Ghost Seer

by Robin D. Owens

  Zach jolted beside Clare.

  Still smiling, the apparition said, “I am whole enough to pass through.” Then the ghost’s head cocked. “Virginia?” He laughed. “I hear you, Virginia, don’t scold me for being late, I’m coming!” With a wide grin he dissolved into a shaft of golden light that blinded her.

  Euphoria washed through her, just like the golden light. She sighed and tension released. She had deeply affected at least one “person” with her gift, had helped. She had a new talent that she could use, and a challenge in learning how.

  She wouldn’t be a failure, wouldn’t go mad, wouldn’t die.

  When her eyes adjusted again, it was night and she heard distant sobbing. She froze. “Do you hear that?”

  “It’s Mather.”

  She looked at Zach; he seemed more relaxed, too. Well, the woo-woo part of the evening was most likely over. “Ted?” she asked.

  “Yeah. He tried to attack you, but between me and the farm owner, we restrained him.”

  “The farm owner,” she breathed.

  Zach’s arm tightened. He brought her close. “You’re cold.”

  “Yes.”

  YAY CLARE! Enzo yelled, zooming around her in circles, leaving streaks of silvery drool in the air, leaping now and then and licking her hands.

  “Yay, Clare!” Zach said, and laughed, then laughed some more as she moved from his grasp and twirled around him, mixing in a few Gypsy steps that Aunt Sandra had taught her, flinging her arms up, her head back and wanting, wanting, wanting bracelets and necklace and a headband that jingled with coins.

  She was free.

  Whole in a way she hadn’t been, ever.

  Only some of that was due to her accepting her gift, though she felt right about that. Most of her happiness was the sheer pleasure of being with Zach. A man who might deny his own sensitivities, but that was all right. Didn’t she know how hard it was to accept the weirdness in your own life? If the consequences hadn’t been so dire and fatal, she wouldn’t have accepted them herself.

  Zach would come to acceptance of his own gift, or not. She’d watch for those little odd moments of his but wouldn’t say anything. His choice. She wouldn’t push. Yet.

  But it had been a long, long time since she’d felt so happy, happy enough to be dancing as twilight smudged into dawn.

  Zach watched Clare dance. For sure he’d have to get her one of those Gypsy outfits, unless she had one tucked away he hadn’t seen.

  His smile straightened as in the distance he saw the flashing lights of a police vehicle, heard the static of the radio. His jaw clenched. That part of his life was over.

  “Come on, the authorities”—not him, not ever again—“are here. We have some explaining to do. Don’t mention the ghost.”

  She sniffed and took his free hand, linking fingers with him. “As if I would.”

  • • •

  The time with the sheriff of Goshen County and the Torrington police—Clare wasn’t sure who had jurisdiction, but they were both there—went a whole lot faster than her earlier questioning. The farm owner backed Zach up as to the murderous assault by Ted Mather on Gurey, Zach, and Clare. She’d been oblivious. Would that always be the case? She hoped not.

  Once the police in Denver got on the conference call, everything went even faster, until they were on the road again, Zach still driving, after breakfast.

  Again the trip passed without any great revelations on either of their parts, and they made excellent time.

  At the sight of the two small carriage lights on each side of her front door welcoming her home, an upsurge of pure warmth banished the last of the cold of the crazy adventure from her bones. She was home, this was home, where she was supposed to be. She understood now that she’d recognized the house.

  As she’d recognized Zach, but she’d let that knowledge curl in the back of her head and her heart for now, a cherished secret.

  He got out of the car, alternating leaning on his cane and raising his left knee high, higher than a usual gait, higher than he usually walked, since he tried to deny his disability as much as he could. He had to be even more weary than she.

  When he opened the door of the truck, she slid down smoothly and into his arms. They held each other close and she realized she’d been wrong. Her house hadn’t vanquished the cold, not by itself. Zach had, and more, now he actively provided heat . . . body to body.

  She would need that in the future, wouldn’t she?

  She’d certainly need Zach, for more than just sex, or companionship, but because of that recognition he was the right man for her. She’d find a way to keep him.

  They walked to the door holding hands.

  He used the keypad and she the key; once inside, he disarmed the security. Waiting in the hallway was Enzo.

  You did really, really good, Clare! We are proud of you!

  “We?” asked Zach.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Okay.”

  Clare, you did GOOD! Enzo shouted, and tilted his head at her, obviously wanting some acknowledgment.

  She wet her lips. “Thank you, Enzo . . . it . . . felt satisfying to help Jack . . . move on.” That was the truth. She might have a strange vocation now, but she was making a difference, and that was vital for her. She’d just never figured on doing it this way.

  Enzo looked at her with a doggie frown. You aren’t going to make me leave, are you? I want to stay!

  “No,” she said. “You don’t have to leave.” She smiled at the transparent Lab. “Looks like I have a ghost dog sidekick.”

  Enzo yipped and his butt wiggled in pleasure. Zach grunted, turning his head to look at her. “How about a lover? I don’t want to leave, either.”

  Lifting her hand to stroke his cheek, she said, “I’d like that,” she said.

  “Let’s go to bed.” His smile quirked as he bent down and brushed her forehead with a kiss, then glanced at Enzo. “Beat it, dog.”

  With a last bark, Enzo ran through the walls toward the backyard. They took the elevator up, with Zach leaning on her a bit. She liked that. She’d leaned enough on him, too.

  They could lean on each other.

  When they entered the bedroom, Zach propped his cane on a chair, took off his jacket and let it fall onto the chair, and began to unbutton his shirt, then just stopped. “What’s that?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “That thing on top of that inlaid bureau. It wasn’t there when we left.”

  “Oh. That gleam of gold on top of your dresser?”

  Zach’s gaze cut to her. “My dresser?”

  “It’s empty, for you if you want it.” At his hesitation her shoulders began to rise with tension.

  “Sounds good,” he said, casually, and limped over to the bureau. She joined him.

  “Huh.”

  With him she looked down at a gold coin, a pretty woman’s face on the front.

  Zach fingered it. “‘Twenty D’, dollars. Twenty-dollar gold piece, nice.” Then he put it back. His gaze met hers before they both stared at the antique pocket watch, surely gold, though the chain looked more like brass, with stains along it. Zach lifted the watch and turned it over, reading the inscription aloud. “Joseph Albert Slade.” Zach glanced at her. “Probably worth a pretty penny.”

  “Put the gold piece and the watch in your dresser, Zach, and come to bed,” Clare said. For once in her life, she let her clothes drop where she stood.

  “I think I’ll do that,” Zach said, holding out his hand. She took it and he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them, then smiled at her with tenderness in his eyes. “To the future and us.”

  She danced back a step or two and touched a kiss to his lips. “To the future and us.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is a work of fiction and I am a ro
mantic, so I have placed the absolute best light on the historical figure of Joseph Albert (Jack) Slade, his character, and actions and the events of his life.

  Some small discrepancies: I could not discover the exact date of the death of Jules Beni (aka Jules Reni), so I chose August 30, which falls in the general time period.

  I completely made up both the puzzle box (which was one that would have existed at the time) and the bottle (circa 1880s) and their locations.

  The coin Zach found on the dresser is an 1861 Double Eagle, Coronet Paquet reverse. There are three in existence and they are valued at about four-point-four million dollars (and the story of why there are three includes the Pony Express and the San Francisco Mint). How Clare and Zach are going to explain where the twenty-dollar gold piece came from will be a challenge.

  I did visit Virginia Dale (though in May), which is available for tours and is being rehabbed; many thanks to Sylvia Garofalo for the tour and all her information.

  Please, if you want to support the efforts to restore this building, the last original stage station in Colorado, the last station of the Overland Stage, on its original site, you can contribute here: Virginia Dale Community Club, 844 CR 43F, Virginia Dale, CO 80536, or by PayPal online here: virginia dalecommunityclub.org/howyoucanhelp.htm.

  About Cold Springs . . . I believe there were at least three places of that name; this is the one in southeastern Wyoming, near Torrington. A couple of original sources called it “Cold Spring” or “Spring Ranch.”

  It took me weeks and help from librarians in Colorado and Wyoming and many e-mails to find the exact location of Cold Springs Station. I was helped by a fellow writer friend (thanks Liz Roadifer!) and the Wyoming Library Roundup, which happened to be published at just the right time and led us to wyomingplaces.org.

  As to the place itself, I went close to Cold Springs Station, the location of which is on private property. The building and the corral no longer exist. The owner of that farm in Ghost Seer is completely fictional.

  Many, many thanks to Calvin and Isabel Hoy, who welcomed me to Tea Kettle Ranch Bed and Breakfast outside Torrington, Wyoming, a wonderful and serene place to write and see storms and meteor showers: teakettleranch.com. Thank you also for the maxim: Stay overnight at Cold Springs and you’ll be back.

  Photos of these places are online on my Pinterest page: pinterest.com/robindowens.

  As I write this, I am in the midst of revamping my moribund website, robindowens.com, but you can catch me mostly on my blog: robindowens.blogspot.com, and if you want interaction, I’m frequently on Facebook: facebook.com/robin.d.owens.73.

  Thank you to Dan Rottenberg for his definitive work, The Death of a Gunfighter: The Quest for Jack Slade, the West’s Most Elusive Legend, and his help regarding the robbery question and the Cold Spring/Cold Springs issue through e-mail. Mr. Rottenberg has an excellent website on Jack Slade here: deathofagunfighter.com.

  Also thanks to Roy Paul O’Dell and Kenneth Jessen for their biography An Ear in His Pocket: The Life of Jack Slade.

  Richard Francis Burton and Mark Twain/Samuel Clemens are beyond mortal thanks, but their works were interesting if not very helpful. Burton went off on a rant about a “Bloomer” woman at Horseshoe Creek Station instead of describing Slade. Twain’s account was entertaining though mostly a tall tale. . . . Twain wrote his brother nearly ten years later asking what Orion Clemens recalled of Slade on their trip west since Twain wanted to put Slade in Roughing It. Then Twain went with his own description instead of Orion’s memory.

  Thanks to Kevin Pharris for The Haunted Heart of Denver, a fun book that helped me with Clare’s traumatic episode and will be of use in the future.

  More thanks to the librarians at the Denver Public Library, and those of the History Colorado Center.

  And thanks to Dr. D. P. Lyle for his expert opinion that the objects of Clare’s quest would still survive and for helping me with Zach’s disability.

  Thank you, as always, to my critique groups and beta readers, especially Paula Gill for her medical help.

  Finally, there are reports that Jack Slade’s ghost just may be where he died—in Virginia City, Montana.

  As for what is coming up for Clare and Zach . . . have you ever heard the tale of the amorous miner whose bones appeared in various beds, J. Dawson Hidgepath, and the town of Buckskin Joe?

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF THE NEXT BOOK IN ROBIN D. OWENS’S GHOST SEER SERIES

  GHOST LAYER

  COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!

  DENVER, COLORADO, SECOND WEEK OF SEPTEMBER

  ZACH SLADE’S NEW cane had been delivered when he was gone, a better weapon. The hook handle could snag and yank a leg. Though, of course, it wasn’t large enough to fit around his new lover, Clare, and bring her to him for a kiss . . . or more.

  The box the cane had come in leaned against the gray rough-cut stone of the mansion where he rented the housekeeper’s suite. Sticking both old and new canes as well as the box under his left arm, he unlocked the side doors to the great house. Since he’d been shot below the knee, which severed a nerve, and his left ankle and foot didn’t flex, he lifted his knee high to simply walk into his apartment.

  Yeah, he was disabled. Had foot drop. His career as an active peace officer, his most recent job as a deputy sheriff, was over at thirty-four.

  Instead of wallowing in anger, move on to damned acceptance. He wouldn’t slip back into denial again. He’d finally gotten beyond that. Maybe.

  He let the heavy security door slam behind him. Cool air flowed over him from his apartment, and he realized how sticky he was from the long two-day drive from Montana. At least his clothes fit better. He’d finally packed on some more muscle after his weight loss due to the shooting.

  Zach tossed the box and his old cane on the empty surface of the long coffee table in front of the big brown leather couch in the living room. Then he slashed the new wooden cane through the air in some fighting moves. He was learning bartitsu, the Victorian mixed martial art that featured cane fighting.

  There’d been no bartitsu studio in Montana, where he’d testified against the parole of a serial killer he’d put away a year and a half ago.

  He held the cane in both hands, tested it . . . yeah, he could snap it if he wanted; his upper body strength had increased, what with being on crutches for three months.

  The peace of his apartment wrapped around him. It had come furnished for a man, except for the small twenty-inch TV screen. Big, long couch he could sleep—or make love—on. A couple of deep chairs, the sturdy coffee table, and a thick old rug with faded colors that must have been expensive at one time.

  A floral scent teased his nose and he saw a colorful bouquet of fresh flowers on the dark granite counter of the breakfast bar separating the Pullman kitchen from his living space. He didn’t need flowers in his apartment, but guessed both the old ladies—the housekeeper, Mrs. Magee, and the wealthy owner of the mansion, Mrs. Flinton—thought he did.

  He’d pushed the drive because he’d wanted to see Clare, even though those weeks had been the weirdest in his life. More weird than when he’d gotten shot a few months ago. That had just been stupid and devastating.

  Right now all he wanted to do was sluice off the travel grime and rest a little so he’d be in prime shape for Clare.

  After a quick rap on the door between his apartment and the rest of the mansion, Zach’s elderly landlady, Mrs. Flinton, opened the door and glided through it with her walker. She’d taken him under her wing when he’d arrived in Denver a couple of weeks ago, insisted on renting him this place at a nominal fee.

  “Zach, it’s so good you’re back,” Mrs. Flinton said.

  He grunted, then realized he wasn’t among his former cop colleagues anymore and had to actually respond. “Good to see you, too. Good to be back in Denver.” And the helluvit was, that was the truth. He’d
left the scene of his ex-job and the shooting in low-populated Plainsview City, Cottonwood County, Montana and traded it for big-city Denver, and remained okay.

  Mrs. Flinton stopped close and tilted her creased cheek as if for a kiss. So he gave her a peck. She smelled better than the flower bouquet, her perfume fresh and perky. “Have you called Clare yet?” she asked.

  He leaned against the back of the couch. “Not yet. I just got in ten minutes ago.” And the time with Clare had been so intense that week . . . then he’d been called back to Montana, and now . . . he just didn’t know.

  Scowling at him, Mrs. Flinton poked his chest with a manicured, pale pink fingernail. “Did you two talk while you were gone?”

  “We texted some,” he mumbled. Then he rubbed the back of his neck. His hair had grown longer than he’d ever kept it as a deputy sheriff. But his neck, and his fingers, and the whole rest of his body recalled intimately Clare’s fiddling with that hair, how she liked it shaggy.

  “The week with Clare before I left was pretty extreme,” Zach told the older woman. Yeah, extreme with events, and incredible sex, too . . . and startling intimacy. A whole week had passed since the end of her first case and he still hadn’t forgotten much of anything.

  His body yearned for Clare.

  Mrs. Flinton tsked and shook her head. “You’re doing the rubber band thing.”

  “Wha?”

  “Coming close together, then drawing back.”

  “It’s not only me!”

  She sniffed. “Clare needs support during these first weeks of learning her new ghost layer gift, as I know from my own experience.”

  “She’s got that damn ghost dog, Enzo, to help her,” Zach said.

  Another finger poke and a steely gaze. “That’s not the same.”

  His phone buzzed, and he welcomed it, paused when he saw Clare was calling. Mrs. Flinton noticed, too. Suppressing a sigh, that his first call with Clare after he’d returned to town would be overheard, he answered, “Zach, here.”