had bright colors and clear edges. Unlike the tattoo, it would shortly fade away. In the time ’til then, he’d vowed to hold himself to just a drop or two.

The girl had a cloud of long dark hair, down to her waist it was. Held back from the pale blur of her face by a simple ribbon. Her dress was white, all ruffled. She didn’t look like any of those that he’d seen slip through the small door to the room beyond.

In his time Danny had known many a girl who worked the saloons. Some were sweet. Some sour. Sure, he’d spent more than a night or two with some of the sweeter ones. He held nothing against them. To survive, he’d had to kill—his own kind most often. Killing was a grave sin, Father O’Malley had preached. To survive, some girls committed another on the list of the priest’s terrible sins. Well, if they were damned, then so was he. He’d not cast stones. Mother Kelly had taught him
that.

This girl—she was different though. Any man with but half an eye could see.

She slid over on the bench. The Negro got up and left. Then she began to play. At first, so soft that Danny couldn’t hear. But in a bit, the sound grew, rising above the noise of the crowd.

She didn’t play rinky-tink, but sweet, slow melodies. Some Danny knew from the war. “Sweet Lorena” and “Tenting Tonight.” One he’d heard from boyhood, a song from Londonderry, in the Old Country.

He found he was holding his breath. The piano could be clearly heard now.
Why, the room’s gone quiet,
Danny thought. He glanced around the table. Hugh, MacLeod, even Jim, who must have heard her before, were watching in silence.

As the last notes of the song called “Aura Lee” echoed, the girl lifted her hands from the keyboard. She lowered her head. A well-dressed dark-haired man stepped to the side of the piano.

“Gents—and ladies—Minnie Dale.” He extended his hand. The girl rose, turned, and bowed. The room fairly shook with the clapping and whistling.

She’ll be coming out among the tables now,
Danny thought.
Jim will know her. He can call her over here.
But the girl withdrew through the door next to the bar. Danny waited, absently pouring himself another drink. After a time, he sighed aloud. He knew she would not be back.

Aura Lee, Aura Lee. The price of loving a mortal. Duncan thought of Alec Hill, sobbing over the broken body of his beautiful young wife. Young Danny’s face was far too easy to read. He caught Fitz’s eye. His friend looked amused and indulgent as the young Immortal left the table. Foster had told them Minnie Dale would play again later. Danny wanted to be much closer to the piano.

But Foster was still with them. So Duncan knew that a conversation with Fitzcairn—however futile it might be—on the subject of Danny’s love life would have to wait. He poured another drink.

“Gentlemen?”

He looked up. The man who’d introduced Minnie Dale had approached their table.

“I’m Jefferson Randolph Smith,” he said. His voice was low and pleasant. “Might I join you?”

“It’s your Parlour, isn’t it?” Fitzcairn said, gesturing toward Danny’s empty chair.

Smith laughed and sat down.

“Duncan MacLeod.” He extended his hand. Smith’s hand was small and well cared for. “The pipe-smoker is Hugh Fitzcairn. And this is Jim Foster.”

“I know Foster,” Smith replied. “His brother is the bartender here.” He picked up the whiskey and examined the label. “That’s how you came by a bottle of my private stock. Right, Jim?”

“I told these argonauts yours was the best place in town, Mr. Smith. Tom was just helping me prove it.”

Smith had an easy laugh. All in all, he seemed a gentleman. Good manners. Good clothes, including a heavy gold watch fob prominent against his silk vest. His dark hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and his clear gray eyes were intelligent.

A gentleman,
Duncan thought.
Or a very effective imitation of one.

“You’re the men who were accosted this afternoon at Reliables, are you not? I just wanted to say that the good citizens of Skagway—and there are some of us—are pleased that at least one of the villains was caught.”

“There was just one,” Duncan said, “and for all the good it did, he was indeed caught.” He swallowed his whiskey straight back.

Smith looked puzzled. “I’d heard there was an Indian involved.”

“Yes.” Duncan nodded. “But he helped bring the thief down. I want to thank him. And I’ve not been able to find him.”

“Foster here knows everybody,” Smith said.

“So I’ve heard,” Duncan replied. He reached for the bottle. He wondered if he might get an opportunity to speak with Smith alone. The man treated Foster with a certain disdain. Duncan suspected that he would be a good source of information about Slim Jim.

“This fellow must be new around here, Mr. Smith,” Foster said. “I can’t place him.”

“Try me,” Smith said. “Up here, Indians and white mix pretty well. Your man might have been in my Parlour.”

Duncan described the Indian as best he could, aware that his fleeting contact hadn’t given him a clear impression.

Smith looked thoughtful. “Sounds like any one of a half dozen tribes. Athabascan. Skookum. Siwash. Chilkoot. They’re all pretty much the same. The hat, though. That’s something more specific.”

He rose from the table. “I’ll ask around. I admire a man who pays his debts, Mr. MacLeod. Even a debt of gratitude.”

“I’d appreciate it, Mr. Smith,” Duncan replied. He extended his hand again.

“Soapy,” Smith said. “That’s what some call me. Everyone up here has a nickname. Like Slim Jim.” He nodded at Foster. “Holler, ‘Hey, Kid’ right now, and twoscore fellows would answer. Including my piano player. He’s the Chocolate Kid. So, I’m Soapy.” He shook Duncan’s hand.

“Foster, tell your brother the bottle’s on me. If you haven’t already.” He winked and walked back into the crowd.

Close up, Danny had seen that Minnie Dale’s eyes were blue, a dark blue that was near black. She closed them sometimes as she played, and her black lashes fanned on her pale cheeks. Her face was a child’s face, round and soft, with a small bow of a mouth. The dark cloud of her hair made her seem even paler.

Danny reached up and ran his fingers through that hair. He pulled Minnie down beside him. She lay on her side, pressing her naked breasts to his chest.

They lay together on the double bed that was all of the furniture other than a tiny table and two chairs in her house. The house was one in a row, all joined, all alike, behind the main buildings of the town.

The whores lived there, she’d explained to Danny when he’d approached her in the Parlour. He could walk her home as he’d asked. But he should know what home was.

Danny touched her eyebrows with his fingers

“You don’t make love like a whore,” he whispered.

Minnie sighed. “You’ve had so much experience, then? You can’t be much older than me, Danny O’Donal.”

Danny smiled in the darkness. Hugh had taught him one of the first rules of seduction—never ask a woman, mortal or otherwise, her age. But he wanted to know.

“And that would be?”

“Twenty-two this month past.” Her long fingers stroked down Danny’s arm. She sat up, letting the lamplight fall on him.

“And where did you come by this?” She traced the tattoo.

Danny felt heat rise in his cheeks. “In the port of Seattle. I was being foolish that night.”

Minnie kissed his forearm, then lightly touched the puckered scar beneath his shoulder blade. “And this?”

“A Reb bullet, the first of the fighting at Antietam. It’s lucky I was. That day, at least.”

She frowned. “Antietam? But—” Then she laughed softly. “Ah, well, Danny O’Donal. Have your secrets then. It may be that someday you’ll tell me the truth of it.”

Danny rolled her over on her back. He raised himself above her.

“Someday, Minnie Dale, I promise I’ll tell you a secret that will take your breath away. This minute, I’ve other things on my mind.”

Fitz speared another two griddle cakes with his fork. Placing them on his plate, he proceeded to generously ladle syrup over, under, and between them. He was humming under his breath, one of the tunes Minnie Dale had played.

Across the table, Duncan sipped his coffee.

“You’re in a fine mood this morning,” he said.

“And why not?” Fitz replied. “We’ve got our money back. We’ll be on our way by week’s end toward fortune, if not fame. And the food in this restaurant at the end of nowhere is much better than it has any right to be.” He filled his mouth with griddle cake. “Did you know,” he said, syrup dripping down his chin, “that they’re actually serving oysters poached in champagne this morning? It’s nearly enough to make me want to learn to cook.”

“And how much skill does it take to burn beef and boil potatoes, my fine English friend?” Duncan asked.

Fitz wiped his chin. “Ah, MacLeod. Do you really want me to mention haggis while we’re eating?”

Duncan poured more coffee. “You lost no sleep last night worrying over Danny, then?”

“Tilda, my dear,” Fitz called to the waitress, “more of these splendid hotcakes, if I may?”

Tilda, a tall plump blond, giggled and hurried to fetch the food.

Fitz turned to Duncan. He spoke softly. “It’s true, the lad’s not got hundreds of years of experience in matters of the heart, as I have. But he’s hardly a virgin. You do recall that I told you he was working in a brothel when we met?”

“I’ve seen that look on other men’s faces, Fitzcairn. This girl isn’t one he’ll want for just a night.”

“You’ve seen that look in the mirror now and then, I’ll wager,” Fitz said, shrewdly. He knew of a number of Duncan’s past loves. But he suspected that there was at least one, no doubt long dead, whose memory his friend kept locked in his heart.

Tilda brought a platter heaped with cakes, steaming from the griddle. As Fitz kissed her hand, sending her into a fresh torrent of giggles, he had to admit to himself that the Highlander was right. In the time they had been together, he had taught Danny much about taking love lightly. It might now be the time for a word of caution about love taken seriously—particularly when one of their kind lost his heart to a mortal.

He sighed as Danny appeared in the doorway. There would be no putting it off.

The young Immortal joined them at the table. He looked tired. But the hint of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips.

Fitz knew what
that
look meant, too.

“Have some coffee, lad. And tell us about the girl, if you want. Is she as lovely as her playing?”

“Aye, that she is, Hugh.” Danny took the coffee gratefully, spooning in sugar. He blew on the coffee, then gulped a mouthful. “She’s a Canadian. She and her man came up here from a place called Vancouver.”

“It’s a city not far north from Seattle,” Duncan said. “They would have come up the Inland Passage, like we did.”

Danny nodded. “Months back, though. They’d be in Dawson counting their gold by now. But they were hit by bandits going over the White Pass.” His voice grew somber. “Everything they had, all their gear and their stake, was taken. And her husband was killed.”

“So, she’s a widow stranded here in Skagway,” Fitz said. “The poor lass.”

Danny stirred his coffee. “This Jefferson Smith, the man who owns the Parlour, he’s got a fund set up for those like Minnie. She draws some money from that. And he pays her to play the piano. All she wants is to save enough for passage home.”

He hesitated. “She takes a man back to her place, sometimes, for the money. She told me that right off. But she wouldn’t take anything from me.” He looked at Duncan, then at Fitz. His blue eyes were steady. “I’ve known more than a few women, Hugh. I’ve told you of some of them. Minnie is different, though.”

“And I’ve known many more than a few in my time, Danny—Don’t say it Highlander.” Fitz replied. “To find one that makes your blood
and
your heart sing is—well it’s a thing as wonderful and as fortunate as finding the gold waiting for us across the mountains.”

“Rare and precious,” Duncan agreed, softly. Fitz wondered briefly of whom he was thinking.

“Minnie Dale might be such a one for you lad. But for two things. There is the gold. And there’s the fact that she’s mortal.”

“We
can
love mortal women, Hugh. We all have.”

“And we can watch them turn away when they find out what we are,” Fitz said. Across the table, Duncan looked up in surprise.
So, Highlander,
Fitz thought,
you’re not the only one with secrets of the heart.

“If they don’t turn away, we can watch them age and die,” Duncan added. “While we live on. Alone.”

“Ah, Danny, you’ve only just met her.” Fitz clapped the young Immortal on the back. “Give more thought to what you want here.”

“I want the gold across the mountain,” Danny said, “and I want Minnie Dale.”

Chapter 5

Duncan left the two Immortals, old and young, still sitting at the table, deep in discussion. He stood silent for a while outside the Pack Train, lost in the memory of an autumn night in the Highlands. He’d been with Connor, his kinsman and teacher, only a short time. They’d stopped earlier that evening at a tavern. The wench who’d served them had russet hair, falling in curls over her shoulders. And great green eyes that favored him as she went about her work. His heart had nigh stopped at the sight of her.

He’d fallen into a dark mood then, and it had taken some urging from Connor before he had finally spoken of Debra. Bonny Debra, who he had loved with all his heart. Dear Debra, who had died of her love for him. Dead Debra, whose ghost he would now have to live with for all of his endless life.

Connor had listened, and said little. But the next morning, he told Duncan to ready himself for a journey. They traveled many days, until they came to a ruined keep, on a hill overlooking a loch. In the shadow of the broken walls, Connor knelt beside a grave marked with the broadsword of the MacLeods.