“You’re not riding back on the bus?” John asked when the doors closed and they departed.
“Oh, I’m not with them,” she explained. “I don’t live far from here and when I saw the tour listed in the paper’s local events, I just walked over.”
“Interested in our history, are you?”
“I’m a bit of an addict,” she admitted.
He placed his hand flat on his chest. “A woman after my own heart.”
Melanie laughed. “Your passion is evident in your presentation. I had a great time on the tour, and you have me totally intrigued with the local historical society. I’d love to come to a meeting.”
“We’d love to have you. New blood is always welcome, and rarely do we get members as young as you. Why don’t you stop by the museum some time and we’ll get you a meeting schedule.”
“Thank you, John, that’d be great.”
After he gave directions to the Lindeman’s Crossing Historical Museum, she walked toward the cemetery gates closest to her home, happy in her euphoric daze.
Her family, steeped in such astonishing history! What a story it would be to tell her children and grandchildren some day. Yes, despite her lack of success in the romance department, and no prospects on the horizon, hope remained of finding a connection to last a lifetime.
She swung around and walked backward, letting her gaze wander over the rows of headstones. Even with the beautiful Rocky Mountains highlighted by the setting sun, the imposing oak drew her eye like a magnet.
There in the shadows, the dark figure of a man stood beside the black tombstone.
Her heart stopped, her breath caught. As her pulse thundered in her ears, she stared until he started to move forward. Toward her.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. Backing up, she swallowed hard and finally blinked.
The figure disappeared.
Melanie froze. Blinked again. Still gone.
She didn’t waste a single second more waiting for whatever she’d seen to reappear. Thankful she’d changed into tennis shoes for the tour, she bolted for home as if she’d just seen a ghost.
****
He stood in the shadows, watching the young woman run through the gates without looking back. Almost as if she’d seen something that had frightened her.
His eyes narrowed in consideration of the idea spinning in his head. The notion was almost unthinkable. They were in a cemetery, at dusk, with plenty of shadows and looming headstones that could’ve spooked her—given her the “willies”, as she’d said earlier.
And yet, that simple, believable, likely explanation could not quell the single thought making his heart race.
Could she have seen him?
Her earlier startled reaction confirmed she’d heard his irate exclamation. When he’d been listening to the speculation and lies for what felt like the thousandth time and vented his age-old frustration that no one had seen the truth.
Given that she’d heard his words, was sight really so inconceivable?
She had been on the right track back there. If she continued to voice contrary questions the answers would lead her down a path of discovery he had only hoped would some day be revealed. And if she could hear him, if she could see him...
Ashes of long dead hope stirred, whirling into a driving force of energy to follow the pretty redhead. But by the time he reached the gates, she had disappeared into the night as if she had never existed.
Chapter Two
That night, a handsome man, his dark horse, gunshots and a raging river plagued Melanie’s dreams. Little snippets of events and emotions. A husky voice. Dark eyes. Cold water. Muddy riverbank.
Anger.
Desperation.
Pain.
The emotions were especially vivid. Her only confirmation the dark dreams weren’t real was the sight of her cream-colored walls and sage green curtains when she blinked awake on Saturday morning.
She stumbled out of bed completely exhausted. Yet after her first cup of tea, an energy she definitely did not contribute to the limited caffeine pulsed through her veins. It got her through cleaning the cute little cottage she’d purchased a month ago, and washing a few loads of laundry.
Still restless, she moved on to weeding her two small flower gardens in the backyard and then sat at her rummage sale cafe table out on the patio with her briefcase.
An hour later, after rereading the paper in her hand and still not sure what it said, she admitted defeat. Nothing took her mind off yesterday’s cemetery tour or the contrary thoughts of Andrew Lindeman. And erasing the memory of that shadow-figure next to his tombstone proved impossible.
Seeing as her current attempts to review her current court case were proving a complete waste of time, she went inside to put on her tennis shoes. It was her first weekend off since starting her new job here in Colorado and high time she had some fun exploring the town her grandmother had relished speaking of. It still made no sense Andrew Lindeman’s story hadn’t been passed down through the generations, but with Grandma having passed on more than five years now, she’d never know that answer.
She started with the trail next to the river behind her cottage. The walk along the South Platte River settled her nerves until she realized it’d looped through the park and led her back to the cemetery. Her feet rooted to the spot outside the gate as she stared intently at that one specific shaded gravesite.
Everything looked normal. No shadow figures. No shimmering air. No voices in her head.
Most likely her subconscious had been playing with her yesterday. Her imagination had been in overdrive after all the wonderful history she’d learned.
Still hesitant, Melanie entered the deserted grounds and followed the path John had led the senior group along the day before. Every so often she snuck a glance toward the black granite, until at the end, she once again stood in front of the stone.
Deep breath. Let it out slow. Everything’s fine.
Squatting down, she reached to touch the old, worn stone sunk in the earth.
Cold. As it should be.
Her gaze rose to the other one looming in front of her. Nervous anticipation mixed with dread, raising goose bumps on her arms like yesterday. Much as she didn’t want to touch its smooth surface, she had to make sure. Her hand trembled slightly as she extended her arm.
Cool.
Relief tingled through her entire body.
With one finger, she traced the A in Andrew, then flattened her palm over the name.
In a single instant, the granite warmed, almost to the point of burning her flesh. She yanked her hand back with a gasp, then nearly jumped out of her skin when a male figure materialized out of thin air right before her eyes.
Dark, glittering eyes locked on her. A scream froze in her throat and she found she couldn’t breathe.
If she stayed still, would it go away?
Her lungs burned. She needed oxygen or she’d faint. Rising slowly, she drew in a deep breath of air, then concentrated on repeating the process until her legs steadied. All the while, her mind registered details.
The man of her dreams. Tall. Dark, wavy hair, worn long enough to hang over his forehead and brush the collar of his black shirt. Eyes that at first glance appeared black but now she saw were a sexy slate gray. His thick eyebrows shadowed them, making them seem darker. A hint of a five o’clock shadow lent a sinister air, yet she wasn’t truly afraid of him.
“You can see me.” The husky accusation washed over her.
“This can’t be real,” she said out loud. She was losing her mind. For heaven’s sake, she just thought of a hallucination’s eyes as sexy!
He stepped closer, his gaze locked with hers. “No one has ever been able to see me.”
Melanie backed up, still talking to herself. “I’m hallucinating. He’s not real.”
“But I am.”
“No.” She shook her head. “He’s a figment of my imagination. I’m going crazy.”
“You may stop speaking as if I
am not here. I know you can see me.” A hint of irritation colored his deep voice.
Laughter bubbled up. She fought off the hysteria, closed her eyes and wished him away. After counting to ten, she lifted her lashes to find him still watching her. He stood just a few feet in front of her, his gaze so intense she could practically feel it touching her face. Yet his form didn’t seem quite…solid. Her mind went back to the moment he’d appeared and she shivered.
“I don’t know what I’m seeing.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Andrew Lindeman.”
Somehow that didn’t surprise her, but she still shook her head in denial. “No.”
“Yes.”
She gestured to the tombstone. “Andrew Lindeman is dead.”
“Yes.”
Melanie swallowed hard, heart thumping in her chest. “That would mean you’re a…a...
One eyebrow rose in a sardonic gesture. “Yes?”
“A ghost.”
His lips lifted in a smile, flashing white teeth. “That would be correct.”
“Ghosts aren’t real.”
“I beg to differ with you.”
Annoyed with his enjoyment of the situation, Melanie stuck a fist on her hip. “You can beg all you want, it doesn’t make you real.”
“To whom are you speaking, then?”
She bit off a sarcastic retort. He was right, and she was not going to stand here wasting her day arguing with a ghost. She spun around and strode toward the cemetery entrance, willing herself not to break into a run.
In the space of a blink, he appeared in front of her. She halted with a sharp gasp as his mesmerizing eyes locked on hers once more.
“Please.” The word came out rough and low. “I have spoken to no one in so long.”
“How long?”
“One hundred and fifty-one years.”
She swallowed hard and darted her gaze over his shoulder, toward the gate. “You’ve been counting?”
“And thirty-one days.”
The raw emotion in his voice sparked an ache in her heart. His gaze remained on her, as tangible as a lover’s caress on her cheek.
“I wish you no harm.”
Her chest tightened as she took in his dark figure in front of her. Except for the missing hat, he was the exact picture of the man in her fantasy yesterday and her dreams last night, even down to the muscled forearms revealed by the rolled up sleeves of his black shirt.
It was all so unreal, she simply shook her head. “I’m sorry. I—this is just too much. I have to go.”
He didn’t move. The absurd notion of walking through him made her shudder. As if that reaction convinced him, he dipped his head and stood aside.
“I apologize. Good day.”
And then he was gone.
Melanie blinked a few times and turned in a slow circle, but she saw nothing. Not even the strange thickness in the air that had first caught her attention on the walking tour the day before. Silently insisting the emotion weighing on her chest was relief and not disappointment, she hurried from the cemetery.
Ten minutes later, she realized she’d walked past the turnoff to her cabin and now stood in front of the Lindeman’s Crossing Historical Museum. Maybe, subconsciously, she’d come here on purpose.
The building itself was either an exact replica of an old west mercantile, or a meticulously restored and well-kept original. Either way, she loved the weathered structure at first sight. Especially appealing was the raised wooden sidewalk the tour guide had described Andrew Lindeman and Lorena Van Buren strolling along as they courted.
Stepping inside, she swept her gaze across the equally antique interior until she found an information counter to the left of the entrance, manned by none other than her animated storyteller from the day before.
“Hi, John.”
“Well, good afternoon,” he greeted with a friendly smile. “Miss Sparks, wasn’t it?”
“Please, call me Melanie.”
“I’m so glad you came by. You’ve brightened an old man’s boring day.”
She smiled, some of her tension fading now that she was speaking with a real live person. “You can’t be a day over fifty.”
“Fifty-six next month.”
“You don’t look it. And how can you be bored in the middle of all this history?”
“I know it inside and out, that’s how, you flatterer. Although, since our discussion about the bank robbery yesterday, you have me very curious about Jacob Van Buren.”
Just like that, her tension returned. “Speaking of which, I’m interested in the picture you mentioned of Andrew Lindeman. May I see it?”
“Yes, of course. Follow me.”
Just saying the man’s name brought a flush to her cheeks. But really, she needed to stop this foolishness. Once she saw the picture, saw it wasn’t him and that she’d just dreamed up the ruggedly handsome ghost, she could seek professional help and move on with her life.
John came around the counter and headed toward the back of the building. The room seemed to stretch for miles, distorting into an endless tunnel in her mind, yet it took a mere ten seconds to cross the smooth, boot-worn floor planks.
“Here he is, our notorious Mr. Lindeman.”
Melanie stared at the picture of the man on his tall, black horse. A dull roar filled her ears as her heart thudded slow and hard. It was him. The man—the ghost—from the cemetery. The man in her dreams.
John’s voice penetrated the haze engulfing her head and she tore her gaze away from the image. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“He did have a great looking horse.”
She leaned closer to the picture again. Almost as beautiful as the man. The man who once more commanded her undivided attention. Even here, in black and white, face shadowed by a black cowboy hat, his eyes were like a living entity, touching her soul.
“What do you think happened?” she asked John as she straightened and pushed away from the image. “With the bank robbery, I mean. Do you think Andrew was part of it?”
John raised a hand to scratch the back of his head. “I try to remain objective, but I’ve got to tell you, I’ve read every single one of the editions of the Lindy Gazette he published before he died, and the man I got to know in those papers wouldn’t have done what he was accused of.”
“Judging by the second headstone, the family of the little girl he saved didn’t think so, either,” Melanie added.
Her family.
“Very true. But, as the debate has gone on for years with no definitive answers. Is there any way to really know?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she murmured to herself, glancing out the window in the direction of the cemetery. “John, any chance the historical society lets people check out materials? I mean, if I wanted to read the old Gazette issues that Andrew Lindeman published, do I have to do that here or can I take them home?”
He cast a furtive glance about the room before moving behind another counter. “Normally we don’t allow documents out of the museum, but I think I can make an exception.”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble or anything.”
He chuckled as he handed over two sets of thick binders. “No trouble—technically, I own the place. And my gut tells me I can trust you, so you get them back to me by tomorrow and the committee will never know.”
****
Through the window of the museum, Andrew watched the feisty redhead talking to John. Her beauty enhanced each time he saw her. And oh, had he enjoyed conversing with her for those few brief moments. The flash of wit, the exchange of emotions he’d never thought to experience again—even if they were on the wrong end of the spectrum. Disbelief, fear, sarcasm and annoyance.
Instead of waiting for her to exit and upsetting her further, he stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled down the street. Without bothering to alter his course, he passed through moving and parked vehicles alike, a lamppost, and two spandex clad mountain bikers.
Immediately afte
r his murder, when navigating the areas of town he had access to, he’d dodged everything as if he were still alive. Horses, carriages, pedestrians. Just the thought of passing through a live body unnerved him. But he had soon discovered it mattered not. Whether the object was living or inanimate, he felt nothing. From himself or the object. Besides which, once the horse-less carriages were invented, moving fast enough would’ve been impossible.
As time progressed, so did his apathy, and he decided it was not worth the energy to even think about avoidance.
Passing though the sidewalk bench in front of the Lindy Gazette now, he focused his energy and leaned against the back of the bench, facing the building. Through the window, Andrew watched the new editor in chief, hard at work at his desk. A young man who eerily embodied what Andrew remembered of his mirror image back in 1860.
He’d left Lindeman’s Crossing for college almost ten years ago, but since first spotting him back in town, Andrew had been drawn to the guy. Not only because they were similar in appearance, but from what he could gleam from glimpsed editorials in the newspapers left lying here and there around town, Drew Nelson was a throwback to older times. His views, his upstanding morals, his sense of right and wrong and his willingness to stand by his convictions.
He vaguely remembered Drew as a child. The kid had been quiet. Studious. One or two backwoods bonfires in high school, but no real trouble. Andrew didn’t recall him looking so much like himself when he was younger, but man, that first glimpse a few months ago had sure thrown him.
Drew straightened in his chair and lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. At the same time he swiveled to face the window, a frown drawing his dark eyebrows together. Andrew tensed when the man rose to his feet and made his way to the window, staring at the bench where he rested. When Drew’s gaze dropped to the sidewalk, so did Andrew’s.
There on the concrete, sunlight outlined a distinct shadow. His shadow. The startling sight shifted his energy and the outline faded. He jerked his head up to see Drew glance about self-consciously before rubbing his hands over his face and returning to his desk.
Stacey Joy Netzel Boxed Set Page 2