Ghost Seer

by Robin D. Owens

  “He?” Dammit, should Zach be interested in a woman this . . . with problems like he had? Maybe with demons like his?

  Her lips moved into a half smile as she slid her glance toward him. “An acquaintance.” He saw her stop another sigh; her shoulders straightened. The guy was a burden, then, not a lover—at least not a current one, maybe a past mistake.

  “May I have the box?” she asked.

  Zach hefted it in his hand. “I don’t think the cubbyhole inside could be very big; doesn’t feel at all heavy.”

  Mouth twisting, she said, “I don’t think it’s ounces of gold.”

  A dog barked in the distance and Zach got a buzzing in his ears. He shook his head to make it go away and handed the light box back to her. When she reached out, her fingers trembled.

  “Maybe I’d better drive.” His voice was hoarser than he wanted because, damn, this quiet and tidy woman with the haunted eyes was appealing. But he didn’t want to get mired in any of her problems.

  Her full breasts rose under the top of her sundress as she breathed in. “All right.”

  “You’ve got an automatic transmission?” he asked, able to keep up with her slow pace across the parking lot. With concentration, he kept his left knee as low as possible and still kept his foot from dragging across the pavement. Grudgingly he understood that he needed to move on more than he had—he thought he’d been pushing himself physically, and he had, to get back into shape.

  Now he needed to learn how to live as a cripple. Walk with stealthiness, use his cane as a weapon . . . maybe get the damn brace he’d been resisting.

  When he saw Clare’s car, he smiled at her very sensible choice, an older model that held its value. She handed him the key before he asked, and when he inserted it and turned, she went around to her side, a lady unused to having a gentleman open the door for her. If he’d been whole, he could have lengthened his stride, caught up, and surpassed her to open the door. His fist clenched around the cane. No more hitting things. Once had been enough.

  He opened his door, stowed his cane in the backseat, sat in the driver’s seat, leaned over and opened her door. Then he adjusted the seat and mirrors. The car was warm, but Clare looked like she shivered. “Are you all right?”

  Another grimace. “Well enough. I’m waiting for some tests to come back.”

  “Doesn’t sound good.” Checking around them, he reversed and drove to the cut to the street.

  Her chin lifted, her lower lip sticking out a little. For some reason he found that cute. “I’m fine. I will be fine.”

  Since he didn’t care for comments on his own health, he said nothing more, but a chill tingle touched the back of his neck and sank into his shoulders—no sort of hunch or anything. If he’d been in a room, he’d have thought of drafts, but the summer night was warm. Too warm for the jacket he’d forgotten to take off before getting into the car. Clare had wrapped her arms around herself, so turning on the air-conditioning was out. He hit the switch to roll down the windows.

  She tapped the detachable GPS and set it to “Go Home.”

  “I don’t need voice directions; the map is good enough,” Zach said. He hated the mechanical voices. He turned west.

  They drove for a few minutes in comfortable silence. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt easy being silent with someone close. Nice. “Clare,” he said, liking her name on his tongue, a short and sturdy name. Another glance at her showed her pretty profile and the roundness of her breasts, the slight curve of her stomach. This woman wasn’t a toned cop or athlete.

  Her head turned and her hair swung, thick and shiny, smelling of some light citrus scent, clean and fresh. He recognized it . . . lemon and ginger, little bottles handed out by an upscale hotel. He drew in the scent of her, wanting that exotic note that had teased him earlier that day, even opened his mouth as if his tongue could taste her. Yeah, he caught that fragrance that tantalized—woodsy, spicy, some perfume mixed with her own Clare scent that indicated she was different than her appearance. Lust speared straight to his groin.

  “Clare,” he said, his voice thicker with desire. He made himself concentrate on the road, on driving, though his peripheral vision showed her breasts rising faster.

  “Yes?” she asked, quiet, more vulnerable. That vulnerability called out to him now more than ever before . . . because he knew he was flawed so badly.

  “I like you.” Hell, that sounded dumb.

  ELEVEN

  BUT SHE CHUCKLED; more, she smiled so her cheeks turned full, and he wanted to kiss them, though not as much as he wanted to taste the nape of her neck, discover her flavor there. His dick thickened and he welcomed the sweet torment.

  “I like you, too,” she said.

  “You’re special,” he said, and her expression closed down again.

  “I don’t want to be special. I want to be normal.” Her voice turned crisp.

  “Okay,” he said mildly. “But you’re rich.”

  Her body relaxed into the seat, and the curve to her lips returned, her arms uncrossed. “Yes, that I am.”

  “Feels good?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “But?” He took the last turn down her street, a dimly lit residential neighborhood. Now he was glad Mrs. Flinton had insisted he see Clare to her door. It looked safe, but a little shabby.

  Nearby a dog growled.

  “I want to be useful.” Her jawline showed strong as he pulled up to a small rectangular house with white siding. The porch light lit a tiny concrete stoop.

  “I’m not the type to like just sitting on my rear,” she said. “I want to do something.”

  He turned off the ignition, unbuckled the seat belt, and angled himself toward her. “I know what you mean.” His own mouth flattened. “I’ve got enough disability and money to live on okay for the rest of my life.” That came out bitter. He didn’t care. If she hadn’t researched him earlier, she’d do that soon, and better she see the whole shitty story online than his having to tell her. “I want to do something with my life, too.”

  She nodded, eyes serious. “But you’ve already found a job.”

  “I guess.” More anger spilled out.

  “Why aren’t you satisfied with it?” She tilted her head.

  “It’s private work, being paid for, not serving the public, not helping folks who don’t have the money to pay.” That sounded too damn high-minded, but it was the way he felt. Emotions swirled around them. “If I’d been a police officer, I wouldn’t have listened to Mrs. Flinton; I could have gone after Whistler and arrested him. Not as if he isn’t going to try to con others. Better if he’s off the street.”

  She blinked, then nodded slowly again. “I understand that.” She glanced between the seats toward his cane. “But you can’t work in the public sector anymore?”

  “Not in the field.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

  They gazed at each other. He leaned down, closer, closer; she clicked off her seat belt and moved toward him, saying nothing. Barking started outside the car, and a cold stream of air from the mountains moved through his window. Clare frowned and Zach began to lean back, and then her eyes fired and she put her hands on his shoulders, tilted her head for his kiss, met him halfway.

  He’d meant just a brush to test her and the kick they might have between them, learn the texture of her lips, but her tongue swept over his mouth and he opened it and welcomed her in. Here was the fire that he’d sensed below her buttoned-up accountant persona. Her tongue probed his mouth and he found himself groaning into her mouth with his breath.

  She shuddered and pressed closer to him, her breasts against his chest. Pleasure roared through him, then stopped and built and spiked, wisping all thought from his mind.

  Until he moved wrong and his leg shot pain through his nerves, killing all desire. Setting his hands on cold fingers,
he lifted them from his shoulders, and when her eyelashes opened he saw loss and grief and abandonment in her eyes. What? What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t see that stuff in a person’s eyes, not even a woman he was kissing. Could not sense that from her, emotions that resonated with his own.

  Then her pupils focused and the shadows in her eyes became shades of emotions he couldn’t fathom. She settled back into her seat, smiled, and it was an okay smile, not too bright, not sad.

  “I think I told you that I like you, too,” she said.

  Released tension. This didn’t have to be awkward.

  “Yeah.” He matched his stare with hers. “Completely mutual, Clare Cermak.”

  She nodded and opened the car door, slipped out with the smooth moves of a fit, healthy woman.

  Zach snagged his cane, opened the door, and readied himself to get out. Clare awaited him on the sidewalk in front of the small path leading to the front stoop. Her fingers remained tight around the bag from the auction house. Zach definitely wanted to see what was in the box.

  Slowly he exited, his bad leg stiff and aching from so much running around today. Real life, not like exercise at all. He’d have to change his program.

  But he was facing real life, and that mattered.

  He eyed the upper curves of her breasts, rising slightly over her sundress. He ached to get his hands on those.

  Her breath remained fast. Her lips looked good, too. His favorite muscle hardened again. He grinned. Hell, having a sex life again, an interesting, pretty woman in his life was enough to think life was getting better. Even the job with Rickman, the apartment with Mrs. Flinton, both things that could be missteps, were first steps. His life progressed, and that soothed the anger within him.

  He locked the car and held up the keys, pulling back to toss them at Clare.

  Alarm crossed her face. “No, Zach! I’m bad at catch.”

  Zach kept his chuckle to himself. A woman who could admit to a weakness, a woman who couldn’t match him in at least one physical thing, stroked his ego.

  The dog barked and he heard it more clearly outside the vehicle, a bigger dog, a Lab, maybe. Moving around the car, his limp and the swing of his foot more pronounced than he cared for, he kept a smile on his face. She didn’t even look at his awkward steps, seemed not to even notice.

  More burden of feeling like a lesser man fizzled away from his heart into the hot air.

  The concrete path to her door wasn’t wide enough for two, so she walked in front of him. Light from the porch showed deep auburn highlights in her hair, her dress was thin enough to silhouette her shape, and he liked the sway of her hips and ass. Very nice.

  His body agreed as his blood thickened in his groin, but his mind knew there was no chance of getting a woman like Clare into the sack on the day they met. She had great fire in her, sure, but she didn’t let her emotions call the shots, Zach was convinced of that.

  She opened the screen door, unlocked the too-flimsy main door and shoved it wide, then went into the living room. Zach followed her. Old furniture, some of it antique, was placed here and there, the pine floor polished and very clean. He approved of the long and wide man-sized couch that dominated the living room, angled toward the television, though her video system was pitiful.

  The house was stifling; must be in the nineties, and it didn’t look like she had so much as a window air-conditioner. The living room ceiling showed a light and fan. She turned on the light. Zach stared. She didn’t seem to feel the heat at all. Sweat dampened his back.

  And she didn’t seem to think that she was in any danger from him. “You should be more careful who you invite into your house,” he said.

  She turned and still looked pale to him in the low light, maybe even worse. Raising her brows at his cane, she said, “I don’t think you’re a vampire.”

  That response took him off guard. “Vampire.”

  She shrugged her lovely shoulders. “Joke.” Meeting his eyes, she said, “I can tell you were a cop. You’ve said you weren’t happy only serving people who can’t pay. To me, that means you’re honorable. Mrs. Flinton, whom I know of, vouched for you and knows you’re with me.” She glanced out the wide open front door. “And someone will be delivering your car here any minute.”

  She dampened her lips. “I . . . I have defenses you don’t know of, and”—she gestured to the half wall revealing the kitchen beyond—“I have pepper spray in the kitchen.”

  “Pepper spray in the kitchen,” he said tonelessly.

  “All right, all right!” She dropped the bag with the box on a coffee table that held a few large picture books on the Old West and hurried into the kitchen, coming back with the pepper spray, which she stuck on a bookcase shelf next to the door. He took it down and checked the expiration date. “You should have tossed this two years ago.”

  Crossing her arms, she lifted her chin. “All right. When . . . if . . . we, uh, spend some time together, I’ll be more security conscious.”

  “Deal,” he said.

  “And, anyway, I’m sure the new-to-me house that I’m buying will have a security system.”

  He opened his mouth and she smiled, holding up a hand. “And I’ll let your firm check it out.”

  “Did you find a house today?” he asked, remembering that she’d been meeting with a real estate agent.

  “No.” Her mouth turned down, and she looked around, sighing and shoulders slumping. “This house is a good starter house and it was the right price. But it’s too small, and comparing it with Aunt Sandra’s charming place in Chicago, where I’ve been staying . . .” She shook her head. “That house is gorgeous, by a noted architect.”

  “You’re looking for something like that here?” he asked, hitching his hip on the round arm of the couch. He figured she’d find his family’s Victorian home in Boulder full of charm.

  Plastic crackled; Zach looked and saw the bag holding the box sagging. Clare had flinched and wrapped her arms around herself again.

  Zach made a point of glancing at his watch. He’d like to stay here with Clare, but the damn house was so hot! “Let’s check out the box.”

  Clare went to the table, opened the sack, and took out the box. Frowning, she stood directly under the light and studied it, tilted her head, then pushed down near the end of one side. Nothing happened. “I think it’s supposed to be like a teeter-totter,” she said. “But it’s stuck. Maybe I should get some wood oil or something.”

  “Maybe I could try?” Zach held out his hand.

  She walked over and gave it to him. “That’s the top, and the panel that should move. I had a puzzle box when I was a kid, and you slid a couple of pieces of wood to open it, so that’s how I thought this one opened.”

  Something was a little off here that Zach couldn’t put his finger on. “But now you think it needs to be pushed.”

  “Yes,” she said in a stifled voice, rubbing goose bumps on her arms.

  He reached out and put his arm around her waist, tugged her to stand beside him. With her came a nice trickle of cool air that seemed to swirl around his foot. Holding one end of the box, he pressed down with his thumb, felt a little give. He pushed harder, keeping the pressure steady. With an odd creak the box opened.

  His breath whooshed out. Clare gave a strangled cry.

  Inside was a mummified human ear.

  TWELVE

  “I SHOULD HAVE expected this,” Clare said, her voice high to her own ears. Enzo sat next to Zach, tongue hanging out in a doggie grin. The shadow near her bedroom doorway was her imaginary friend, Jack Slade. Both Enzo and the apparition had told her how to open the box.

  She shivered with cold and fear, glad she hadn’t eaten anything for dinner since it might have spewed up.

  Zach looked up from the box, face inscrutable, his pupils wide in the gloom, with only a faint rim of blue-green iris. “Tha
t ear looks damn old.”

  “The box is from about 1863, I think,” she said.

  “This has to do with Jack Slade, the gunman.”

  Clare twitched her lips up in a little smile at Zach’s deduction and avoided looking at the secret cache in the box. “You know the story.”

  “Jack Slade cut off the ears of Jules Beni and wore one as a watch fob.”

  “Jules Beni was the man who ambushed Jack Slade and emptied a revolverful of bullets into him as well as a shotgun!” She didn’t know why she defended the ghost.

  Zach grunted. “They say Slade killed Beni.”

  Not true, said the slender ghost in shadows of black and white and gray, drifting closer.

  “I . . . I like to think his men did it. Beni had stolen horses that were for the stagecoach and Pony Express. He’d returned to the area Slade had warned him out of. Slade put a reward out for Beni and told the military in Fort Laramie that he’d be hunting the man before his men found Beni,” Clare said.

  That is absolutely correct. The image of Jack Slade smiled at her.

  “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Beni,” Zach said. He actually touched the ear, lifted it out of the box, sniffed at it.

  “Is it real?” Clare asked, though she had no doubt.

  “Seems like.” The grisly thing lay on his palm. Zach studied her again. “Where did all this happen again?”

  Clare bent down and flipped open an atlas that she’d marked on the coffee table. She’d put small sticky notes on the places that kept showing up in her dream conversations: Julesburg, where Slade had been shot; the general area of Cold Springs Station where Beni had been killed—that was taking some time for Clare to pinpoint; and Virginia Dale, the station Slade had founded for his headquarters and lived in until his drinking and shooting up Sutler’s store that had cost him his job. She pointed at the map. “In far northern Colorado and southeastern Wyoming.”

  Zach rubbed the ear with his thumb. Ewwww. “And when was Beni killed?”

  Clare frowned, searching her memory. “Late August 1861.”