Still Close to Heaven

by Maureen Child

  Still Close to Heaven

  by Maureen Child, written as Kathleen Kane

  Copyright 1997 by Maureen Child

  To my son, Jason Child, for Little League summers and terrifying driving lessons, for first dates and first loves, for long hair and goatees, for Monty Python and Reel Big Fish, for bear hugs and, most especially, the laughter. Being your mother has always been an E-ticket ride, and through it all, there’s been my pride in you. I love you.

  Chapter One

  PINE RIDGE, WASHINGTON TERRITORY, 1865

  For one taste of whiskey, he'd even be willing to die again.

  But if he did that, Jackson Tate told himself, he'd be in the same fix he was in now.

  Being dead sure wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Scowling, Jackson stomped around the crowded saloon.

  He walked through the card tables, marched through the out-of-tune piano and finally stopped at the bar. There, he dropped one arm around Dolly, a fire-headed female with a body bold enough to make a grown man cry. She didn’t feel his presence, even when his fingertips stroked her magnificent bosom.

  "Should have listened closer when the preachers warned me about Hell and eternal suffering," he muttered.

  Then again, even if he'd paid attention during those mind-numbing Sunday sermons, he wouldn't have been prepared for this miserable afterlife.

  He snorted a choked laugh and pretended to lean one elbow on the bar top. Who would have thought his Biblethumping mother was right about a saloon being the gateway to Hell? Nearly right, he amended. As it turned out, this tumbledown saloon in Washington Territory hadn't been a gateway to anywhere.

  This was Hell.

  "Not quite," a voice said from somewhere close by.

  Jackson spun around, raking his sharp-eyed gaze over every corner of the saloon he'd come to know so well in the last few months.

  "Who's talking?" he demanded, but he really didn't expect an answer. After three months of talking to himself, was it really so surprising that he had finally started arguing with himself, too?

  "My name is," the voice went on, "or rather was, Lesley Smythe-White."

  The saloon's half doors crashed inward, and every head in the place turned to stare at… emptiness.

  "What the hell was that?" someone muttered.

  "Just the wind is all," another voice said.

  "I didn't feel no wind," the first man countered.

  Slowly the cluster of people returned to their business, obviously willing to ignore the unexplainable. Jackson, though, stared warily at the being taking shape in the slice of sunlight spearing through the open doorway.

  The first person to speak to him directly since the day he'd died had a slight build and a long, angular face, crowned by a beak of a nose that arched higher than a cat's back and curved under at the tip. Her lips were full and twisted into a grimace of distaste. She had curly, white hair that lay like sausages above her ears and she wore funny looking, gaudy knee britches with a matching jacket of pale yellow silk. Jackson's eyebrows lifted as he noticed her shoes with shining silver buckles and too high heels. Her face and wrists were framed with yards of lace.

  For all of her fancy gewgaws, she was the ugliest female Jackson had ever seen.

  Then the stranger started moving toward him. Like Jackson, she passed directly through the card tables and the gamblers hunched over their hands. Unlike Jackson, as this strange being crossed the room, cards fluttered off the tables and the sawdust-covered floor shifted in her wake.

  A pang of uneasiness began to uncurl in Jackson's belly.

  As usual, he fought down his own nervousness with a burst of temper. "Who the hell are you, lady?"

  Pale green eyes widened, then narrowed into slits. The being tilted her head back until a sharp, contempt-filled gaze was directed along the length of that formidable nose.

  "I am not a female."

  Jackson's eyebrows shot up again. "Are you sure?"

  The nose quivered. "Of course, I'm sure. Oh, I knew this was a mistake."

  "What?" Jackson asked as he drew his head back to study the newcomer. Now that he knew what he was looking at, he realized it was a man. A mighty small, peculiar man. But a man nonetheless.

  The smaller man tugged a lace-edged handkerchief from one of his cuffs and dabbed at his nose. Jackson thought the smidgen of fabric was sadly inadequate for the task.

  Rather than answering the question, the smaller man sighed heavily and walked a slow circle around Jackson. When he'd completed his route and was once again looking disdainfully at him, he asked, "Haven't you given the slightest amount of thought as to why you have been trapped in this abysmal place?"

  Tipping his hat back farther on his head, Jackson stared down at the fellow. Maybe having somebody to talk to wasn't such a good thing after all.

  "Sure I did," he said. "At first. Then I just figured this here was Hell and I might as well get used to it."

  "Amazing."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" He had a feeling he'd just been insulted.

  "Nothing." The white-wigged head shook slowly. Then, muttering to himself, he added, "It's hopeless. Didn't I warn them? Didn't I say that it was pointless?"

  "Mister," Jackson said, straightening up to his full imposing height of six feet-three inches. "I may be dead, but that doesn't mean I have to stand here and listen to you."

  "Of course it does. Where can you go?"

  Hmm. The little fella had a point. Off and on for the last three months, Jackson had tried to leave the saloon where he had died in a crooked card game. At first, he'd simply headed through the front door, only to be stopped by a wall of icy cold. He'd been able to see through it, hear through it, hell, once or twice, he'd even thought he could smell the outside air through it. But he hadn't been able to push so much as one finger past that invisible barrier.

  Later, he had tried all of the windows with the same result. He had gone into the cellar, but the ice had blocked the tiny windows below, too. Same for the roof. No, he was caught, plain and simple. Like a rat in a trap.

  "All right," he snapped. "Say your piece and move on."

  The little man sighed. "Fine. It's time for you to begin earning your way out of this…" he glanced around at his surroundings. "Salon."

  "Saloon." Jackson corrected.

  He shuddered. "Of course."

  "You mean there's a way I can get out of here?"

  "Naturally. If there weren't, don't you suppose there would be more than just your ghost haunting this disreputable establishment?"

  Ghost?

  Jackson took a step back. Reaching up, he rubbed one hand across the back of his neck and swallowed heavily.

  Jesus.

  He was a ghost. A haunt.

  A spook.

  Oh, he'd accepted the fact that he was dead. But, somehow, discovering that he was a ghost took a bit more getting used to.

  Why the hell did these things always happen to him?

  "Mister Tate," the man said impatiently. "Are you ready to listen to me or not?"

  "Uh, yeah. Sure thing, little fella."

  He winced. "You may address me as Lesley."

  "Lesley. Isn't that a woman's name?"

  The smaller man ignored him. "Your assignment is a simple one."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "I rather thought you might be."

  He frowned. Another insult? The way the fella talked, it was hard to tell.

  "There is a girl—"

  Jackson brightened.

  Lesley scowled. "A child," he corrected and reached into his silk coat. He pulled out a small tablet and checked something written there. Glancing up, he continued. "She's lost. Alone. Ten years old."

  "A kid?" Hell. He'd neve
r liked kids much.

  "Her family was killed in a wagon accident," Lesley said. "She's miles from safety and will not survive without intervention."

  Hard to feel sorry for some unknown kid when he had plenty of problems of his own. "So?"

  Lesley snapped his notebook closed and tucked it away again. "So, Mister Tate, it is your assignment to take this child to a safe harbor. She must survive."

  "How do I help her if I can't get the hell out of this saloon?"

  "You will be permitted to leave."

  "For good?"

  "That will be decided at a later time."

  It wasn't as if he had a choice, he told himself. After three months in the same damn building, he was willing to do whatever was necessary to get out. But first, he had a question or two of his own.

  "What happens to me after I get this kid taken care of?" he asked. "Do I go to Heaven?"

  Lesley choked.

  "Hell?" A little worried now, Jackson waited. Frankly, he’d never really been interested in the preachers' idea of Heaven. Wearing white robes and playing golden harps all day didn't sound like his idea of a good time. On the other hand, he didn't relish the notion of spending eternity with the smell of sulphur and brimstone in his nose, either.

  "Frankly, Mister Tate," Lesley said at last, "you’re neither good enough for Heaven nor bad enough for Hell."

  "So where does that leave me?"

  "With countless others like yourself."

  Well, that didn't tell him a damn thing.

  "Are you willing to begin your first assignment?"

  He'd already figured out that he was in no position to argue. "All right, I’ll do it."

  Lesley nodded abruptly. "See that there are no mistakes," he said. "Oh, and once she's safe, remember to wipe her memory of you."

  "How do I do that?" This damned assignment was getting more complicated every minute.

  "Just think about what you want done, and it will be done."

  "If it's that easy, why don't I just think her to safety?"

  Lesley sighed.

  "All right, all right. It was just an idea."

  "You had best get busy. Mister Tate," Lesley told him just before vanishing.

  "Hey, wait a minute," Jackson shouted to thin air. "Where is this kid? How do I find her?"

  In an instant, he found himself standing at the bottom of a ravine. He felt the rocky ground beneath his boots. Felt the cool sweetness of a breeze as it brushed across him. Stunned, he held his breath.

  His breath.

  Jackson grinned, bent down, and snatched up a clump of spring grass. He worked it around in his fingers, delighting in the fact that he could once again touch. Feel. He wasn't sure why this was happening. Or how long it would last.

  But he sure as hell intended to make the most of it. Dropping the handful of grass to the dirt, he glanced around, trying to figure out exactly where he was.

  Steep canyon walls rose on either side of him. The jagged stone bluffs looked as though they’d been clawed from the earth by impatient fingers. Green dotted the surface of the ridge where clumps of brush lay clinging to the rocks like survivors off a sinking ship. Brilliant sunlight danced on the rippling water in a nearby creek and overhead, a hawk, startled by his sudden presence, streaked upward.

  Jesus. Who would have thought he'd ever be so glad to get out of a saloon?

  "Are you my angel?" a soft, wavering voice asked. He stiffened, then turned around slowly.

  Twenty feet away, a small blond girl knelt beside the broken, twisted remains of a wagon. Her face was dirty, bits of grass dolled her long, honey-colored braids, and her faded red dress was torn. But it was the bruised look in her sky blue eyes that touched him. He’d never had much use for kids, but dammit, no child should have to have eyes as old and tired as this girl's.

  "I prayed and prayed for an angel to come and help me," she said, a bit louder than before. "Are you him? Are you my angel?"

  A flicker of shame swept through him, and he wanted to look away from those blue eyes. He didn’t want to have to tell the girl that the Heaven she'd been praying to hadn’t sent her an angel — only a carpenter and part-time cowhand too dumb to spot a cheat without getting himself killed.

  Then again, he told himself, she didn't have to know who he was. Just who he wasn't.

  "I'm no angel, kid," Jackson replied. "But I am here to help you."

  One corner of her mouth threatened to lift in a half smile, then quit before getting started. "Thank you," she whispered, then fainted clean away.

  #

  He stirred the fire and watched as sparks drifted upward to be swallowed in the surrounding darkness. Setting the battered tin coffeepot on a rock close to the flames, Jackson sat down in the dirt, drew his knees up, and wrapped his arms around them. He stared across the fire at the sleeping girl, then shifted his gaze to the encroaching night.

  The kid had been asleep for hours. Long enough for him to bury her folks and rummage around in what was left of their outfit for supplies. Naturally, he had tried to find their horses first. But when the trace broke, allowing the wagon to smash over the cliff, the dumb animals must have just kept running. No telling where they were now.

  But, with the bacon, flour, and coffee he'd pulled from the wreckage, they had more than enough to last them on the two day walk to the town of Stillwater.

  How the hell he knew where to take her — and just how far away the place was — was a mystery to him. Just as it was odd how the girl had managed to survive a wreck that had killed the rest of her family. But then, most of this ghost business was a puzzle.

  "You're still here."

  His gaze shot to hers. "I'm not going anywhere just yet," he said.

  He didn't look happy about that, Rachel thought and pushed herself into a sitting position. As she moved a bit closer to the fire, she said softly, "What's your name, Mister Angel?"

  He frowned at her and reached for the coffeepot. "I told you kid, I'm no angel."

  "My name's Rachel Morgan."

  "Jackson Tate."

  She watched him pour a cup of thick, black coffee. The familiar scent was comforting, and she inhaled deeply. Just two days ago her parents had been drinking coffee and talking about the land they would claim outside Seattle. In her memory, she could hear her younger sister, Mattie, whining as their mother pulled a comb through her long curls. Rachel remembered holding her baby brother on her lap and wishing that she didn't have to because he always wet himself and she was wearing her best dress.

  She ducked her head and blinked away a sheen of tears. What she wouldn't give right now to be holding little Robbie. But he was gone. Along with her parents and her sister Mattie.

  Everyone had gone to Heaven without her.

  They'd left her alone. And she didn't like alone. It was too quiet. The nighttime was too dark.

  "You all right, kid?"

  She lifted her head and looked at the man opposite her. He said he wasn't an angel, but she knew he was. Mama had always told her that angels were beautiful and strong and kind. She'd said that if you really needed help and prayed very, very hard, an angel would come to your aid.

  And Jackson Tate was all of that.

  His long black hair curled around his shirt collar, and his shiny green eyes sparkled with light cast from the fire. He didn't smile much, but he was very pretty. Strong, too. She hadn't really been asleep when he had buried her family. She'd only pretended to be because she hadn't wanted to watch them all go into the ground. But through slitted eyes she had watched Jackson lift her family from the wagon bed one by one. And he had carried her father as easily as he had little Robbie.

  Strong and beautiful. And he'd come to her when she'd prayed for help. The only thing left to be was kind.

  She fingered the blanket he’d draped over her as she'd slept. That had been kind, hadn't it?

  "Kid?" He leaned toward her, his nice green eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at her. "You all right?"

&nbs
p; "Yessir," she said softly.

  "You don't have to ’sir,' me."

  "Yes, Mister Angel."

  He inhaled sharply and blew it out with a rush. Then he reached up and tipped his hat brim low over his eyes. "I told you, I'm no angel. You just… call me Jackson, huh?"

  "Yes, Jackson." She liked the sound of his name. She liked the feel of it as it rolled around her tongue. "Jackson?" She smiled.

  "Yeah?"

  "What’s going to happen to me now?" Her fingers plucked at a loose thread.

  He took a long sip of coffee, then grimaced and spit it out into the dirt. Staring at the cup as though he'd just been poisoned, he deliberately poured the remains of the coffee into the fire. The flames hissed and spat at him, then conquered the thin stream of liquid to blaze even brighter.

  "My coffee still stinks," he muttered.

  "I'll make it for you in the morning," she offered.

  One dark eyebrow lifted.

  "I used to make it for my pa all the time. He said I made better coffee even than my mama did."

  He rubbed his jaw and cocked his head to look at her thoughtfully. "Can you cook, too?"

  Pleased and proud that she could be of help to the beautiful angel who had saved her, Rachel came up on both knees and nodded vigorously. "Mama taught me. I can make biscuits and bacon and potatoes and stew and all kinds of things."

  "Hmmm…"

  "You'll see, Mister Ang — Jackson. You'll be happy to have me around. I can sew, too." Her sharp gaze raked over him in an instant. "I bet I can find a button in mama's things that would replace that missing one on your shirt."

  Jackson shifted uneasily. "Look, kid. You don't have to do all that. Just the coffee. And may be breakfast, if you want to."

  "Oh, I do. Honest." Her hands clasped together in her lap, and her fingers squeezed tightly. She would show her angel just how grateful she was. She would prove to him how useful she could be. Then, may be, he wouldn't leave her.

  Somewhere deep inside her, Rachel knew that she didn't want to be alone again. But it was more than that. She wanted to be with the angel who had appeared out of nowhere to rescue her.

  "You better get some sleep now, kid. We got a long walk, starting tomorrow."

  "To where?"

  "A place called Stillwater," he said gruffly and stretched out on the dirt. Flat on his back, he crossed his feet at the ankles, tipped his hat down over his eyes, and folded his hands over his chest. "Now go to sleep."