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Glad he couldn’t see my idiot’s smile, I led us into the saloon.
The room was dark and blessedly warm. I straightened, doffing my hat, before heading for the bar. The bartender, a grizzled man whose light blue eyes looked younger than his salt-and-pepper hair suggested, took our measure before coming over.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, his tone guarded.
“Whiskey, please, and some lunch if you still have it.” My blistered hand stung even more now that some blood was returning to it. Though we’d left early, it had taken most of the morning to row to Seattle, and my belly wanted lunch, whether or not it was time.
Rafe said nothing, which made the bartender raise a brow. “This one mute as well as blind?” he asked, staring pointedly at the cane Rafe had leant against the bar.
“Not at all.” I put a hand on Rafe’s arm, his tension thrumming through me. “He’ll have what I’m having.”
“All right. I just thought he might want to speak for himself.”
I opened my wallet and put a $5 bill on the table. “Two whiskeys and two of whatever you’re serving for lunch.”
“Kitchen’s closed, but I’ll send a boy to the market. There’s a stand over there with meat pies.”
“I’d be obliged if you would.”
The bartender turned his back to us and reached for a bottle from the shelf behind the bar.
“I don’t drink whiskey,” Rafe murmured.
“Don’t worry. I’ll ask him for some water, too.”
When the bartender brought our drinks, I got my handkerchief out, wet it with whiskey, and dabbed the blister. It made my eyes water, but I didn’t want it to get inflamed.
“What is it?” Rafe asked.
I told him, and he gently took hold of my hand. I caught the bartender giving us a strange look, but then Rafe pulled something out of a pocket, a small vial. “Mother’s salve.”
He unscrewed the lid and rubbed a small amount on the blister. The lavender herbal scent cut cleanly through the saloon’s funk and the sting faded.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” I asked quietly.
His lips twitched like he might want to grin, but he didn’t otherwise respond except to tuck the salve away. After that, the bartender propped himself on the bar in front of us. “Your meat pies’ll be alone in a minute, and while we wait, why don’t you tell ol’ Uncle Dusty what you’re really up to.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Pardon me?” Rafe’s whole body tensed at the bartender’s question.
I put a quelling hand on his arm. Getting kicked out of the saloon wouldn’t serve anyone’s purpose. “You’re Dusty?” I asked with my smile at its most winning.
“I am.”
“My name’s Vincent Fairchild and this is Randolph Griffin, and we were hoping we could ask you a couple of questions.”
“Strange fellows like you can ask, but I don’t know as I’ll be willing to answer.”
I set a second five dollar bill on top of the first. “We need to find someone, and the only clue we have is that they’re somewhere underground, in a place with tunnels.”
“Who is this person, and why do you need to find them?” His grin said his question was aimed at annoying us rather than any need to know, so I just smiled wider.
“What would you say if I told you it was my runaway bride?”
“Nah,” he waved away my words. “You don’t look like the marrying kind.”
“Maybe not, but I still need to find her.”
