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"Jack Dixon."
Her features changed briefly, but he couldn't quite make out her reaction. "I'm Fiona," she said, unfolding her arms and relaxing slightly, offering to shake his hand. Jack tentatively reached out, her hand small and soft. Her grip was more firm than he expected, her skin warm and... oddly comforting.
"She works here, Jack," Bernie said, unaware of Fiona's quick once-over of Jack in his dark chaps, the bulge of his gun in its leather holster. Jack didn't notice, either. "She's good company."
"I like to think I help run this place," Fiona interjected, her voice teasing. Her bright presence in the midst of the dark, gloomy saloon was unexpected, and Jack was beginning to understand why the patrons listened to her. Fiona held herself with a dignified composure, but nothing about her was haughty or vain. Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes, beautifully transforming her entire face.
Bernie grinned. "You should see her whip some of these guys into shape, Jack," he said when Fiona was out of earshot, clearing a now-empty table. "She means business. And everyone keeps coming 'round to see her, on account of her eyes and all."
Jack accepted another glass of whiskey and nodded, his eyes on Fiona's back as she cleaned off the other side of the bar. She was gorgeous, he couldn't deny that. But he had a lot on his mind. He looked at Bernie, his eyes dark, trying to convey his message without words.
"You found him?" Bernie asked with uncertainty.
"Yeah, I found him," Jack replied. Bernie gestured for him to come into the back room with him. He did, leaned against a wooden barrel of ale, and accepted a cigarette from Bernie, his first in a long time. He struck a match and lit Bernie's before his own. Jack exhaled smoke rings, reminding him of the time he, Bernie and Billy had practiced doing that in back of Bernie's father's saloon after church on Sundays.
"Did you--" Bernie started.
Jack shook his head. "Not yet. But I will. And soon."
"Where is he?"
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