Nils nodded his thanks. “Cheers,” he said. He downed the drink in one gulp, and the barkeep refilled their glasses. “I mostly come here for the light—cheaper to buy a few drinks than to waste lamp fuel in my own place—but I guess a little company don’t hurt.”
“Good to talk to a new face,” Owen said. “You live in town?”
“Naw. I got a little cabin up in the hills there. City life doesn’t interest me much.”
City life. Owen tried not to snort. “How do you find your way in the dark? I damn near broke my neck trying to feel my way around tonight.”
Nils shrugged. “You get used to it.” The barkeep refilled their glasses. Nils nodded his thanks again and downed the drink. Owen followed suit, though he was already feeling the effects of the first drink. These townspeople could certainly hold their liquor. But even if half of his per diem money went to loosening the tongues of the locals, it would be worth it. And how much could this cheap swill cost?
“Tell me,” Owen said. “What’s there to do for fun here? Beyond sitting in hot water and drinking.”
“Oh, plenty. Good hunting most of the year. Perch and crappie if you get farther out on the lake. Nice views from the peaks, if you go in for that kind of thing. Do you like to read?”
“I suppose. Sure.”
Nils rustled through an oilcloth rucksack at his feet and pulled out a battered paperback book. “Have you read any of these adventure stories? They’re all by the same fellow. Whenever I’m feeling low, one of these picks me up. This one’s about a boy, right? And he’s got this dog, Trigger, and they used to live in a place like this. But he’s got no family, so they head out into the wilderness to make their fortune. And one day the boy runs afoul of this evil trapper ...” This was all sounding very familiar. “The trapper doesn’t want anyone on his land, right? And ... well, I won’t ruin it for you. But it’s very exciting.”
Owen took the book. On the cover, a boy stood with a rifle and a dog, staring at a mountain range. Below, in large block letters: Owen Sterling. Truthfully, most of his book covers were a variation on that theme: boy and dog staring at sunset. Boy and dog staring at tundra. Boy and dog staring at rocky coastline. “Escape from Snowy Mountain,” he read.
“I won’t give it away, but I did like the part about the mountain. Owen Sterling’s my favourite author.” Owen tried to hide his smile behind his whiskey dram. He didn’t think anyone over the age of fourteen read his work, let alone actual mountain men. “Well, him and Bill Woodson, but Sterling writes the dogs better.” Bill Woodson was a pompous windbag who was never seen without the pith helmet he claimed to have gotten on safari in Africa.
“Isn’t this stuff just for kids?” Owen asked.
“What? No!” Nils grabbed the book back and opened it to a page. “No, listen to this:
They claimed the Eskimos had thirty-seven words for snow, but even those words wouldn’t be enough to describe the fierce blizzard swirling in great, hoary gusts around Danny, threatening to blow him clean off the mountainside and smash him to ruins on the jagged rocks below. The wind howled around the mountain’s crevices like a wounded beast. Danny’s chill reached beyond his bones into the very marrow. Throughout it all, the noble Trigger stayed surefooted, barking when he uncovered the trail through the storm.
“Now that’s some writing right there. I love a story with a dog in it.”
“I met Owen Sterling once,” Owen said. “In Vancouver. They say he researches his books by going out into the wilderness for months at a time.”
Nils looked like a little boy on Christmas morning. “You did? When’d you meet him?”
“He was giving a talk at a club I went to once.”
Nils leaned forward, his cheeks flushed with excitement and the cheap hooch. “I can’t imagine actually meeting the man. Shaking his hand. I wouldn’t think a man like Owen Sterling would have much use for Vancouver.”
Even through the blooming haze of the so-called whiskey, Owen had enough of his wits left to stop this conversation before his tongue got any looser. “Maybe I’ll borrow that book after all. Give it a read.”
“Sure!” Nils said. “I can’t believe you met Owen Sterling.”
Owen took the book and flipped through it. He knew it was vain, but he could never get tired of seeing his name in print. If this story went well, he would see his name where it mattered most: in the byline of the front page of The Vancouver World. He ran his thumb over the gilded letters, then leaned forward. “What do you know about Wilson’s Bathhouse? I’ve got treatments there tomorrow.”
“Glad to hear it! You’ll see me there. I do handiwork for Mrs. Wilson most days when I’m in town. She feeds me; I hammer what needs to be hammered.” He chortled. “Though truth be told, you’d need fifteen of me to get that place back upright. Poor Mrs. Wilson really inherited a mess. Albert was a nice man, but he did tend to let things go.”
“Albert was her husband?”
“Yeah, they weren’t married long before he took a heart attack. He was only fifty, you know. Young for that kind of trouble, but it just goes to show you, doesn’t it?”
“I overheard some folks saying that she killed him.” The barkeep returned, pouring them another round. Owen’s thoughts were definitely blurring. He needed to get out of Doc’s soon, before he really did need help getting back to the St. Alice.
Nils scowled. “Mrs. Wilson wouldn’t kill a mad dog. Those women let their imaginations get away from them. That, and they just don’t like that she’s got those pretty ladies working for her.”
“I also heard stories about those pretty ladies,” he said, trying to act disinterested through the booze.
But his drinking companion abruptly stood, polished off the last of his drink, and stuffed the sketchbook in his rucksack. “Sorry, but I don’t take to gossiping. No offense. I should get back up the mountain before this rotgut has me tumbling over the bluffs. Nice meeting you.”
Now that was the reaction of a man with something to hide. Not that Owen blamed him for wanting to protect his employer. “Thanks for the book,” he called after Nils, who was already out the door.
Triumphant at last, he threw some coins on the bar and strode out into the dark, carrying the book. People in this town got cagey whenever Jo Wilson was mentioned, but hopefully Doc Stryker’s booze had bought him some goodwill with this Nils fellow and would one day loosen his tongue.
Chapter 5
Jo awoke tangled in her sheets, disoriented. All night she’d had fragmented dreams of angry mobs and poison pen letters. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was how many dreams featured Ross Wister, watching her with those calm blue eyes. They weren’t nightmares, exactly. She certainly wasn’t afraid of him. He was just there, studying her face with the same slightly bemused expression he’d worn the night before as she’d trained the gun on him in the lantern light. Perhaps she was just curious about him. That seemed like the most likely explanation.
Luckily, the sun was shining this morning. The scent of warm pine needles came off the mountains, and in the early morning stillness, she could already hear people going about their business—joking with one another, tramping down the boardwalk, chopping firewood. It was on days like this that she loved Fraser Springs.
Actually, tree-chopping sounds seemed to be coming from somewhere close to the bathhouse. She stopped to listen. Each sharp thud was accompanied by wild cheers ... from her kitchen? Jo hastily tried to wrestle her hair into some semblance of order, and hustled down the stairs.
It was clear she’d overslept. The girls had breakfast set out on the long slab table: pots of jam, sausages, bread fried brown and glossy with bacon grease, cinnamon rolls, steaming chicory coffee. Miners and loggers in various stages of arthritic decline sat hunched over the plates of food, their suspenders half falling off their shoulders, their knuckles knobby and twisted as they tried to spread jam on their toast. Ilsa and the girls navigated between the men, pouring coffee and carrying plates to and
from the tables.
Usually, breakfast was a time of deep quiet as the hungry men tucked into the spread. There was no time for jabbering when fresh bread was on the table. Today, however, all eyes were on a spectacle unfolding in the middle of the dining room. Nils Barson and Mr. Wister were standing side by side, each holding one of her kitchen knives. A log had been dragged in from outside and perched precariously on the cherry credenza. A crude bull’s-eye slapped on with red paint was still dripping wet, threatening both the crocheted dresser scarf and her furniture’s varnish.
Thwack. Her best butcher’s knife jutted out from the center of the bull’s-eye, apparently thrown by Mr. Wister. The men cheered, and he gave a proud little bow to the crowd, hamming it up. His sleeves were rolled up and his collar was undone. A few of the girls, clustered by the kitchen door, giggled behind their hands. Jo didn’t know many bankers who could boast such excellent aim.
“Your go, Nils,” he said. He turned slightly and caught the full blast of her glare. “Oh! Good morning, Mrs. Wilson.”
“What are you doing?” All eyes turned to look at her as Jo let loose with both barrels. “What on earth has gotten into you all? Dragging a dirty tree stump into my dining room! Using paint on top of my good furniture. Throwing my knives.”
As one, the men ducked their heads, looking for all the world like little boys caught playing with matches. “Sorry, Miz Wilson,” Nils said, trying to hide his grin. “Mr. Wister was bragging about his skills with a knife, so I had to show him how we do it in Fraser Springs.” The men cheered at the mention of their town. “Got to say, though, he’s holding his own. We’re, uh, tied actually.” He looked at Jo, then at the stump, then back at Jo.
Mr. Wister rubbed the back of his neck and avoided her gaze: embarrassed about last night, no doubt. But treating her expensive knives like hatchets was not the most efficient way back into her good graces. “We were just having a bit of fun,” he said. “We’ll clean everything up.”
“Won’t take long to set right,” said Nils. “Nothing’s hurt.”
“And how are my knives going to recover from your little stunt?” she asked. “They won’t cut butter after you’re done. What if you’d missed and thrown a knife through the window?”
Mr. Wister gave her an unabashed grin, his eyes bright with confidence. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said. “I don’t miss.”
At this, the men roared. “Come on, Miz Wilson,” one said. “Can they at least break the tie? I got the last of my pay packet riding on this.”
Jo surveyed the scene: the crocheted table runner would need a soaking in bleach, the floor was covered in dirt and bark. How dare Mr. Wister—not to mention Nils—put her in this position? Say no, and she was mean old Mrs. Wilson, spoiling the fun. Say yes, and who knew what other nonsense the men would try to pull. What came after knife throwing? Indoor football? Fire juggling?
“Come on, Miz Jo,” Ilsa said, touching her friend’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t let ’em harm a thing here. And besides,” she added more quietly, “I got a coin or two riding on Mr. Wister here.”
Everyone in the room looked at her expectantly. She really couldn’t win. It wouldn’t be long until the Society biddies were accusing her of gambling on top of everything. A little pile of coins, cheap bits of jewelry, and crumpled bills had formed in the center of the front table. The men looked so happy, though, and happy men spent money.
“Fine,” she said finally. “But you’re cleaning up every last speck of dirt. And sharpening my knives. And if you make so much as a nick in my wall, even God won’t be able to save you from—”
Everyone’s cheers drowned out her threats.
“Drinks for everyone if I win, lads!” Mr. Wister cried, raising his hands in the air. “And we’ll all toast the patience and good nature of Mrs. Wilson.”
“Mrs. Wilson!” the men cheered, raising their mugs of chicory as if they were beer.
“Honestly,” muttered Jo as she stalked to the back of the room. “Well? Get on with it!”
“This is sudden death, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Wister announced, removing the knives from the log and handing one to Nils. “One throw each. Nearest to the bull’s-eye is the winner, judged by the innermost part of the knife. Mrs. Wilson here can be judge to keep us honest.” And he winked at her.
“May the best man win,” Nils said. She’d never seen Nils so animated. He was usually in a corner drawing and avoiding conversation
“You first,” said Mr. Wister, gesturing towards Nils.
Nils placed his toe on the line, squared his shoulders, and tested the heft of a bread knife in his palm. The crowd hushed as he aimed and tossed the knife. Thwack. It hit the log less than an inch from dead center. Everyone cheered.
“Attaboy, Nils!” “You show ’im!” came the cries of the miners.
“Not bad,” Mr. Wister said. He and Nils inspected the gash left in the log. “Come measure, Mrs. Wilson. You’re the judge.”
Jo came closer. Mr. Wister ducked down on his haunches next to her. “Now, you’ve got to measure from the innermost edge of the notch.” Someone had fished the measuring tape from her sewing kit and handed it to her. She knelt down to measure, distinctly aware of Mr. Wister’s collarless bulk and the crowd behind her.
“Three-quarters of an inch from the bull’s-eye. You’ve got quite a challenge, sir,” she said, giving Mr. Wister what she hoped was a lofty, dignified expression.
“He’s good,” Mr. Wister said. “Now let’s see what I can do.” He gave her another wink. She stood up and retreated to the back of the room.
“Enough showboating,” she said. “Let’s wrap this up, gentlemen.”
Mr. Wister smiled again. “Just want to give these boys here a few more minutes with their money before I take it from them.”
Half the men gave good-natured jeers. Mr. Wister took the butcher’s knife and positioned himself at the makeshift throwing line. He made a show of licking his finger and pretending to test the air, drawing a few giggles from the girls who had crowded around the tables to watch. Then, his eyes narrowed as he focused on the log. He took a slow breath, and Jo watched his calm resolve. That must be some nervous condition he had.
Thwack. The butcher’s knife hit the log, lodged firmly in the still-wet center of the bull’s-eye. Even those who must have bet against him cheered. Nils came to shake his hand, but Mr. Wister stared past him at her.
“What do you think, Mrs. Wilson?” he asked. “Do you need to measure anything?”
She busied herself by beginning to count the money in the pot. “I am entirely comfortable declaring you the winner,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “Now let’s distribute the winnings and get back to work.”
“Keep it for your troubles, Mrs. Wilson,” he said, hitching his suspenders back up from where they’d fallen off his shoulders. “I was just playing for the fun of the thing.” He reached past the money pile to take a biscuit, and his arm almost brushed against hers. She jumped; no, she had flinched. Good Lord, what was the matter with her?
“Now, let’s eat!” Mr. Wister declared. “Would be a shame to let all this delicious food go to waste.”
Jo gave him what she hoped was a flinty look and retreated to the kitchen to help Ilsa with the serving. Today was going to be a very long day.
Chapter 6
After breakfast, Owen found himself chatting with Nils while Mrs. Wilson fussed over the start of the day’s business. About the weather (beautiful!), the fishing (bountiful!), the effects of the hot springs (beneficial!). He found himself speaking in exclamation points: anything to keep the conversation going.
Owen couldn’t pinpoint the source of his nervousness. This was, after all, what he’d come to do—to worm his way in and learn the secrets of Wilson’s Bathhouse. But what if there was nothing at all untoward going on and he had to return to Vancouver empty-handed? He couldn’t bear the condescension of his publisher, who’d grudgingly suggested this assignment only when it was clear
that he would never be able to squeeze another novel-writing nickel out of him. Well, that’s that little adventure out of your system, he would say. Now what say we buckle on down and write one of those nice wilderness stories? Maybe about the dark continent of Africa this time. Africa’s selling like hotcakes these days. Or what if Mrs. Wilson remained suspicious and kept the less savory aspects of her business hidden away from him? He couldn’t afford another slip up, not when those bright grey eyes seemed to track his every step in Fraser Springs.
Finally, Mrs. Wilson announced that she would meet him in the main baths in fifteen minutes. Nils pointed him in the direction of the changing room.
“Have fun,” he said, and Owen shook hands before setting his shoulders and addressing himself to the task at hand.
The inner sanctum of the bathhouse resembled a sauna—the air was thick with the same distinctive cedar-scented humidity. Morning light filtered in from narrow vertical windows placed high up on the walls. The mineral springs were hemmed in by smooth planks of cedar, on which men sat in bathing costumes or long johns, their legs dangling into the pool. Some men were submerged up to their necks, likely sitting on platforms installed below the water’s surface. Long ago, someone had attempted to give the place Grecian pretensions by installing mosaic tiles on the walls, but the humidity had wreaked havoc on the designs. The figures were blurred away, as if they really had come from an ancient ruin.
The lady attendants were already seated around the perimeter of the room, perched on little wooden stools. Mrs. Wilson herself was standing in front of such a stool, hands clasped behind her back. She nodded curtly for him to sit down. Like the other girls, she wore a white cambric blouse that clung to her arms in the humidity. An opaque white smock concealed the rest of her body, although its nipped-in waist hinted at curves.
The humidity had transformed her curls into an aura around her head, burnished in the angled light of the high windows. A few damp tendrils clung to her neck. Owen felt an urge to sweep the strands away and tuck them back behind her ear. What would happen when all that white fabric got wet? Giving himself a quick mental shake, he dutifully pushed the thoughts away. Here was a woman selling the virtue of innocent girls, and all he could do was stare at her hair and how her collarbone moved beneath the sheer blouse.
The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson Page 3
