Aubrielle's Call Read Free Page B

towel and set his fists on his waist. “Sweeney?”
    “Yes.”
    Without a word, he returned to the bar, filled a mug of beer, then caught John’s attention by tipping his head toward the back of the room.
    John grabbed his knit hat from the seat and followed. He paused as the bartender set the beer on a table before the furthest booth. When the man walked away, John’s gaze locked with the same woman who had been seated at the bar earlier.
    She nodded her head and flicked the ashes from the cigarette attached to the end of a six-inch holder. “Sit,” she said and pointed to the bench seat across the table.
    John slid into the seat as the barman drew a gauze-black curtain across a high-hung rod.
    Her almond-shaped gray eyes studied him. A delicate oval face made her appear younger than her silver-veined auburn hair would put her. Coiffed impeccably, her streaked locks rolled back from her forehead, pinned and adorned by a silver flower hairpin. She inhaled from her cigarette holder and blew the smoke in the air. "Sweeney said you were tall."
    John stroked his chin, then shoved his hat in his pocket and picked up his beer. "My name's John Larson."
    “I know.” She flicked her ashes and smiled.
    “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss…?”
    “Master Keats.” She dipped her head but never lowered her eyes. “Tell me, have you ever worked for a woman, John Larson?”
    Surprised, John chuckled and ran a hand over his face. “Yes ma’am, I have.”
    “You don’t look old enough to have done much of anything at all.”
    “I’m told I have an old soul.”
    Her laugh echoed across the empty bar. “We shall see, Mr. Larson.” She pulled the stick from her martini and drew an olive down its length with her teeth. She chewed the olive and swallowed. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Where are you from?”
    “Most recently, Denver.”
    “No oceans to sail in Denver.”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Stop with the ma’am nonsense. You make me feel old.” She opened her bag, pulled out a two-foot line of hemp and tossed it on the table. “You may call me Keats, or Master Keats. If—and this is a big if—I decide to bring you aboard, you will address me as sir.” She raised the martini in front of her and took a sip. “Tie a sheep-shank.”
    John twisted the rope into a long loose knot and tossed it back.
    She pulled it straight. “Now, a chain hitch.”
    “On?” John picked up the line and looked around. He pushed back the gauze curtain and wrapped the chain hitch knot around the rod.
    “Very resourceful. Untie that and sit down.”
    John pulled the knot free, drew the curtain closed and took his seat.
    Keats removed the cigarette butt from the holder and crushed it in the ashtray. “One last test.” She peered at John from the corner of her eye. “A double fisherman’s.”
    John shook his head. “You know as well as I do, a double fisherman’s knot takes two lines.”
    She gathered the rope from the table and shoved it into her bag. “Can you use a compass?”
    “I can.”
    “Can you navigate by the stars?”
    “Yes. And I know port from starboard, fore from aft.”
    “Are you familiar with weapons?”
    “I am. Both new and old. I’m also a fair to good medic in a pinch.”
    “Very impressive, Mr. Larson.”
    “We’ve talked about what I can and will do. Now I must tell you what I won’t.” John leaned forward and took a short breath. “I won’t kill a man if disabling him will do, and I don’t kill at all without a damned good reason.”
    “A master’s orders aren’t reason enough?”
    “No, sir.” John closed his eyes for a moment. The truth could cost him this opportunity.
    It doesn’t matter. I won’t lie about taking a man’s life. If need be, I’ll find another way.
    He opened his eyes and stared directly into hers. “I’m not telling you I won’t kill a man. I have before, and most likely will again, but I need to know the right of it for myself.”
    “So, you would