Ghost Seer

by Robin D. Owens

  Yesss, the ghost hissed.

  “Where’s the other?” Zach asked.

  Somewhere near Virginia Dale, Jack Slade said. Meant nothing to Zach. But Clare nodded.

  “You gave tips to Clare about the ear in the box, right?” Zach asked. “You should be able to find that other ear.”

  The shadow man grinned, appearing almost real and like someone Zach might actually be interested in having as an . . . acquaintance.

  Yes! His gaze latched on to Clare again. Now that there is a conduit to help me leave, I can sense the other ear!

  “Great,” Clare said grudgingly.

  I will go now. Thank you! He nodded gratitude and flickered out.

  Breath whooshed from Clare. She leaned on Zach. “Thank you for being here.” Facing him fully, she narrowed her eyes as she examined him.

  “An interesting puzzle. I’m in.” He kept it light, stood and drew her up; his foot dropped and he flopped it around and discreetly leaned against the arm of the couch.

  Yay! the dog said in his mind, and probably in Clare’s, again jumping around, rubbing himself like a cool breeze on Zach’s legs. When Enzo did that to Clare, she flinched, pulled the afghan around her, and stepped closer to Zach, her breasts just slightly away from his chest and her stomach close to his renewed erection.

  “What’s Virginia Dale? A what or a who?” he asked, frowning because he thought he’d heard and now had forgotten.

  “Ah,” Clare said. “Jack Slade’s headquarters he built when the Overland Stage line moved south because of Indian attacks.”

  Nope, Zach hadn’t known any of that, but he knew Slade had lived in Colorado and Wyoming before ending up in Montana. “The trail moved south. What state are we talking about? Where’s Virginia Dale?”

  “Here in Colorado. Northern Colorado about forty minutes northwest of Fort Collins. And Virginia Dale, Colorado, is not to be confused with Virginia City, Montana, where Jack died.”

  Zach nodded. “Easily within driving distance.” He gestured to the puzzle box with the ear inside that rested on the coffee table. “Sounds like he expects you to return the ears to where he cut them off.”

  Clare grimaced. “Yes.”

  “And that would be?”

  A line formed between her brows. “Um, one of the Pony Express and stage stations.” She shook her head. “Cold Springs, I think.” She sagged against him, and he wrapped his arms around her, shifting to brace himself a little more against the couch. But he smiled. Clare had forgotten about his disability, had been the first person he’d met in nearly a year who had treated him normally, and he would always treasure that.

  She felt damn good in his arms. “Factoring everything in, and leaving a bit of room, one week, max, and this should be over,” she said.

  His arms tightened even though he knew she wasn’t speaking of their . . . friendship.

  Sighing, she said, “What time is it?”

  Zach glanced at the large living room wall clock. He’d noticed the woman had a clock, sometimes more than one, in every room. “Five forty A.M. Dawn’s coming,” he said matter-of-factly. With the continuing nightmares he’d become all too aware of the time of daybreak.

  “Oh. Hardly worth going back to bed,” she said. “Would you like an omelette or cereal?”

  He grunted. He’d rather head to the bedroom with her. “Coffee would be good,” he said.

  She stepped away, took off the afghan and folded it, draped it over the back of the sofa, and smoothed the throw so it looked nice. Then she crossed to the kitchen and Zach turned his head so the light coming on didn’t blind him. Reaching for his cane, he limped back and forth through the living room to get the blood running in his foot.

  Definitely time to find a good therapeutic masseur. The sound of beans grinding came from the kitchen; he walked to the threshold to ask Clare for a recommendation, saw her still-tense back, and figured she wouldn’t have spent the money on something she’d think was an indulgence.

  Zach hunched and released his shoulders. Maybe Rickman would have names—for a massage therapist and a dojo that specialized in cane work. Zach had been lucky to take down the three idiots and knew it.

  He watched Clare move around the kitchen, and the ache to have sex with her intensified . . . more like he wanted the intimacy with her than the actual physical climax, and wasn’t that an annoying realization?

  He clumped over to the front door. It faced west, so he saw some lightening of the sky and the stars fading away, but no colorful sunrise. He wondered how hot the day would get, but not enough to turn on the local morning news.

  Stooping, he opened his duffel that he’d left there and fished out his tablet, settled himself back on the couch, and was looking at some maps of the Overland trail, the Overland Stage line, and the Pony Express when Clare walked out with a couple of good-sized mugs of steaming coffee.

  He set the tablet aside, stretched his arms and torso before he took the cup, and had to suppress a grin when her stare focused on his chest when his muscles flexed. “Thank you,” he said.

  She smiled and sat down beside him. “So how did your day go yesterday?”

  He nearly spit out coffee as he laughed. He angled his head. “Pretty damn well.”

  Barking. But he heard nothing in his mind and didn’t see any ghostly Labrador.

  Clare sipped her coffee. “Yes, mine was . . . notable, too.” She cleared her throat, looked at the open front door. “When do Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee expect you?”

  He wasn’t sure when the old ladies got up. “Breakfast is at seven thirty, even on Saturday, I guess. But they’d better not expect anything,” he said.

  Clare looked surprised, then her expression smoothed. “Ah, you don’t want people . . . concerned about your well-being?”

  “I don’t want them checking up on me.”

  “Deal,” she said shortly.

  “Didn’t really mean you,” he muttered. The morning peace had been broken, and he’d done it.

  Her pupils were dilated in the dimness; she’d turned off the kitchen light. “I promise you I won’t check up on you. But that’s a mutual thing. You don’t check up on me. Like you did yesterday.”

  “You needed it,” he said, remembering how terrible she’d looked when he’d met up with her in LoDo, trying to shrug off the recollection that he’d had to be chivvied into it by Mrs. Flinton. He felt guilty now that he’d had to be forced to help Clare. For the first time he wondered what she would have done about the robbery if he hadn’t been there.

  He sized her up, let a quiet breath out of his nose. She wasn’t the type to have walked in and tried to handle the suspects herself—unlike many of the women he’d dated before. Not reckless, this woman.

  But she frowned and looked pointedly at his cane. “This . . . relationship . . . will be based upon rules that apply to us mutually. If you get to ‘check up’ on me, I get to do the same to you.” She paused. “For instance.”

  His teeth clicked together and he ground out, “You have a point.” The excellent coffee was gone and he stood looking down at her, hearing and ignoring more barking. Bending, he lifted her chin for a hard kiss, liked the heat that zipped along his veins. Then he straightened and stared at her. “I’ll be in touch, and you keep in touch, too.” He snagged his tablet and his gaze swept over the books. “Count me in on this whole situation.”

  “Uh,” she said. Her eyes appeared a little unfocused, and that made a side of his mouth lift in smugness at her reaction to the kiss.

  He flipped a hand at her and picked up his bag. “Later.”

  • • •

  Clare showered and dressed, then perused the most comprehensive biography on Jack Slade. The killing and mutilation of Jules Beni took place at Cold Springs Station, now in Wyoming. She spent a couple of hours researching the place and couldn’t find it
. . . which made her more determined to discover the exact place, though the ghost of Jack Slade would know easily enough.

  So she’d trundle once more back to the Western History room after touring the house she was interested in. Maybe she wouldn’t like the feel of it, or Enzo would be wrong about ethereal inhabitants.

  But she loved it. Absolutely loved the place. As she walked through the small mansion it felt right.

  We resonate well with the residence’s vibrations, Enzo yipped. This will be good for us. We will live here and be happy together!

  Well, Clare hoped that sometime Enzo would move out, on, whatever. And was it foolish of her to eye the exercise room and the tiny elevator with an eye out for Zach? Not that she could see him bending his pride enough to use the thing.

  Enough bedrooms for two personal offices . . . and, down the road in her life at least, a couple of children.

  Enzo’s nails clicked up the back stairs; Arlene had seen Clare’s interest and knew her well enough to let Clare wander around without any prompting.

  The master suite upstairs had a fine view of the country club, not that they’d let an assistant-accountant-cum-ghost-seer in: smooth green lawn, lovely old trees, golf course. Clare disliked the modern master bath with granite in gray and gray painted cabinets. Her least favorite color was now gray.

  Look, look at the BIG tub! Big enough for two or three of me! Enzo thrashed around in the spa bath as if water filled the thing. Great, now there was ghost water?

  No, the bathroom furnishings would eventually have to go, but since they appeared to be new she’d live with them a few years until she couldn’t stand it anymore, much like her current house.

  One small room off the master suite on the second floor contained a massage table. That might be interesting. She stretched her arms and shoulders, felt tension in her neck.

  She’d lingered in the master suite, then descended the stairs again, hand sliding along the original carved wooden railing . . . and through a cool area.

  Enzo yipped. That is the ghost! Sandra could have seen her, but you can’t!

  “Thank heavens.” Clare still heard Arlene’s voice coming from the opposite end of the house, wheeling another deal on her phone, so Clare could answer Enzo aloud. “Will you ask her if she’ll be a bother? I love the house.” She rubbed the newel post carved in the form of a large stylized pine cone.

  She approves of you! You haven’t looked outside yet! Come here, come here, so I can show you something!

  No, she’d concentrated on the inside, didn’t care for the staged furnishings. But she had a few family antiques at her old place and a truckload of Sandra’s coming shortly.

  Clare went out the back door off the kitchen, glanced at the built-in grill setup, and thought again of Zach. Following Enzo, she crossed the fancily patterned brick patio to what must have been an early garage. Opening the door, she found a very nice room, a tiny kitchen, and doors that might be to a closet and half bath.

  Enzo raced in circles around the room. Look, look! A perfect consulting area!

  TWENTY-TWO

  SHE STIFFENED AND shuddered. “No!”

  He stopped and sat in front of her with a shocked expression, the fur over his brow ridges wiggling. But you must consult.

  “Must I?” she snapped. “And I will not talk about this right now. Not at all in the near future. Give me a little time, can’t you!”

  The doggieness began to be replaced in his eyes, and she turned and walked away, striding across the patio and back into the house.

  Arlene came toward her with a huge smile on her face, a smile that faded when she saw Clare’s expression. She swallowed and disappointment flitted across her features. “Ah, then, I’m sorry this didn’t work out—”

  Clare guessed she was berating herself for not staying with the client and letting the sale go sour.

  “No,” Clare said gently, yanking her emotions back on track, ignoring the silent presence of the dog when he strolled in. “I like this house very much, but the price is too high.”

  “Let’s see what we can do,” Arlene said.

  Clare and her real estate agent drove to a nearby restaurant and talked numbers. Since Clare wished to move in immediately, she finally decided to pay cash for the house. A huge amount of cash at a figure that caused a lump in her throat but wasn’t what the sellers were asking, so she thought she got a little deal at least. Arlene danced out of the café to push everyone around and get the closing done in three days counting today, which she thought would work. Clare figured she could get her old house ready for sale in a month.

  The end of this month approached rapidly and she’d be making a trip to southern Wyoming. Maybe. Deep in the back of Clare’s mind was the niggling thought that maybe the specter of Jack Slade might not be able to find her if she moved. Particularly if it were to a place that was nothing but vacant plain when he’d lived.

  On the other hand, the man had managed to set up stations across five hundred miles of open plains, so he was accustomed to the emptiness of the West.

  She ate the last bit of croissant, leaving a fifteen percent tip because the place was mostly self-serve, and waited for the cab outside the restaurant. She’d like living in the area, though it would be faster to get around by bicycle than walking. They said you never forgot how to ride a bike, and maybe she would learn that firsthand. She’d like one with a good-sized basket.

  As she waited, she realized she wasn’t as cold, and Enzo seemed to feel like he didn’t have to stay as close to her as he had. He hadn’t brought up the idea of consulting again.

  Still, if she tried, she could feel his location in her mind, like a chill spot in a certain direction.

  She’d accepted that she could see ghosts. Other people had that same gift. It had been described throughout history; she wasn’t alone.

  The cab drove up and she got in. Enzo caught up and galloped into the backseat with her, grinning and panting. See, see! You are better now.

  Clare had noticed that there seemed to be a lot fewer phantoms on the streets heading back into downtown.

  Mostly you will see people you can help at this time, Enzo said.

  Is a time element always involved? Clare asked, glad she’d also slipped one of Aunt Sandra’s journals into her briefcase so she could come up to speed on the rules of this new life of hers.

  The dog nodded with no hint of that huge Otherness that sometimes spoke through him. The huge, weird, strange, awesome Otherness. She wasn’t quite sure what to call it, but did want to avoid whatever it was if at all possible.

  When she left the cab at Civic Center Park, she enjoyed the simple green and yellow of the day—green trees and grass and yellow sun. All right, there was blue sky with huge white cumulus towering-castle clouds, and the gray of the flagstones, the multicolored library and the odd angles of the art museum. None of which she’d been able to appreciate much since she’d gotten onto this roller coaster of strange.

  This time when she walked through the park to the library, no ghosts pressed around her. Nobody curtseyed or tipped a hat, sauntered or strolled with her. Except Enzo. He heeled like a real dog.

  The ghost must also want to pass over, he said. Some are afraid. He sighed gustily, spraying droplets of vanishing, ectoplasmic goo all over. See, she was accepting this with so much grace she could make jokes. Ha. Ha.

  Enzo accompanied her into the library for once, and for an instant she thought he’d abandoned his doggie ways, but he ran back and forth along the long entrance hallway barking his head off. It was interesting seeing who reacted to him. The security guard in the entryway had given him a squinty-eyed look.

  Clare took the elevator to the Western History room accompanied by Enzo and nodded to the faces becoming familiar. Ted Mather smiled at her, and a bit of relief released from her. It was hard to work in a tense environment, so
she was glad he’d agreed to disagree with her.

  She zeroed in on finding Cold Springs, but despite her newfound skill with the materials, she couldn’t locate the place. When Arlene called to give her the appointment for closing on her new house, Clare decided to quit and went to a salad place near the library and art museum for lunch.

  She was finishing up her sparkling water in the courtyard when she was approached by the ghost of a little girl. Clare choked. Feeling good for a few hours had lulled her mind into forgetting her new circumstances.

  When the child, surely under ten years old, looked at Clare, her eyes were like silver fog, glints in mist.

  All right. Clare could do this. She could help the little girl . . . move on. Pass over. Walk into the light, whatever.

  You can DO this, enthused Enzo.

  Clare sat straight and smiled at the apparition, hoping she didn’t look scary.

  But the little girl bounced over to her. Not like any kind of walking. Clare swallowed. “Can I help you?” she asked softly, not moving her lips much. A lot of people had taken a break in the courtyard.

  Nodding, dark curls bobbing, the girl said, Have you seen my hoop? I need my hoop before I can go.

  Clare cleared her throat and thought of the one “rule” she knew about this whole strange mess. “Did you . . . um . . . die late in the summer one year?”

  The girl’s eyes slid in Clare’s direction. Wasn’t she supposed to ask about death? Did that bother them? She didn’t recall that it had bothered Jack Slade, though it been a while back that she’d mentioned it.

  “I’ll look for your hoop,” Clare said. She blinked and blinked again, trying to slip into that other “sight.” The girl was much more defined than anything else . . . buildings rose, wavered, vanished . . . and what happened when there was more than one set? Clare didn’t know what had been here when the girl had been here.

  I lost my hoop and my life when the moon was nearly dark, the girl said suddenly and from right beside Clare’s knee. Clare started.