“Yeah, sure.” And Zach thought he had. He hadn’t been flashy in taking the suspects down, hadn’t used any more force than he’d had to, had known by the time the police had shown up that they’d have run his past. And the big City and County of Denver, Colorado, was not puny Plainsview City, Cottonwood County, Montana. Not to mention Zach was a third-fourth-fifth-or-something-generation Coloradan. He’d be given any benefit of the doubt about what took place in Montana. And he had been. Almost made him wish he’d stayed in Colorado.
Too late now.
“Contacts, Zach?” Rickman prompted.
Zach rubbed the back of his neck, feeling sweat flake away. The parking lot lights flashed on as night banished day. “Yes, boss. Like I said, I made some good contacts.”
“That we—you—we can build on.” A statement laden with satisfaction.
“Yup.”
“Good. I’ll let you go now,” Rickman said.
“Later,” Zach said. Weariness began to slide through him, along with relief that crows were difficult to see at night. He swung his leg into the car and drove away. By the time he made it to a major intersection, he knew he was going to Clare, though not sure why.
Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee would have dinner for him . . . and questions . . . and, even, maybe, I-told-you-so’s. He sure didn’t want that.
Clare . . . it had been a big day for her, too.
He didn’t know what the hell had happened. But he knew it was one of those “bonding” experiences the shrinks talked about. An event that included only the two of them that neither of them would ever forget.
Of course he hadn’t told the police about whatever-the-hell he’d seen and heard when he’d touched Clare. He’d said he’d heard on the news of the check cashing hits, then observed the car, and so on. Just happened to be the first one to notice and call it in. He hadn’t mentioned Clare at all.
The night wasn’t cool, and he wasn’t really looking forward to being at Clare’s sweltering place, but maybe they could sit outside. He needed to be with her. Smell her scent, see her face . . . rest with her, no forced explanations necessary. Have a soft, womanly companion.
Maybe he could spend the night. Oh, yeah, his body, even more than his bruised feelings, liked that idea. Anticipation.
NINETEEN
WHEN HE PULLED up to her house, he saw the front door open, the ripple of drapes over the big window as the ceiling fan in the living room moved.
Walking up to the door, he heard an unknown woman’s voice:
“By now you’ve had your gift a while and know that ghosts aren’t a figment of your imagination, and that they aren’t going away. And, lovey, brace yourself, because I have more bad news and this will come as a real shock for someone as repressed as you are.”
Zach slowed, flipping through his memory of just that day’s lunch . . . this must be the video from Clare’s great-aunt Sandra.
Talking of ghosts. He slowed his progress.
“There are great benefits to helping ghosts transition . . . both emotional and financial . . . the universe rewards you.”
So far Zach hadn’t seen that. He was only a few steps from the concrete stoop and the open door, wondered whether he should go forward.
“Listen close, lovey. There are great rewards, satisfaction and fulfillment that come with our gift. But there are also costs. And the greatest threat, the greatest cost comes if you don’t accept your destiny, if you ignore the ghosts.”
A dog barked and Zach tensed. Sounded like it was coming from inside the house. But Clare didn’t come to the door, and above Aunt Sandra’s dire predictions, he heard a clatter of pans, smelled mouthwatering food—grilling beef, onions, potatoes. All he’d had since tea at Mrs. Flinton’s was terrible coffee.
He took the last few limps to the door and rang the bell.
From the threshold he could see the television screen and a frail and elderly orange-haired woman who shared features with Clare.
“If you don’t accept your gift, you decline and die,” Sandra said.
Dire warnings that Zach couldn’t tolerate. He banged on the door to drown out the video and Clare came into sight, walking through the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. She stopped and called out, “Who’s there?”
She’d only see him as a dark shadow in the door. “It’s Zach Slade.”
Her body stilled with surprise. Then she crossed to the door and flicked the flimsy screen door lock open, and her smile shot through his heart and sizzled down to his groin. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” He smiled back.
She looked easier, not nearly as nervy. Yeah, still haunted, but . . . settled, like she’d made a decision. That scanned for Zach. He always felt better after a decision himself.
He moved to the side on the stoop and she opened the door, held it as he took the one step up and into the house, brushing by her, catching her scent, this time the heavier, more exotic one. His whole damn body tingled; his dick began to harden. Yeah, he was glad to see her, all right. Wanted to be here, and not just because of the effect she had on his body.
With an unhurried step, she picked up the remote and clicked the video off. When she turned back toward him, she said nothing, and he realized then that she wasn’t going to push. That if he wanted to deny the strangeness that had happened, that they’d both seen some damned old-fashioned-looking transparent cowboy yelling about a real and current robbery . . . Clare wouldn’t force him into some admission of the truth. He could deny all he wanted.
But the knowledge had settled into his bones that this wasn’t about him, and for that he was incredibly grateful. This was about Clare. She’d seen stuff, and because he’d had a hand on her and some sort of small emotional connection with her, he’d been able to see the dog and the cowpoke.
Clare would let him pretend. But when her gaze met his, instead of the interesting shadows he’d seen before, now he saw a terrible, tortured loneliness. She held herself stiffly, as if expecting rejection.
He understood then that he must make a clear-cut decision whether he was going to accept her or turn away. As she had made the decision whether to accept the ghosts or not.
And that view of his life in the kaleidoscope had shifted just enough for him to admit other people might have “a little something extra.” Like Clare. Like Mrs. Flinton. Like his maternal grandmother.
Not him. Nope.
Her hazel eyes were wide. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” She glanced away; her gaze went in the direction of the television, and she turned her head away to look him in the eyes. Shrugging and shaking her head, she said, “I was quite incoherent. A real mess.”
With a wry smile she added, “You might as well know I’ve finally gone around the bend. I’ve accepted that I’ve inherited the family talent of seeing ghosts.”
Zach waited a beat or two.
“You can leave if you want. I expect nothing from you.”
That irritated him. She was giving up on him. Not fighting for him and the real sexual desire that flamed between them. Subtly he leaned forward into her personal space, his grip tightening on his cane. He could smell her better. Yeah, for sure, he wanted her.
“I think I’ll stay, if it’s all the same to you.” His voice came out rougher than he thought, but he hoped she heard the sincerity.
She swallowed, and some of the shadows receded from her gaze. “Truly?” she whispered.
“Oh, yeah.”
Then her chin lifted, her expression hardened, and determination replaced vulnerability. She drew in an audible breath. “I guess I should lay it all out then, bottom-line it.”
“You accountants do like your spreadsheets and your bottom lines,” Zach joshed.
“Apparently my relatives have passed down a . . . gift. An intuitive gift, the ability to see”—she swallowed—“to see g
hosts.”
“Uh-huh,” Zach said. He could do this. He could listen reasonably. He knew Clare was a reasonable person. He could trust her to find and explain whatever odd logic applied to this situation.
“I saw a cowboy ghost waving his hat in front of the EZ Loan. Did . . . did you?”
Zach sucked in a breath through his nose, caught her scent again. He could do this. “Maybe,” he mumbled. “When I was, ah, in contact with you.”
Her turn to say, “Uh-huh.”
Going over to the coffee table where research books were stacked, she chose a large picture book of historic Denver and flipped through the pages. She tapped the old photo of the street that now included the EZ Loan. “This is where we were.”
He walked over, stared down, wouldn’t admit to a tense gut. That was the white-gray, partly transparent building he’d seen. He recalled the sign LAND OFFICE.
A nervy smile twitched on and off her face. “I saw this building and a cowboy waving his hat, shouting that there was a robbery going on.”
Another slow inhalation, an even slower dip of his head, as he couldn’t deny her. “That’s right.”
She reached out, then curled her fingers before she touched him. He heard barking again, tensed. He’d heard a dog whenever he’d been with her, and he’d have to get used to that, hearing a ghost dog. Because the dog was attached somehow to Clare, not Zach; all about her, not him.
Clare glanced down; her fingers stroked an invisible head. She nodded and looked back up at Zach.
“You apprehended three dangerous thieves,” she said with admiration.
“Suspects,” he corrected. “Just doing my—” Zach stopped. Flinched. Felt like he’d been gut-stabbed as his past and present collided here and now with pretty Clare.
The jagged parts of his life hadn’t appeared earlier in the familiar setting of the police station. No, that place had soothed him consciously and subconsciously.
But the now very real contrast of civilian life versus cop life slammed through him. He wasn’t a deputy sheriff anymore, and like Clare and her damn ghosts, he remained in denial about that fact. Pretending that he’d accepted the issue when a huge anger raged inside him, at the unfairness of life, at destiny, at himself for being so goddamned stupid.
Easier to believe in seeing strange things than to know his old life was over. Like he’d told Mrs. Flinton that afternoon, he’d seen plenty of odd stuff in his career, damn near as unbelievable as Clare’s wavery buildings and specters and dogs. Not to mention he’d seen other people react to experiences Zach couldn’t sense. He knew of more than one cop, deputy, investigator whose hunches were solid gold. And that might include Rickman.
Yes, simpler to accept the inexplicable than to deal with his fury at his lost life.
Than to cope with the permanence of his nonfunctioning foot.
To have that out in the open between them. Here was Clare, looking as if she’d found her balance with whatever had plagued her, while he still teetered around between anger, despair, and unforgiveness. He couldn’t forgive himself or even Lauren, who’d died before her time. And wasn’t that a pisser of a thing—to hold a grudge against a dead woman?
But just telling himself to get over it didn’t do one bit of good. His heart wasn’t willing to let the ruin of his life go.
And he had to stop thinking that his life was ruined, too, another impossible matter. Nope, not open at all for much at all.
“Zach?” Clare asked softly.
Well, except maybe sex with a lovely woman.
“Yeah?”
“Are you hungry?”
Food he could appreciate, too, and talk about, too.
“Starving.”
“I have shish kebobs and potato skins on the grill.”
One side of his mouth kicked up even as his mouth watered. “Sounds great.”
“Come on through.”
“Smells good, too.” He wound with her through a pristine kitchen and out to the backyard, which had a long slab of concrete running the length of the house and an old wooden picnic table. Just beyond the door stood a simple grill that most of Zach’s male friends would sneer at. The odors were fabulous, easily making hunger his primary concern and emotion. Whew.
“Definitely done,” Clare said. She glanced at him. “Do you grill?”
He grunted. “Some. Not for a while, though. I lived in an apartment complex for the last few years; didn’t have one in the communal area and I lived on the second floor. Not much space on the balcony for a grill, and they didn’t like when you did it, either.”
“I would bet you anything that Mrs. Flinton has a grilling area,” Clare tossed over her shoulder as she went into the kitchen.
“No bet,” Zach said, though he hadn’t looked around the estate much. He’d only been there a full day—or would be once he returned. One of those points in his life when situations and events stretched out time, felt like he’d known Clare for months.
Had wanted to make love with her for months.
She gestured him to sit at the table and when he did, she set a plate with half of a huge potato and three skewers with large chunks of steak sandwiched with onions, peppers, and mushrooms in front of him. Taking the remaining two skewers and potato half, she put her dish opposite his and asked, “Lemonade? It’s good stuff.”
“Absolutely,” he replied.
A minute later she poured out two big glasses and also set out salads and joined him at the table.
They mostly concentrated on eating and talked about Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee, and Clare became animated when she retrieved her tablet computer and showed him the photos she’d taken of the house she’d be looking at the next morning. She’d received a dozen pics from her real estate agent showing the interior.
Zach chewed his last bit of steak, a little too well done for him, then asked, “How much did you say this was?”
She puffed out a breath. “Two million, four hundred fifty-six thousand; two point five million rounding up.”
“That’s some rounding.”
Her shoulders sagged and she glanced around the extremely modest backyard with a chain-link fence between her and all her neighbors. “I shouldn’t buy . . .”
“You love the house,” Zach said.
Her gaze flicked to his. “Yes, I do.”
“It’s in the country club district; no question it’s an investment.”
“That should hold its value.” With a small laugh she swiped the tablet until the back terrace showed. “A built-in grill.”
“I noticed. Six bedrooms and seven baths.”
“And only one Clare.”
“So, only one Clare, you gonna buy it?”
For an instant, her lips pressed together. “Yes. I am.” Her head tilted to a defiant angle. “Just because Great-Aunt Sandra didn’t have any children doesn’t mean I can’t plan for a family.”
Zach froze.
Clare laughed and patted his hand. “Eventually. Not looking for anything near permanent until I understand my . . . circumstances.” She left her soft fingers over his that were still curled around his knife. “Thank you for staying, Zach, I know this whole . . . all this stuff hasn’t been easy.”
He put the steak knife aside, turned his hand over, and clasped her fingers. “You’re an interesting lady. Easy is overrated.” He hesitated. “But I’m not looking for anything long term, either.”
Maybe nothing so deep, either, though he thought he might already be in deeper waters with a woman than usual.
She squeezed his hand. “We’re in the same column there.”
“In the same column?”
“Rather like being on the same page. We’ll keep things between us simple and comfortable.”
“That works for me.” Only a small pool of light from a weak bulb—bad choice security-wi
se—lit the area. But crickets chirped and a small breeze had picked up to rustle the leaves, all adding to the quiet depth of the night, the sensation of peace where he—they—could relax.
Zach studied the light and shadows of Clare’s face, thinking that if they’d had a bigger fire in the grill it might have flickered like a campfire over her Gypsy ancestry, golden tan, and when he glanced down at their hands intertwined it was like golden tan and a tinge of copper from that dollop of Native American ancestry he had. Molten heat pulsed between them, a connection that wound through him, became a thread that spiraled around his heart then went south straight to his balls to make his dick heavy, needy.
With his blood slow and thick, his gaze focused on hers. He stood, still keeping her fingers in his, and moved down the table to the house.
“The dishes—”
“Forget ’em.”
“But—”
“Tomorrow, Clare. You can leave worries until tomorrow, can’t you?”
Her brows, pretty dark brown arches, rose, her eyes rounded. “Yes,” she whispered.
He didn’t think she’d ever done that, and a little thrill that he could affect her, make her forget something essential to herself, plucked that string between them, making it vibrate inside him. He pressed her fingers and felt them tremble as if she, too, felt that connecting cord. A new experience for him he wouldn’t analyze. Go with the flow.
She opened the door and though the heat rose, it intensified the desire between them. Keeping her hand in his, he nudged her forward and their bodies touched, his groin to her ass, and he went from semi-erect to hard. He heard her breath catch in the stillness, her fingers fluttering in his. He didn’t let them go but kept walking, the pulse in his temples louder than the click of his cane. She stepped forward and the slight rub of her bottom against his fly had him biting off a groan. Though they stood in a slight stream of air, he closed the back door, locked it.
“I’m not going to sleep with you . . . yet.” Her voice was breathy.
“Just being with you is enough.” An old and often-used phrase and he meant it here and now, but, man, he wanted her in bed and on top of him. He had to block that vision from his mind, and that took more effort than expected.
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