Stewart Macallum was in his late sixties with a shock of white hair brushed back from a wise, weather-beaten-into-submission face. Taller than Mal by an inch, he was broadshouldered and fit, wearing his long black duster coat like a badge of office. As he climbed alone from the front seat of the buckboard, Mal walked down the ramp to join his first mate.

“Sir? Any news?” she breathed, not taking her eyes off the man in front.

“Jayne just called. Simon’s made a deal. Be a day or two, but we‘re getting the antiviral.”

Zoe wasn’t one to leap up and down or even get emotional, not when they were on the job, but he could feel her relax, just a little. “That’s good, sir.”

“Surely is.”

“Captain Reynolds?” Macallum stepped forward, pulling off heavy leather gloves.

“That’s me.” Mal stepped forward. “You’ll be Macallum.”

“That I will.” There was a faint accent in the man’s voice, a burr that spoke of a place a long way from Newhall. They shook hands, each taking a moment to judge the other. “My goods intact?”

“All here.” Mal nodded over his shoulder. “Kinda filled my ship.”

“It’s my wife’s fault.” Macallum smiled suddenly, the lines on his cheeks merging. “She likes to buy, and I like to indulge.”

“Got one of my own,” Mal agreed.

“Then you’ll know how it is.” His eyes lit on Zoe. “And is this her?”

“No. This is Zoe. My right hand.”

The older man‘s eyes raked up and down Zoe‘s form, but in an almost benevolent fashion. “I’m thinking this one keeps you on your toes too, right?”

“Since I was wet behind the ears.”

For a long moment Macallum seemed be considering them both, then he must have liked what he saw, because he slapped his gloves in the palm of his hand and said, “Captain, would you have a glass handy? I’ve brought a fine bottle of sipping whiskey with me, and I hate to drink alone.”

Mal raised one eyebrow. “Shouldn’t we get your cargo unloaded first?”

“Mary’s waited near a month for that piano – she can wait an hour longer.”

“Piano?”

“A