A quickly stifled ripple of laughter circled the room as Jenni slowly raised her head from the paper she had been grading.
For this, I gave up graduate school.
Being a substitute, even for one day, would have been hard in this school. But taking this job for the duration of the school year, after the permanent teacher quit at Christmas, had been insane. That a teacher would leave halfway through the school year with no explanation given should have been Jenni’s first clue, she told herself. Now, she understood. Completely. Her gaze swept the classroom, lighting on the usual suspects in the back row.
How could she ever have expected to somehow make a difference in these students’ lives? She must have been out of her mind, literally.
The four boys sat watching her, smirking. She had let so much go; now, it was coming back to bite her on the—
She stood up, moving her chair back across the plush navy and maroon carpeting—the school colors. Pretentious enough, as was everything else about this place. Wentworth Academy was a private school, boasting the best. No cost was spared in purchasing supplies, facilities, or salaries. The little darlings of Oklahoma City’s elite society must be treated with kid gloves, even here. Oil was still king, and paid her salary. She mustn’t forget that.
Jenni’s lips thinned. She resented being here. She resented the fact that she couldn’t go back to graduate school next year unless she worked for the remainder of the term, and found something during the summer as well. She would scrimp and save every dime, trying to afford graduate college so that she could...what? End up teaching at a “prestigious” school like this forever?
“Mr. Silvanos, Mr. Dennis, Mr. Todd, and Mr. Leighton.” She rested her gaze on each in turn as she said his name.
“Yeah, Jenni.” Kip Silvanos stretched long legs under the table where he sat, clasping his hands behind his head. “What can we do for you?” At only sixteen, he looked almost as old as Jenni’s twenty-three years. His muscular frame and dark good looks that hinted at his Greek lineage made him the most popular boy at Wentworth Academy—and one of the most troublesome. Looking very much like his banker father, he never glanced right or left for support from the others.
“First of all, Kipling, you will show some respect for me as your teacher.”
His lazy grin widened. A couple of the other boys had the audacity to laugh aloud. Still, Kip didn’t take his ebony eyes from her. “Respect my...elders, Miss Dalton? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”
Jenni’s mouth tightened for a moment. “I’m not asking you to do anything, Mr. Silvanos. I’m telling you that you will address me properly.”
“Oh, he doesn’t respond well to threats, Jenni,” Cash Leighton practically crowed. His eyes gleamed with challenge. He glanced at Kip, obviously looking for approval.
Jenni walked slowly toward the back row, feeling as if she were walking into hell. She came to a stop and put her hands on the table, leaning toward Kip, her eyes arresting his unfalteringly. “Well, Cassius...” she let Cash’s full name roll off her tongue knowing how he despised it, but didn’t take her eyes from Kip as she spoke. She let it hang in the air a moment before continuing, and was rewarded by a humiliating titter of giggles from the front row. “He may not respond well to threats, but I do hold the hammer—” she flicked a glance at the sullen Cash, who regarded her balefully, “—for all of you.” She returned her determined gaze to Kip Silvanos. “You’re walking a fine line in my class, Kipling.”
The class was completely silent as Jenni and Kip stared at one another.
“One more—incident—out of you, Mr. Silvanos, and I will see to it that your borderline grade doesn’t quite make it to a C. Here at Wentworth, as I’m sure you are well aware, you don’t pass with a D. My history class is required. You don’t pass, you don’t graduate next year with the rest of your—” She let her gaze sweep around the table. “Friends. So, Mr. Silvanos, what you need to do is be respectful and turn your work in on time for the next seven weeks. Then, you can go about your merry way—and I’ll go about mine.” And hopefully we’ll never have to see each other again.
She pivoted, heart pounding, trying to appear calm as she walked back to the front of the class. Thank God, the period was almost over, the last of the day. Then she could go home, get out of this place.
“Chapter Nineteen.” Jenni was relieved to hear a steadiness in her voice she hadn’t expected. She pushed back a strand of her auburn hair. “Page two-eighty-nine. Cattle trails and territorial divisions of the lands west of the Mississippi after 1830.” She looked up, past the first row of giggling girls, past the second row of a mix of bookish students, to the third row. The back row. The group of four troublemakers who sat eyeing her in stony silence.
“Lance, would you read for us, please?”
~*~
“Oh, Miss Dalton.”
Jenni turned from where she stood, poised to open the door—the door to the parking lot and freedom. The Headmaster, Dr. Peters, hurried down the hallway toward her. She pasted a smile on her lips, letting go of the door with reluctance. “Hello, Dr. Peters.”
The thin, balding man gave her a brief smile. “Miss Dalton. I was wondering if I might impose upon you—well, you see, Mr. Sanders had to leave earlier. He was ill, and—”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, well, being the second Tuesday of the month, tonight is the Science Club meeting.”
“I’ll be glad to call the members and cancel, if you’ll give me a list of the names—”
Dr. Peters laughed shortly. “Oh, no, Miss Dalton. That isn’t how we do things at Wentworth Academy. We never like to—cancel.” He said the word as if he were spitting out something foul-tasting.
He gave her a benevolent, practiced smile. “You’ll be attending the meeting in his stead. It seems that they’ll be observing a comet tonight. It’s a natural phenomenon that occurs only once every one hundred-twenty years, according to Mr. Sanders. It’s known as Brinkley’s Comet—not as well-known as Haley’s, though of the same variety, and something they won’t want to miss.” He thrust a manila envelope into her hands. “Here’s all the information you’ll need.”
Jenni turned the envelope over as he started to walk away. She read Steve Sanders’ bold black script in disbelief. “Dr. Peters! Wait!”
“Yes?”
“This says the meeting time is 2:00 a.m.—”
“And?”
“Is that—right?”
Dr. Peters gave her a thin, brittle smile that was barely polite. “You didn’t expect the comet to appear at your convenience, did you, Miss Dalton?”
“Well, no, but...2:00 a.m., it’s just—” she shrugged, not knowing what else to say.
“I believe the meeting place has been changed,” he murmured coolly. “There’s a field just outside of town. The directions are inside the envelope.”
She felt her cheeks blanch. The middle of the night in a vacant field.
“I trust you’ll be there, Miss Dalton, hmmm?”
She nodded numbly, already feeling like the biggest fool alive for getting roped into this. She pushed the door open, her steps felt leaden as she headed for the parking lot. She needed to get home, make dinner, and sleep for a few hours. Then, she thought bitterly, she’d “prepare” herself for viewing the comet with the members of Wentworth Academy’s Science Club.
Tomorrow, she’d let Steve Sanders know just how much he owed her—if she could manage to stay awake.
CHAPTER 3
Rafe d’Angelico rolled away from the insistent sharp nudge of a boot toe against his calf. He moved his arm from across his eyes. Daylight assailed him. A blue jay chattered in the branches of the elm tree above where he’d been sleeping, accompanied by the steady tripping of water over rock in the nearby creek. The smell of wild honeysuckle permeated the air.
“Okay.” He leveraged himself up on an elbow. “Cris, I’m ’wake—” As he said his brother’s name, he realized, Cris is d
ead. And so am I.
He whirled, grabbing for his gun and coming up empty. It wasn’t there. Anywhere.
The owner of the steel-toed boot stood eyeing him with a knowing grin, as if watching him realize he was dead was entertaining.
“Where is it? My gun?”
The man’s sharp blue eyes never strayed from Rafe. He held the reins to two of the most perfect pieces of horseflesh Rafe had ever seen. The horses seemed to be just as patient as the stranger, who took his time about answering. “Well, in all my years of doing this job, that’s a first. Most people ask, ‘Who are you?’ or ‘Where am I?’ But not you, Rafael.” He took a step toward Rafe and put his hand out in silent offering. Rafe reached for it warily and pulled himself up.
As he came to his feet, his left knee creaked and his back ached, as if he’d slept in the same position all night long...maybe longer. Years longer. He put a hand to the small of his spine and massaged it. But he didn’t look away. Finally, he said, “Who the hell are you, and where the hell am I?”
The other man grinned, his eyes crinkling in genuine amusement. His skin was the ruddy color of fairness baked and burned over countless scorching summer days of riding the range.
“I’m Becket Jansen.” He put his hand out again and Rafe shook it.
“Rafe d’Angelico. But then, you already—”
“Nice to know you, Rafe.” Jansen’s grin said he already knew a whole lot more than Rafael d’Angelico’s name. “As to where you are—” he looked around the clearing, then back at Rafe. “You’re somewhere in the middle of Indian Territory—right now.”
“I’m dead,” Rafe said flatly. After a minute, he muttered, “‘Right now,’ you said. How long has it been since—that night?” Remembering pissed him off all over again. Damn Josiah Kemp—
Well, there was certainly nothing wrong with his memory. When he thought of the way he and Cristian had both trusted Kemp and where that had led, it made him sick. The feeling of helplessness was revolting. He should’ve done something—but what?
Dead, he and Cris both, because of Kemp and his greed. His palms tingled with the unrequited desire to choke Kemp’s breath from his body—nothing so quick and clean as a bullet for him. He’d like to take his time, kill Kemp slow.
“Now, that’s the wrong way to think, Rafe.” Becket’s gaze wandered to a nearby pine tree where two squirrels chased and chattered.
Rafe gave a caustic snort. “You tellin’ me I’m not dead?”
“No. That’s not what I’m talkin’ about. You’re dead, all right. Ain’t nothin’ can change that—or almost nothin’ anyways. And it’s been sixteen years now, since it happened.” He cocked his head to one side. “But no, I was talkin’ about Josiah Kemp.”
Rafe felt his eyes narrow. “You a mind reader?”
“No. Lordy, no. Not like you’re thinkin’ of.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Rafe’s words were sharper than he intended. He’d never find out what he needed to know if he pissed off this “Mr. Jansen.” And sixteen years! A long time to be dead. No wonder his back felt kinked.
Jansen smiled. “Call me ‘Beck,’ Rafe. I haven’t been ‘Mr. Jansen’ to anyone for a good long while now, son.” He winked. “An’ don’t worry about findin’ out what you need to know. You can’t piss me off enough so’s I won’t tell you. That’s...my job.”
“What’s your job?” Rafe demanded. This man seemed to hold all the answers to his questions, yet, he talked in circles.
For a moment, Beck looked uncomfortable. Then he said, “Oh, here’s your gun.” Turning, he picked up a leather gunbelt and a Colt .45, handing them to Rafe.
Well, this is a damn sight better! Rafe strapped the gunbelt on and slipped the revolver into the leather holster. It felt good, right. Fleetingly, he wondered what had become of his own gun, a Bass .44 he’d been partial to. The one Kemp killed him with.
“It wound up in a museum in Montana,” Beck muttered.
“Montana!” Rafe’s gaze swung up and connected with Beck’s as he buckled the belt. “Hey. You’re doin’ it again.”
“Sorry.” Beck said. “Just thought you’d want to know.”
“Well, I did, but...you really are a mind reader—or something else.” Rafe raked his hand through his straight, dark hair in frustration.
“Yeah,” Beck agreed. “Somethin’ else.” He led a big palomino gelding over to where Rafe stood, and handed him the reins.
Rafe had so many questions he wanted to ask, but the one he wanted to know the most sprang to his lips before he even realized it. “Where’s my brother?” Absently, he patted the palomino’s shiny coat.
Beck’s expression became shuttered. His lips compressed for a moment, then he said, “Rafe—I can’t tell you that. I’ll tell you anything I can—anything I know, if it’s permitted.” He turned away and walked back to where the other horse, a big black, stood, then studiously gathered the reins.
Rafe’s eyes widened for a moment. He stared at Beck in disbelief.
“If it’s permitted? If it’s permitted! Cris is my brother! How can it not be ‘permitted’ for me to know...where he is?”
Beck regarded him levelly. “Cris was your brother. At some point, maybe—” he broke off and shrugged. “It’s not for me to say.” He swung up into the black’s saddle, waiting for Rafe to do the same.
“It’s all I want to know,” Rafe stubbornly maintained.
Beck shook his head regretfully. “Rafe, you’re gonna come up with a helluva lot more questions than that one before this day is over.”
~*~
As they rode across the flat terrain, Rafe had to admit once again that his odd companion had been right. There were a helluva lot of questions that he found himself wondering.
What was he doing ”alive” again? Where were they headed? But he kept the words from taking shape vocally. He resented the hell out of Becket Jansen the longer they rode.
He didn’t even like the fact that he was here at all, riding across the wild-flowered, grassy plains of the rough country he’d loved so much—before. If he was here, there must be a reason. Somebody wanted something. He shook his head at his own musings and tried to push away the next thought. Wonder what it is? And why now? Sixteen years later...
He saw Beck turn in the saddle and look at him narrowly, then glance away again.
Damn you and your mind-reading!
Beck looked at him again, a puzzled expression on his weathered face. “Why does that make you mad?” he drawled.
Rafe thought he heard a hint of Tennessee in that accent. Beck drew rein and Rafe did the same, coming abreast of him. “You know everything,” Rafe answered in a surly tone. “Guess you oughtta know why it makes me mad.”
“Well, way I got it figgered is this.” Beck spat in the dirt. “It’s not me knowin’ what you’re thinkin’ so much as it is that I can’t tell you about Cris. That’s what’s got you riled. The second thing is, you bein’ too dang proud to ask anything else you want to know ’cause I can’t answer one question. Am I right?”
Rafe looked away from Beck’s intense cobalt stare. “Yeah,” he answered after a moment. “Guess that’s about the size of it.” Habla Espanol?
Beck gave a short laugh. “Si,” he answered aloud to Rafe’s unspoken question. “Them little mind tricks don’t work. Any language you can think in, I can.” He shook his head good-naturedly. “Now, I may not speak it quite as pretty as you do, Rafe, since that was your first language, but I do well enough.”
The breeze sent the grass shimmering in waves across the prairie, and Rafe’s eyes followed the movement. Beck waited expectantly.
“Why?” Rafe asked quietly. “Why am I here? I’m already dead. Now, I’m back. Means somebody wants something.” He turned in the saddle to look at Beck. “I can’t think of a damn thing I can do that’d be important enough to cause me to have another chance at life.”
Beck shook his head and rubbed his scalp behind his ear, setting
his hat ajar. “Well, no. There ain’t much can cause–that. You know, you’re not really alive.” He waited for Rafe’s reaction.
Rafe kept the poker face he’d perfected when he was alive. Then, he realized it didn’t matter. Becket Jansen could read every thought he had—and do it in any language. He dropped his gaze and muttered a curse.
“What am I, then, Beck? Huh? A ghost? A man? A demon?” His voice rose to a yell that echoed across the vast open spaces under the late afternoon sky. “Hell, I don’t even know which side wants me!”
“Both.” Beck’s blue gaze didn’t falter. “Hell hasn’t forgotten how strong you were, even as a twelve-year-old boy, Rafe. Killing that so-called priest to save your brother...well, they’ll never let that go. Or forgive it.” He nodded slowly. “He was one of theirs. Important, and strong.”
Rafe sat ramrod stiff, unmoving, unable to keep the shock from his expression. Anything else he might have wanted to say never made it past his lips. At last, he raised a hand and passed it over his face. Before he could ask anything more, Beck continued.
“Just remember, sometimes things ain’t what they appear to be.” He cocked his head. “Course, I guess you’d know that better’n anybody—you and Cris. You’ve both learned some hard lessons. That priest—Father Ignatius,” Beck fairly spat the name, then continued in a milder tone, “and then, Kemp.” He shook his head in disgust. “Josiah Kemp. He thought he was so smart.”
“Well, he got what he wanted,” Rafe said harshly. Being dead had done nothing to dull the feeling of stupidity at being duped by Josiah Kemp.
“Temporarily.” Beck kneed his horse, and they moved through the tall grass.
“What does that mean? We died. He lived.”
Beck chuckled. “Yeah. He outlived you by five whole minutes. Not even long enough to lay a hand on that gold in car four. Now, does that make you feel better?”
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