Aside from the usual drinking and game playing that went on at this well-known Black Hills saloon, dancing girls were said to have entertained the patrons, catering to them twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. These girls sang, played piano, and danced with the customers, dressed in somewhat revealing dresses with feather boas. It is likely some of them occasionally doubled as prostitutes, which could be the reason there are several bedrooms on the second floor of this establishment, which still stands today.
Turning the page, Shay peered at the first of two photos. It seemed to have been taken just inside the front door of the saloon. It captured the tables in the middle of the room as well as the mahogany bar with the mirror above. Men in cowboy hats were lined up at the bar with their heads turned, staring solemnly into the camera.
She was astounded to discover the room had hardly changed through the decades. The caption under this photo read: Opening Day at Buckhorn Saloon, March 1, 1885.
The black and white photo at the bottom of the page was grainy, but Shay could tell the snapshot was of the piano, standing in the same spot at the back of the room where it stood now. Several saloon girls leaned against it, with one sitting on the bench with her legs crossed.
Shay held the book close to her eyes and squinted, trying to distinguish whether one of the girls was her visiting ghost. Unfortunately, because of the poor quality of the photograph, there was no way to tell. They all looked young.
“Darn.” She’d thought she’d been onto something there. She closed her eyes and placed her hand on the page over the photo, hoping a sixth sense would reveal if one of the girls in the picture might be the spirit.
“Having any luck?”
Shay’s eyes flew open, and she felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. She hadn’t heard Doris enter the room. Doris stood in front of her with a comical expression on her face. Feeling like an idiot, Shay slapped the book shut.
“Some,” she answered, smiling and opening the second book. When Shay’s cell phone blared from inside her purse, Doris frowned and pointed to a sign on the wall: Please Turn Off Cell Phones.
“I’m sorry.” Shay whipped the phone out and flipped it open. “I’ll go outside,” she whispered, passing Doris on her way to the front door. As she walked through the main reception area, she noticed there wasn’t another soul in the place so it seemed silly to be whispering.
“Hello,” she answered, once outside and standing on the steps.
“How are ya?” a deep voice drawled.
She felt her face light up. “I’m fine, Colt. How are you?”
“Great, now that I’ve heard your voice.”
“That’s a sweet thing for you to say.” She pictured his warm smile and green eyes and delicious lips, and felt her hormones begin to rage.
“I’m a sweet guy,” he replied before clearing his throat. “Unfortunately, that’s not the reason I’m calling. Where are you right now?”
“The historical center. I’ve started doing some research on the saloon. Where are you?”
“Standing outside your place.” Something in his tone changed. “I stopped by to see you and, well, you’d better scoot on down here.”
“What is it, Colt? Is there a problem?”
“Yeah, there is. Not to scare you, but hurry over if you can.”
“Sure. I’ll be right there.”
Thirteen
“I have to go,” Shay told Doris, when she swooped back into the room. “There’s some kind of emergency at the saloon.”
“Oh, my. I hope it’s not serious. Go on. I’ll put these things away for you.”
“I appreciate that. I plan on coming back soon, today if possible. Depends on what’s going on at my place. Can you keep the materials out front for me?”
“Of course. I’d be glad to.”
“Thank you.” Shay dashed outside and vigorously walked the five blocks to the Buckhorn. Colt leaned against the old hitching rail that was in front of her building. He bounded up when she approached. “Hi. You made it here fast.”
“Hi.” Catching her breath, her head bobbed up and down, while scanning the building. “What’s going on, Colt? I thought the place was on fire or something.”
Slipping his hand inside hers like it belonged there, he led her to the front door and pointed at the glass-paned window. “Take a look at that.”
Condensation fogged the window at eye level, as if someone had blown on it in the dead of winter, and the warm breath had steamed up the glass. A word, spelled backwards, was written in the condensation.
H C T I B
Shay gasped. If the vulgar word wasn’t enough to shake her, the fact that it wasn’t cold outside, and the condensation was on the inside of the window, not on the outside, did cause her pause, and concern.
Colt touched her arm. “Who do you think would have done that?”
She met his curious gaze. “I have no idea. It wasn’t there when I left this morning. I would have seen it when I locked the door.”
“Not necessarily.” He tapped on the glass. “That velvet curtain would have covered it up. You wouldn’t have seen it from the inside.”
She dug the keys out of her purse and unlocked the door and pushed the curtain back. The word glowered at her in big letters. “Only someone from inside the saloon could have done this,” she said, uncomprehending.
Colt didn’t respond, but she could see his mind working, probably questioning how that was possible, unless…
“You don’t think I did this, do you?” she snapped. The nip in her voice hadn’t been intentional, but noticing his furrowed brow had made her feel the need to defend herself. Maybe he thought she was orchestrating this ghost business herself. Loss and grief affected people in different ways. Perhaps he thought she was creating this situation for attention.
“Of course not, Shay.” His tone was unconvincing. His eyes narrowed. “I’m just wondering which of the undead in this saloon wrote it.”
It was obvious he had reservations about her and her sanity. She took a deep breath and bit her tongue so she wouldn’t say something she’d regret later. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe there are spirits in here or not. I didn’t write this. There’s no other explanation other than supernatural.”
He shrugged. “It’s not for me to say. I’ve never believed in ghosts, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I don’t take you for a psycho.”
“Gee, thanks.” Shay rolled her eyes and stared at the window, thinking.
“I hate to say it,” he continued, “but whoever left this is sending you a clear message.”
A shudder ran the length of her body. “It has to be the ghoul from the basement. But who is he and why is he trying to scare me? So I’ll leave? I’m not going to leave, no matter what he does.”
“Maybe you should think about selling,” Colt said. “You’ve been through enough in your life, from what you told me, and especially this past year or two. I can relist the property. You can find yourself a little house here in town. I have several listings that would be perfect for you.”
Her ire was slowing rising. What did he know about what she’d gone through in her life, and what would be perfect for her? She hadn’t shared much of anything with him, except for the fact that she came from money—which had been a mistake—and that she’d had some trouble with past relationships. He seemed anxious for her to put the saloon up for sale. Did he have another buyer in mind? Someone who was willing to pay more so he’d earn a bigger commission?
“No, Colt. I’m not leaving,” she said to end that conversation. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this and put a stop to it somehow.”
They stood staring at the word for a moment and then she wiped it away with her hand. “Do you know a woman by the name of Brenda Preston?”
The discomfort that washed over his face was subtle, but noticeable, all the same. The corner of his mouth twitched. He sighed. “Yep. She lives right here town. As a matter of fact, I wen
t to school with her.”
“Oh. Then you know she’s a psychic?”
“Who told you that?”
“Doris Rockwood. She’s a volunteer at the historical society. She helped me find some books on the history of the town, and when I told her about the ghosts haunting me, she suggested I speak to this woman, Brenda Preston.”
“You told a stranger about the ghosts?”
She gathered by his tone that he wouldn’t have made that choice. “Yes. There are stacks and stacks of material in that place. There’s no way I could find what I was looking for without assistance, so I told her so she’d be able to help. That’s her job.”
He shrugged again. “Did you find anything?”
“Some old photos of the Buckhorn. It hasn’t changed one bit since 1885. Even the piano looks to be the same one. There was a photo of some saloon girls standing in front of it, and I was hoping to see the blonde girl among them, but the picture wasn’t clear. Oh! And there was a photo of the saloon when it first opened with Dean Averill standing in front of it, but it was taken too far away to see his face. That was disappointing.”
Colt rubbed a hand across his chin. “I imagine Frank will have a picture of his grandfather, if you want to see what he looked like.”
Shay grew excited. “That’s what I was thinking, too. I’d like to meet Mr. Averill. Do you have any idea when he’ll be able to receive visitors?”
“I’ll drop by and check on him. He has a live-in nurse to care for him. I’ll find out how he’s faring and let you know.”
She touched his arm. “Thanks. I can probably learn more from him than any books I could read. Does he still live at home?”
Colt nodded. “Yes. He refuses to be put into a nursing home. Says he’ll die if he goes to one. I’m afraid his time is running out anyway.”
“You said he has a nurse. Doesn’t he have any family to help out? No children?”
“His wife passed on about twelve years back. They had a child, a daughter, but she’s also gone. I don’t know the whole story, but ever since I’ve known Frank, I’ve never heard him speak of her. I believe she died many years ago.”
“That’s sad. It’s nice of you to look out for him.”
Colt smiled. “I do it because of my granddaddy. They were best friends their whole life. Besides, Frank is a real nice fellow. He’s always been good to me.”
A moment of silence filled the space between them before she confessed, “I walked by your office this morning.”
His face brightened. “I’d meant to tell you where it was so you could come by sometime. I’ll give you the grand tour next time you stop.”
“I’ll take that tour now if you’re headed that way. There’s nothing to be done about this message, and I’d like to go back to the historical society and dig around a little more. Your office is on the way.”
“Yes, it is. We’ll walk together.”
She relocked the saloon door and they started down the sidewalk. “What about your truck?” She glanced back to see it was parked at the curb.
“I’ll pick it up later.”
He took her hand again and held it as they strolled. It was warm and he held tight, like he didn’t want to let go. Despite what she’d told herself about not getting involved, his strong hand holding hers was comforting. Her stomach fluttered as if she were a schoolgirl with a crush.
When they entered his office, he shut the door behind them and pulled down the shade on the door. Before she realized what was happening, he’d swept her off her feet and into his arms and carried her to his desk, where he sat her down on top.
“What on earth are you doing?” she light-heartedly cried.
“You’ll find out in about two seconds.”
Fourteen
Colt held onto her shoulders to keep her from tipping back. He leaned in and planted a soft kiss on her lips. There was no way he was not going to take advantage of an empty office.
“You taste good,” he said.
“You taste like maple syrup.”
Licking his lips, he grinned. “Blueberry pancakes.”
“Do you eat pancakes every morning?”
“Nearly.”
He kissed her again, parting her moist lips with his tongue, and began to feel the swell of arousal when she responded with her own tongue. It was she who stopped and shot a glance over his shoulder.
“Someone could walk in any minute.” She thrust her hand into his chest.
“That’s why I pulled the shade and locked the door. To keep the pests out.”
“Don’t you have a secretary?”
“Yeah. She’s off this morning. Doctor’s appointment.” He leaned in again, but she wiggled around him and hopped off the desktop.
“I need to leave.”
He groaned with disappointment.
“I have more research to do,” she said, smoothing her hair with a hand. Her mouth had become a thin line, and her brows knitted together.
“I’m sorry, Shay. I’m coming on too strong again.”
Her half-hearted smile spoke of uncertainty, while her lips and tongue had been very decisive. “Nothing gets past you, does it?” she said.
Ah. Sarcasm. “I think you liked it as much as I did,” he challenged.
She sighed. “I never said I didn’t like it. I said I have to go.” She gently pushed by him.
The woman was flustered, which meant she was definitely interested. That he could live with. “I’d like to invite you over to my house tonight. We can have supper together. Do you have any plans?”
With her hand on the doorknob, her hesitancy lasted several seconds. “No.”
“Then it’s a date?”
She made him suffer in silence for a few seconds more before craning her neck around. “Supper at your house is not a date. It’s supper. We both have to eat, I suppose.”
“Whatever you say.”
As he wrote out directions to his residence, she asked, “Are there going to be any surprises in store for me, like there were last night? Will there be more members of your family jumping out of the closets?”
He handed her the paper with the address on it and shook his head. “No more ambushes. It’ll just be you and me this evening. I promise.”
“Okay.”
When she smiled, he couldn’t help but imagine the possibilities.
“What time should I be there?” She rattled the doorknob when it didn’t open.
“It’s locked, remember?” He stepped forward and flipped the lock. “How about six?”
“Six it is. See you then.”
He tugged on the bottom of the shade, letting it snap to the top of the window. Sunlight poured onto the sidewalk where he followed her outside. “Do you like Italian?” He reached for her hand, but missed it when she moved it on purpose.
Her eyebrow arched, as if she were thinking shame on you. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“Italian it’ll be then.”
Their gazes locked, and then she waved goodbye without another word.
He took a stance in the middle of the sidewalk and watched her move down the block. She was petite, with curves in all the right places. Her auburn hair was shiny and soft. Her hazel eyes sparkled when she smiled, and she had the face of an angel. Physically, Shay was everything he longed for in a woman. Though the sexual attraction hit a 10.0 on the Richter scale, he was beginning to realize there was more to her than physical appeal. There was no denying the emotional connection he felt with her. He didn’t understand it, or how it had happened, but he believed they’d been destined to meet. Despite what he’d told her about not wanting to get involved in a relationship, he hadn’t felt this happy in years. For the first time in a long time, he could almost see himself dating a woman more than a couple of times. Maybe even settling down again.
How would he be able to accomplish anything the rest of the day, when all he’d be thinking about was seeing her tonight? With Shay on his mind, he stepped back into his office an
d picked up the desk phone to check his messages. He’d just eaten breakfast, but food had nothing to do with the insatiable hunger stirring in his gut.
* * * * *
“You’re back.” Doris greeted Shay when she walked in. “Is everything all right at home?”
She didn’t want to explain about the writing on the window. Doris probably wouldn’t believe it anyway. For now, it would be her and Colt’s secret. “Yes. Everything’s fine,” she answered, suddenly remembering to turn off her cell phone.
Doris pulled the huge binder and books out from under the reception countertop. “Here you go.”
“Thanks. I’ll take these and get back to work.”
“Let me know if you need me to look up anything else,” Doris called to her back.
Settling in and opening the second book, Shay skimmed the Table of Contents. A chapter titled Census caught her eye. When she flipped to that section, she was pleasantly surprised to find town residents for the years 1885-1890 listed in columns. It only took a few moments to go down the row of last names beginning with “A” since it was alphabetical. There was Frank Averill’s grandfather’s name and occupation included for the year 1885.
Dean Henry Averill. Saloon Owner. The name Cynthia Sarah Averill was located above Dean’s name, with occupation listed as Wife. No other Averills were listed. Shay wondered about the name of the female apparition. She’d asked her name that night, but had received no response.
This book included a wealth of photographs from the early days. There were some photos of people, but most of the pictures were of buildings in chronological order as the town sprang up. Again, she was pleased to find some more pictures of the Buckhorn, showing both the inside and outside of the building. One shot was of the bartender standing in front of the gilded mirror pouring drinks for a row of customers.
Shay pulled the book closer. This picture was clear. The bartender looked straight at the camera and smiled. His haircut was short and parted on the side. He had a bushy moustache and wore a dark vest over a long-sleeved shirt and an apron at his waist. Could this be Dean Averill? Chances were the owner had also tended his own bar. She stared at the photo for a couple of minutes questioning whether his supernatural footsteps had been some she’d heard walking the halls of the saloon at night.
A Haunted Twist of Fate Page 6