"I don't know why," she said without adding that she had asked herself the same question many times. She wouldn't have thought that she was the kind of woman a professional gambler would be interested in. But Noble Lynch certainly was. "He started coming here more often several months ago. He invites me out, and I don’t go."
"Good." The word sounded as though it had been squeezed past his throat.
"What's going on, Jackson?" she asked and waited for him to look at her. When he did, she said softly, "You're the one who wanted me to spend time with a man."
His eyes narrowed even farther. "Not him."
Tendrils of worry snaked through her stomach, and Rachel laid the flat of her palm against her midsection in a vain effort to calm herself. But how could she be calm when he was in such a state?
"Jackson —"
"I mean it, Rachel." His gaze flicked back to the window then returned to hers. "I don't want you talking to him. I don't even want you in the same town he is in."
A choked, humorless laugh shot from her throat. Uneasiness crawled up and down her spine. Though she'd never really cared for the gambler, Jackson’s violent reaction to the man made her own discomfort seem like nothing in comparison. But as much as she hated to admit it, Lynch had as much right to live in Stillwater as anyone else did.
"There’s nothing either of us can do about that," she said. "I’m certainly not going to move and I don't believe Mister Lynch has any notions about leaving, either."
"We'll see about that," Jackson muttered darkly and crossed the room to the front door. Throwing it open, he glanced at her over his shoulder."I’ll be back later. Close the store and keep the door locked."
Before she could argue, he stomped off toward the edge of town, his boot heels thundering like drumbeats against the weathered wood.
#
"Lesley!" Jackson shouted the name and turned in a tight circle, letting his gaze sweep across the sky dotted with clouds. "Lesley, you sonofabitch! Show yourself!"
The air crackled, thickened, and in an instant, Jackson was no longer alone in the meadow.
"May I ask why you are bellowing my name?"
"You bastard." Jackson started for him, and Lesley did a quick skip to one side. "Why didn’t you tell me Noble Lynch was going to be here? In Stillwater?"
"Your business isn't with Mister Lynch, Jackson. Concern yourself solely with Rachel Morgan."
"Easy enough for you to say," he snapped and angrily stalked off a few feet before whirling around to face his tormentor again. "I'm supposed to just ignore the miserable bastard?"
"Correct."
"Dammit, Lesley!" Jackson marched back to the spot where he'd started. Looming over the smaller man, he forced his guide to tilt his head far back on his neck to meet his gaze. "How am I supposed to do that? Lynch is the one who killed me!"
"I know."
"In a crooked card game in that damned saloon that I've been trapped in for fifteen lousy years," Jackson went on then suddenly stopped. "What do you mean, you know?"
"I mean I know who Noble Lynch is." Lesley tugged at the lacy froth spilling from his coat sleeves, then calmly looked up into Jackson’s angry stare. "When you accused Mister Lynch of cheating, he drew his weapon and fired. He shot you dead."
Jackson rubbed his jaw with one shaking hand. He winced at the memory of hot lead puncturing his chest. In memory, he felt his chair topple backward, spilling him onto the dirty, sawdust-covered floor. He stared up at the shocked faces of men he'd known for years. He heard the scrape of chair legs, the angry mutters of the men in the room, and the shocked gasp of his best friend. Once again, Jackson lifted his head enough to see the flow of blood trickling from his chest as he lay prone on the floorboards. In memory, he looked up into the cold, dark eyes of the man who had killed him.
In his mind's eye, he watched Noble Lynch tuck his derringer away, then sweep the money off the table and into the crown of his hat. He saw the gambler stop alongside him, look down and smile. He heard the man say, "Thanks for the game," just before he walked out as calm as you please.
Jackson shuddered and looked at the little man opposite him. "If you know all of that, how can you ask me to ignore him?"
"The past is done, Jackson." Lesley steepled his fingers. "What was done to you cannot be undone. Taking vengeance on Noble Lynch will not bring your life back." He paused, then added, "You must trust that all things are addressed, eventually. Mister Lynch will, one day, answer for his crimes."
Small consolation for a life cut short.
For the fifteen years spent in virtual isolation — not dead, not alive.
"I can't do this job," Jackson said suddenly and had the satisfaction of seeing Lesley's features tighten.
"Precisely my opinion."
"Good. Then get me the hell out of here. Let someone else deal with Rachel."
"I'm afraid not," the shorter man said.
"Why? It can’t matter who gets her married."
"Apparently, it does." Lesley reached up and straightened his wig. "The general feeling seems to be, that since you were the inadvertent cause of this situation, that you should be the one to repair it."
"Blast it all Lesley, I can’t stay in this town for weeks, watching Noble Lynch walking around enjoying life!"
"Stay away from him, then."
Jackson shot him a quick look. "I can't do that, either. That bastard killed me, Lesley, and he should have to pay for that."
"He will. Eventually."
"Not good enough."
"It will have to be." Lesley’s form began to fade. "I advise you to leave petty thoughts of revenge alone and concentrate on the matter of Rachel Morgan."
"Don't you leave yet," Jackson told him sharply. "I'm not finished with you."
"But I am finished, Jackson," Lesley said, and his voice sounded more like an echo of a voice long silenced. "And by the way," he added just before disappearing entirely, "Don’t think for a minute that we didn't notice you trading a coin for liquor."
Jackson had to swallow the angry words that rushed into his mouth. His target was gone. There was little satisfaction in shouting at nothingness.
Without seeing, he stared at the open meadow surrounding him. A soft breeze brushed past him, but he didn’t feel it. Birds sang in the trees, but he ignored them.
Noble Lynch.
Why hadn’t Lesley warned him that he would be meeting up with his .murderer?
Or, was this Hell and no one had bothered to tell him?
Chapter Ten
Minutes slipped past. Rachel stood rooted in one spot, staring blankly out through the open doorway. At least, she told herself, Jackson had headed in the opposite direction of the saloon. She sucked in a deep breath and rubbed her upper arms briskly, hoping to dispel the lingering sensation of cold she had experienced a few moments before.
Her mind whirled as too many thoughts at once raced through her brain, each vying for precedence.
In snatches of memory, she saw fury flash in Lynch's dark eyes. She saw pain and raw anger glittering in Jackson's green gaze. And she saw herself, instinctively drawn to help the man she’d waited for most of her life.
It didn't matter that a ghost shouldn't need defending. It didn’t even matter that he seemed to want her clear of whatever lay between he and Lynch.
All she knew was what she felt.
As if invisible strings holding her in place suddenly snapped, Rachel ran to the door and through it, slamming it closed behind her.
She had to find Jackson.
#
The last of the children were running down the steps and into the late morning sunshine almost before the words "Class dismissed" had left her lips.
Hester Sutton smiled sadly. A shame they weren’t as eager to arrive. Still, she remembered what it was like to be young and have a sunny day stretching out in front of you. Which was one of the reasons she'd let the children leave early today.
She stacked her books in the center of her uncluttered desk, then
picked up the apple Tommy Littlefield had given her that morning.
Undoubtedly, he'd been sure his gift would win him the return of his pen knife. Hester shook her head and patted the drawer front behind which lay the countless treasures she’d confiscated since the beginning of the school year. None of the children would get their things back until school closed for the summer break. Tommy knew that as well as anyone, but still had tried bribing her.
On that thought, she shot the shiny apple a wary look.
Knowing her pupil, she'd better check that perfect looking piece of fruit for a worm.
Standing up, she smoothed the fall of her dove gray dress, then reached up to pat the dainty lace collar adorning the high neckline. Then she picked up her dark gray bonnet from the edge of her desk and quickly put it on. She tied the black ribbons in what she hoped was a jaunty bow just below her right ear and told herself for the hundredth time since the night before that she was being a fool.
Still, she couldn’t quiet the insistent voice inside her. The voice, born of years of loneliness, that urged her to take a risk. Whispers rattled through her mind. Whispers that promised a chance at happiness if she could only find the courage to take one small step.
Nodding to herself, she drew a deep breath, then picked up the stack of books and headed down the center aisle past the empty desks. As she stepped outside and closed the door behind her, she turned around to face Main Street just as another wave of doubts assai led her.
What if Rachel’s cousin were wrong?
Her fingers tightened around her books. Charlie Miller, shy?
Was it possible?
Such a strong, loud, handsome man? Could he really be secretly suffering? Did he really fear speaking to her?
She looked to the right. To the crowd of lumbermen standing about outside the small hotel restaurant. Her stomach churned. Her mouth went dry, she had to fight the almost overwhelming urge to run.
Raucous laughter rolled toward her on a short gust of wind, and she shivered in response. In that group of seven or eight men was Charlie Miller. Hester's gaze moved over them and stopped when she spotted his pale blond hair.
Mentally gathering her tattered nerves, she started down the steps before she could change her mind. Keeping her eyes fixed on that blond head, she walked slowly and steadily toward the rowdy group.
"Well, lookee here," someone crowed.
She tensed but kept walking.
"Little bitty thing, ain't she?" Another voice joined the first.
Wind plucked at her skirts and teased wisps of hair from the knot at the back of her neck. A long, dark blond strand flew across her eyes, and she reached up to push it back into place.
"Say, boys," one man said in a voice as deep as a well, "which one of you made the teacher so mad she's comin' lookin' for him?"
Hester lifted her chin. This was going to be harder than she had thought. There were so many of them. And they were all so big. And loud. As she came closer, she saw Charlie move from the back of the group to the front. He stopped at the top of the three short steps leading to the restaurant and watched her approach.
He looked even bigger somehow. Her strength began to slip away, leaving her legs as wobbly as a newborn foal’s. Then he gave her a soft, hesitant smile. Her gaze fixed on his sun-browned features. She noted the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the strong, cleanly shaven jaw, and the breadth of his shoulders beneath a worn, red flannel shirt.
Turning to his friends, he waved them to silence as she stopped at the foot of the steps.
"Hello, Miss Hester."
Someone laughed, and she felt heat flood her cheeks. Still, she stayed. If what Jackson had said was true, then she owed it to Mr. Miller… and herself, to say what she’d come to say. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach. Her hands ached from the death grip she held on her books. A moment or two of silence stretched out, and she didn't know which was worse — the men making noise and laughing with each other, or the intimidating quiet where everyone could hear her speak.
She swallowed back her fear and started. "Mister Miller… Charlie…"
Another chuckle rippled around them, but he glared the offender into silence.
Say it, she told herself. Just say it and go.
"Last night," she went on, looking only at Charlie, "Mister Tate told me about your… problem."
"What problem's that, Miller?" one man managed to ask before dissolving into fits of laughter that the others quickly joined in on. They were all staring at her. She felt their gazes stab at the remnants of her courage until it was all she could do to remain standing.
One of the men slapped Charlie on the back, but he didn’t seem to notice. His gaze was locked with hers as he came down the steps and stopped in. front of her. He seemed to sense her distress, and the understanding in his pale blue eyes soothed her frayed nerves.
Her breathing steadied as she looked up at him.
She had to say it. She would never forgive herself if she didn’t. Indeed, she would spend the rest of her life wondering what might have happened if only she had had the courage — just once — to ask for what she wanted most.
Gripping the books cradled to her chest, she opened her mouth and forced the words past her throat. The words she had lain awake the night before, practicing.
"Jackson has explained that you suffer from shyness," she managed to say. "Just as I do."
"Shy?" One man snorted. "Charlie?"
The big blond man in front of her dipped his head slightly.
She winced and went on, determined to finish what she'd come to say. "I wondered if you might escort me to my home?"
Laughter dissolved. Silence dropped over the crowd. The men still stared at her, but now their gazes held traces of wistful envy as they watched her. Hester, though, saw only Charlie. His strong features softened, and a quiet, proud smile curved his mouth. Pale blond hair fell across his forehead, and he reached up to push it back.
"I would be pleased to, Miss Hester," he said and his deep, rich voice caressed her ears.
She released a breath she hadn’t known she'd been holding and felt a swirl of bright, lovely colors blossom inside her.
He stepped even closer and offered her his arm. Hesitantly, she laid her small hand on his. The brush of flesh against flesh sent a skittering sensation jolting through her bloodstream. Gently, he smoothed his thumb over the back of her knuckles for a moment before drawing her to his side and tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. Then, as if touching spun glass, he patted her fingers where they rested on his arm and lifted his gaze to hers.
"Can I carry your books for you?"
"Thank you… Charlie." She felt warmed by the light in his eyes. Her heartbeat thundered, and her blood seemed to dance in her veins.
He took the small stack of books from her and held them easily in one huge fist. His great size dwarfed her, but his almost reverent gentleness made her feel safe. Treasured.
Charlie looked at her hand on his arm, then met her gaze for a long, heart-stopping moment. In the pale blue depths of his eyes, Hester saw more than she had ever hoped to see.
"Are you ready, Miss Hester?" he asked quietly.
There was a world of promises and hopes in his simple question, and she heard them all clearly.
"Yes," she said and smiled at the big man beside her. "I am ready, Charlie."
They moved off together, oblivious to the startled murmurings of the men they left behind.
#
Rachel wasn’t sure exactly why she'd gone to the site of her unfinished new house. Maybe it was because she could think of nowhere else to look for him. But the reason didn't matter as soon as she came around the side of the building and spotted him standing in the center of the meadow behind the house.
Relief washed through her, and she drew her first easy breath since the confrontation with Noble Lynch. Telling herself it was beyond foolish to worry about a ghost’s safety, she started walking toward him.
Meadow grass brushed against her skirt, and the waterlogged earth clung to her shoes, making each step a test. Wildflowers dotted the landscape, marking their spots with brilliant splashes of color and lending their mingled scents to the wind that eased across the open ground.
Jackson stood with his back to her and as she drew closer, she heard him talking.
To no one.
"Don’t you leave yet," he said hotly."I’m not finished with you."
She thought she heard the faint echo of another voice, but she couldn't be sure.
Rachel's steps faltered as she looked around the empty meadow. Uneasiness welled up inside her. Maybe she shouldn't be there. Maybe there were rules about such things, and she was breaking them with her presence. But even as that thought entered her mind, another more insistent one followed. Who was he talking to?
He was quiet again as she walked across the last few feet of space separating them. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched his arm.
Jackson spun around as if he'd been shot.
When he recognized her, the wildness in his eyes faded, and his entire body seemed to slump in reaction. "Jesus, Rachel," he groaned after a moment, "don’t sneak up on a man like that."
Birdsong drifted to them from the woods at the edge of the meadow. The wind ruffled his hair and teased her with his scent. A scent she was becoming entirely too used to.
"I didn't mean to startle you," she said.
He shook his head, brushing away her apology. "I should have heard you coming. My own fault."
"Who were you talking to?" she asked.
"Huh?" He frowned, pushed one hand through his hair, and shrugged. "How much did you hear?"
"Not much," she conceded and didn't add that her curiosity was mounting steadily by the minute.
He nodded, and she thought he looked pleased with her admission.
"Who was here?" she asked again.
"Lesley."
Lesley had been there? In the meadow? She looked carefully from side to side as if she expected to see evidence of the ghostly visitor.
"He's gone now."
"How do you know?" She looked past him.
"I can't see him anymore."
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