Still Close to Heaven

by Maureen Child

  Dammit, how was he ever going to cut himself free of this haunting business if people were forever holding his mistakes up to him?

  Lesley sighed heavily. "Rachel should be married by now."

  "So she's not hitched. Lots of people don’t get married."

  "Rachel is supposed to give birth to four children."

  Jackson risked a glance at the other man. "Then marriage would be a good idea."

  "This is not a joking matter. It is imperative that she marry and become a mother."

  "Back to kids again."

  "One of Rachel's children is destined to become Washington's first female doctor. That child must be born."

  "A woman? Becoming a doctor?"

  Lesley ignored him. "You are to return to Stillwater and find a way to repair the damage you've caused."

  "Why is this my fault?" At a glance from Lesley, he admitted, "All right, fine, I didn't wipe her memory. But just because she hasn't trapped some poor fool into marrying her — that doesn't make this mess my fault."

  "Of course it's your fault." Lesley snapped. "She is laboring under the misapprehension that there is one special someone for everyone."

  "So?"

  Lesley's eyes shimmered with an unearthly tire. "So, for some unfathomable reason, Rachel Morgan believes you to be her destined soul mate."

  Jackson took a quick step back, as if distancing himself from the man would do the same for the man's idea. "Why would she think something so foolish?" he muttered.

  "Sadly, even when I was alive, I didn't understand the female heart," Lesley acknowledged. "In the afterlife, I have found no insights, either."

  Jackson started pacing again, his brain galloping ahead like a horse with its tail on fire. "Suppose you just send the man who really is her match to her. Then she';; forget all about me."

  "There is no such thing," Lesley snapped, clearly out of patience. "If there were truly one man meant for one woman, can you imagine the problems it would cause?"

  "Well, no."

  "I don't have the time to explain it to you." He slipped his fingers into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out the notebook Jackson had become all too familiar with over the years. Flipping it open, he ran the tip of one finger down a single page, then looked up at Jackson again.

  "As I feared, Rachel's first daughter is scheduled to arrive early next spring."

  "How's that gonna happen without a man?"

  "Precisely."

  "Oh."

  Lesley shuddered delicately. "That doesn't bear thinking about."

  Jackson winced, then braced himself. Lifting his chin, he asked, "It doesn't matter who she marries?"

  The other man checked his notes again and frowned.

  "That is unclear for some reason. But this is an emergency. Get that woman married. I don't care to whom. Her daughter must be born."

  "Seems like a lot of fuss over a female doctor. It's not like she’d have any men for patients."

  "That is not your concern, Mister Tate." Lesley stuffed the notebook back into his coat and tugged at the yellow silk lapels officiously. "Your duty is to simply follow instructions."

  Though the thought of being alive again — for six whole weeks — was a pleasant one, Jackson had to know something else, too. "If I pull this off, get her married, I mean?"

  "Yesss…"

  "Will I finally be able to get out of this town?"

  "I don't know. I don't make those decisions."

  "Who the hell does?"

  Lesley flinched. "Someone who is not in the least impressed by profanity, I assure you."

  Hmmm. Maybe he had a point. Lowering his voice, in case there were others listening in on this conversation, Jackson said, "Look Les, Lesley," he corrected at a glare from the other man, "it ain't that I'm complaining, mind you, but this not really alive and not really dead thing is beginning to wear on me."

  "I can imagine."

  "I just want a decision," Jackson said firmly. "One way or the other. Up or…" He looked toward the ground. "Not up. Anything would be better than this ghost business."

  Lesley looked at him long and hard before nodding. "I'll see what I can do."

  Jackson brightened.

  "But you must succeed at this if you want any hope at all of ending your present existence."

  "Don't you worry," Jackson promised. "Inside a month, I'll have Rachel hog-tied and happy."

  Lesley didn't look convinced, but Jackson refused to let the man's lack of faith affect him. At last, he was within spitting distance of leaving this ghostly life behind him.

  The smaller man held one hand out, palm up. As Jackson watched, six gold coins appeared, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

  "What're those for?" he asked, then caught himself. "Oh sure. I'll need money, won't I?"

  "These are not to spend, Mister Tate. They will help you in accomplishing your goal."

  "How's that?"

  "Simply hold one of them tightly and say out loud what you want to occur."

  "Ahhh… magic."

  Lesley's eyes rolled as he poured the coins into Jackson's upturned hand. Slowly, he bounced them on his palm, testing their weight. The coins shifted and clinked together, making an altogether satisfying sound. Nothing else in the world had the same solid feel as gold.

  "Les," he said, as a time-saving idea occurred to him.

  "What is it?"

  "If these things'll do the trick with Rachel, why don't I just use one of them and wipe her memory now?"

  "It doesn't work that way."

  "Why not?" Jackson's fingers curled around the coins, and he shoved them into his pants pocket.

  "Because, as I've already explained, that memory of you has affected the course of her life. She's made decisions, taken actions, all stemming from those few days with you." Lesley shook his head, then reached up and straightened the silly looking white wig he still wore. "Her memory of that time is intertwined with the memories of her life over the last fifteen years. They are inseparable."

  "Oh."

  The sharp report of a gun being fired echoed from somewhere down the street. A woman screamed. The sleeping dog woke up long enough to howl, and the kids raced off in the direction of the trouble.

  Lesley shuddered. "If you want to get out of this place as desperately as you say… don't fail, Mister Tate."

  Chapter Three

  Jackson glanced over his shoulder toward the dark street, making sure no one was about. But the only signs of life were from half a block away, at the Stillwater saloon. His mouth watered at the thought of having a real drink again. And as soon as he'd had a look at a grown up Rachel, he’d be doing just that.

  At least there were no lights burning in the living rooms over Rachel's store. It would have been a lot harder to climb those rickety stairs with any kind of quiet.

  Carefully, he stepped over a tidy row of well tended daisies and leaned toward one of the ground floor windows. The murmur of female voices drew him closer. Keeping his body to one side, he peered in through the shining glass pane to the brightly lit Mercantile.

  "Ain’t bad enough being a ghost," he muttered thickly. "No, I get to be a peeping Tom ghost, too."

  His gaze swept across the four women occupying chairs drawn into a circle. A plump woman with brown hair and spectacles reached for a cookie. The blond next to her chewed hungrily at her fingernails. Another brown-haired woman with red, chapped hands laughed and turned to the woman who could only be Rachel Morgan.

  Jackson looked her over quickly. She had grown up pretty well. Even sitting down, she looked to be tall. She held herself ramrod straight, though she was a bit too skinny for his taste. He had always admired women with some meat on their bones. Especially up top. But otherwise, she was certainly pretty enough to have caught a man long ago and spared him this nonsense.

  She suddenly turned toward the window and almost seemed to be staring right at him. Jackson's breath caught in his chest. For a heartbeat of time, he held perfect
ly still, allowing only his gaze to move as it swept over her features. Small, straight nose, full lips, dark blond hair pulled back from her face into a knot on top of her head. Finely arched brows lifted high over those same bruised-looking, blue eyes.

  "Rachel?" One of the women said softly. "What's wrong?"

  Reluctantly, it seemed, she turned away from the window to face her friends. Jackson's breath slowly sighed from his lungs.

  "Nothing," she replied. "Nothing at all."

  Jackson eased away from the window, backed over the daisies, and cursed gently when he accidentally flattened one or two of them. Bending down, he straightened them, only to watch them fall over again on their broken stems. Hell. He didn't want her to know he'd been standing in the dirt peeking at her. Frowning, he snapped the fragile stems with his fingers and stuffed the already wilting flowers into his coat pocket.

  Glass shattered. Jackson's head snapped around toward the sound. Voices — shouts — lifted in the stillness. Had to be from the saloon. Grinning, he started walking. With any luck, not only could he have a drink, he'd get in on the fight, too.

  #

  "I think our second official meeting of the Stillwater Spinster Society went very well," Rachel said, letting her gaze sweep over the three other women seated in her tiny front parlor. "Don’t you?"

  Mavis Honeysett stood up, then bent quickly, snatched up the one remaining cookie from the serving tray, and popped it into her mouth. As she chewed, she nodded enthusiastically to Rachel, who noted that the little dressmaker's shirtwaist was getting too tight again.

  Hester Sutton slid out of her chair and held her coat to her chest like a knight's shield. She nibbled on one fingernail and gave Rachel a shy, half smile.

  "It was a nice visit, Rachel," Sally Wiley said and rubbed her work-reddened hands together. "But it would have been a hell of a lot more fun with a man or two."

  Rachel grinned. She could always count on the town laundress to say exactly what she was thinking.

  "Still," Sally went on as she stood up and slipped on her coat, "if any of us had a man, we wouldn't be holding these meetings, now would we?".

  "It's never too late," Mavis said dreamily.

  Sally cocked her head and stared at her as though the woman had just sprouted another head. "Mavis Honeysett, you're twenty-seven years old! When are you going to unpack that hope chest?"

  Mavis smoothed her plump fingers down the front of her stylish skirt. "My hope chest is none of your concern, Salome Wiley."

  The other woman shuddered, stiffened, and lifted her chin for battle. "I told you not to call me that."

  "Then I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my hope chest."

  "Hopeless chest, you mean."

  "At least I stand a chance of actually meeting a nice man some day. There are any number of men who stop by the dress shop every day."

  "Yes, to buy things for their wives or lady friends."

  Hester backed away from the two women circling each other like prize fighters in a ring.

  "At least," Mavis snapped, "when men come into my place of business, they're clean."

  "Well !" Sally planted both reddened hands on her hips and leaned in toward one of her oldest friends. "My customers might arrive in dirty clothes, but by thunder, they leave clean."

  "And come to my store," Mavis finished.

  "Oh, dear," Hester murmured and scuttled for the door like a mouse with a cat hot on its heels.

  "Ladies, ladies," Rachel shouted, trying to be heard.

  "Why don't you have another cookie and calm down?" Sally said.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Mavis sucked in a breath and lifted her only slightly doubled chin.

  "Exactly what you think it means."

  Hester hovered at the door, shifting from foot to foot, clearly uneasy with the sniping, but unwilling to leave.

  "Ladies-" Rachel stepped between them and held her breath. It never failed. Every time the four of them got together, Mavis and Sally would eventually end up at each other’s throats. To look at them, a stranger would never guess that they were dear friends.

  When she felt she had their attention, Rachel inhaled sharply, then looked from one to the other of them. "You really should stop picking at each other so. What will you do when I have the new house built and we all move in together?"

  Sally's dark blond eyebrows shot up high on her forehead, and Mavis scowled.

  "Remember the reason we formed this society?" Rachel prodded.

  "The reason you formed it, you mean?" Sally muttered and scratched at her raw skin.

  "So that the four of us could band together as a family," Mavis admitted sullenly.

  "Exactly," Rachel crowed like a proud parent. "And if we turn on one another, what then?"

  Still shifting from foot to foot, Sally avoided Rachel's gaze. Mavis tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling in profound concentration.

  "So, you'll both be here next Tuesday night?"

  The two women nodded.

  "Hester?" She turned to look at the tiny, uncomfortable woman.

  "Yes."

  "Good!" Recognizing that the evening's battle was over, Rachel stepped back and headed for the front door in time to watch Hester scurrying into the darkness.

  "See you next week," Rachel called and was almost certain she s aw the little schoolteacher lift one hand in response. Behind her, the others drew closer.

  "Sally, your hands are bleeding."

  "That lye soap just eats into my skin," the laundress admitted. "One day, I expect to look down and see nothing but bones sticking out of my sleeves."

  "What about the cream I made up for you last month?" Mavis asked.

  "All gone," Sally said and rubbed at her cracked and bleeding hands. "I swear, my skin soaked it right up like the desert does rain."

  "You come right over to my house," Mavis insisted and took her friend’s arm. "I have another batch almost finished."

  "Good night," Rachel called as the two women sailed past her.

  Mavis waved, but didn't stop talking to Sally. "This time I scented the cream with lavender."

  "Thank God." Sally shuddered. "The last stuff you made for me smelled foul enough to choke a horse."

  "Well, that’s gratitude, I must say."

  "You want gratitude? Make me smell like a drawing room, not a stable."

  Rachel smiled and closed the door.

  #

  Jackson rubbed his aching jaw and kicked at a rock lying in the dirt. Well, he'd managed to throw himself into the fight, but by the time it was over, the saloon was so smashed up that the bartender closed up for the night. Before Jackson had gotten the drink he'd been imagining for most of the last fifteen years.

  Strange, he thought, he didn't recall a fist to the mouth being this painful. Disgusted, he stalked along the boardwalk, back toward Rachel's place. There was no point putting it off any longer. If her friends were gone, he'd just go on inside and set her straight about this whole marriage business.

  He tripped over something in the dark, but caught himself before he fell.

  "Dammit," he muttered. "Can't a man walk in peace?"

  "Shorry, mishter," a slurred voice floated up to him. " Din’t shee ya."

  Boot heels scraped on wood as the drunk pulled his legs back out of the way.

  A sharp stab of envy sliced through Jackson as the distinctive, musky odor of whiskey surrounded him. He hadn’t had one damned drink. And this man had had way too many.

  He took a single step. Life just wasn't fair.

  "Have a drink?"

  He paused, glanced back at the drunk and had an idea. "You got enough to spare?" he asked.

  The man in the shadows hiccupped. "Yep. Got a half empty one here and 'nother one I ain't even opened yet."

  Jackson’s mouth watered. He bent down and stared into the darkness until he could see the man’s face clearly. Tired eyes, a week's worth of whiskers, and the hardscrabble clothing of a prospector. "How about
I take that full one off your hands?"

  The drunk’s arms curled around his bottles protectively."You gonna steal it?"

  "Hell no. I'm not a thief."

  Of course, the only other way would be to buy it from him. And Jackson didn't have any money. Except for… Before he could think better of it, he dug his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out one of the gold coins Lesley had given him. What harm could it do? After all, he had six of them, and surely it wouldn't take more than one to find Rachel a man.

  The longer he thought about it, the better it sounded. Why, he'd actually be doing this poor drunk a favor. He'd already had too much to drink. He didn’t need that extra bottle. And maybe that magic coin would do somebody some good. His thumb and forefinger smoothed over the cold, golden surface as he struggled with the decision.

  The drunk miner lifted his half full bottle to his lips, took a long drink, and sighed in satisfaction. Whiskey-scented breath wafted over Jackson. Decision made, he said, "I'll give you this coin for the full bottle." Even in the dark, Jackson saw the other man's eyes widen then narrow suspiciously.

  "Thish ain't twenty dollar whishkey," the man pointed out. "What elsh do ya want?"

  "Nothin'."

  Carefully, the miner handed over the full bottle, then snatched the coin from Jackson’s fingers. The dull sheen of gold disappeared into one of the man’s pockets.

  Hand curled around the neck of the bottle, Jackson stood up. He pulled the cork out, tossed it aside, then took a long, thirsty drink. Fire blossomed along the course of the liquor. Heat burned through his throat, down his chest, and settled in the pit of his stomach. His eyes watered, and his voice trembled as he acknowledged, "Good whiskey."

  "It'll kill ya or cure ya," the other man agreed.

  Jackson tipped his hat to the drunk and murmured, "Thanks, friend."

  He took a step or two along the boardwalk, intending to find a nice, quiet spot to enjoy the hellishly bad liquor. Instead, he stopped again, almost immediately. Turning back to the prospector, he dropped to one knee and leaned in close.

  The man pulled away until he was pressed against a wall. "You can’t have your money back," he said tonelessly.