Free White Silence by Ginjer Buchanan Page A

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