Still Close to Heaven

by Maureen Child

"O’Hara?" Sally said loudly and dropped a shirt back into the water before stomping her way to the front counter. "What are you doin' back here already?"

  Mike O’Hara sent a quick look in Jackson’s direction, then obviously decided to ignore him. "Ah. Sally darlin'," the rolling brogue of an Irishman smoothed through the room. "I’ve only stopped by to drop off a few more of me things."

  "Great God Almighty," she said. "You mean to tell me you have more dirty laundry?"

  "It's a rough life on my ranch, Sally love," the man said quickly, then added, "but a good one."

  "You’re either the cleanest or the dirtiest man I ever met, O’Hara," she snapped.

  Jackson hid a smile as he watched the dark-haired woman glare up at the tall man in front of her. His grin slipped a bit, though, as knowledge about the redhead flooded his mind. Damn. He still hadn’t gotten used to it, that instant sense of knowing someone he'd never seen before. Struggling to sift through the information, he kept one eye on the oblivious pair and tried to listen.

  "Y'know, Sally," the man said, "I’ve often thought of maybe having you out to the ranch for supper one night."

  The too thin woman grabbed up the dirty clothes he'd dropped onto the counter. Both arms full of his latest offering, she glared at him over the top of the heap. "And just when would I have time to be doing that?"

  "Even you have to eat," the big man snapped impatiently. "Though from the look of ya," he went on, raking his gaze up and down her form, "ya don’t do it often enough."

  She drew herself up and sniffed at him. "I don’t have to eat with a man so dirty he can't go two days without dragging in a load of clothes to my laundry!"

  "Dirty, is it?" Mike jerked his head back to glare at her and planted two ham-like fists on his hips. "If I was dirty, I wouldn’t be wantin' my clothes washed, now would I?"

  "And if you were clean, I wouldn't be lookin' at your Irish face three and more times a week, would I?"

  Jackson shook his head. He hadn’t seen this side of the woman until Mike O’Hara stopped by. Was she this way with all of her customers? Instantly, the answer reared up in his mind. No. Just with O'Hara. A good thing too, he thought. If she talked to all of the people who came to her shop as she did the redhead, she wouldn't have had a business.

  "Now go on, O'Hara," she told the man, waving the tips of her dry, cracked fingers at him. "Get about your business, and let me tend to mine."

  Muttering under his breath, the man turned and stomped out of the laundry, slapping his hat against his jean-covered thigh as he went.

  "Thanks for the coffee, Sally," Jackson said and set his cup down on the counter. "I'll be going, now."

  She didn't even look up. Grumbling to herself, she dropped the new load of laundry onto the floor, gave it a kick, and said, "Goodbye Jackson. Say hello to Rachel."

  Outside, he stopped to watch the big man standing in the street. With his head tipped back, he stared at the darkening sky and muttered something unintelligible.

  "What was that?" Jackson asked.

  The man turned, startled, then glowered at him. "Nothin'."

  "Couldn’t quite make it out."

  "Twas Gaelic," he said, then shrugged. "Irish."

  "Ah," Jackson nodded slowly. "Cursing her, were you?"

  O'Hara took a single, long step toward him, shook his hat at the laundry, and complained, "That woman has a tongue like a viper!"

  "I heard."

  "She's a temper on her that makes a man want to run for the hills."

  Jackson folded his arms across his chest, leaned back against a porch railing, and observed, "I don’t see you running anywhere."

  "Aye well," the rusty-haired man slammed his hat onto his head. "I'm a glutton for punishment."

  "Or for the punisher."

  O'Hara's gaze shot to his. His affable features suddenly looked harder. "And if that's so, what's it to you?" He stepped even closer, looking Jackson up and down as if judging how well he'd do in a fight. "I warn ya now. If you’ve ideas about Sally, you best let them go. I'm going to have that woman as me own."

  Holding up both hands in mock surrender, Jackson laughed. "I'm not your problem, O’Hara. It looked to me like the lady doesn’t want to be had by you."

  "Don’t I know it," the man grumbled and tossed another look into the laundry.

  "Would you mind a little advice?"

  "It couldn’t hurt to listen."

  "Quit dragging in laundry."

  "’Tis me only excuse to see her, man." O’Hara frowned at him. "You’ve no idea just what hard work it is to dirty enough clothes to warrant three or four trips to town a week."

  Jackson rubbed his eyes and shook his head. "You’re trying to court her by working her to death?"

  "You think I like knowing that I'm forcing her poor, hurt hands back into hot water and lye soap?" O’Hara's mouth tightened at the thought.

  "Then why do you do it?"

  "Blast you to the devil and back, you heard me offer her supper. She won't have me."

  That last statement had cost him, Jackson saw. The man had pride. Just no sense about women.

  Too bad, he thought, that his problem with Rachel couldn’t be solved as easily as this one. "Instead of bringing her work, bring her gifts."

  Mike O’Hara scowled more fiercely, stared off down the street, and muttered, "Like what? I’ve no idea how to court a girl like Sally." He risked a quick look at Jackson, then added, "I’ve been too busy workin' most of me life to do any wooin'."

  "You've come to the right man." Jackson slapped the other man on the shoulder. If anyone knew how to avoid work and flirt with the ladies, it was him. Maybe having been a wastrel when alive would finally be a help to him. "Bring her flowers you picked yourself," he offered. "Go to the Mercantile and buy her chocolates, or some sweet smelling perfume, or some lotion for her hands. There’s ladies hats or a pretty shawl, a nice pair of gloves."

  The list went on and on. As Jackson talked, O'Hara nodded thoughtfully, already making plans. There was no way he could know it, of course, but Jackson knew very well that O'Hara had a good chance of success. Sally might bicker and bellow, but there was a soft spot inside her for the big Irishman.

  "I'll do it," Mike said softly. "By Saint Patrick’s staff, I’ll convince that hardheaded, sharp-tongued female that she belongs with me, or I'll die tryin'."

  Still muttering to himself, he swung aboard his horse and only then did he say, "My thanks, friend. If all goes well, I'll invite you to the weddin'."

  Jackson nodded and watched him ride away with a new sense of determination. Envy streaked through him. Mike. Sam. Hell, even Noble Lynch had what Jackson didn't.

  Life.

  She was sweeping the boardwalk in front of the store when he stopped just a foot or two from her. Slowly, Rachel lifted her eyes from his muddy boots to his dirt-splattered jeans, over his still damp shirt to his face. Her gaze locked with his, and something in her chest turned over.

  She suspected it was her heart.

  "What happened to you?" she asked and silently congratulated herself on keeping her voice steady.

  "It's a long story."

  "Does this story involve Noble Lynch?"

  His eyes narrowed slightly. "What makes you say that?"

  "I saw you go into the saloon earlier."

  He looked away from her. "I didn’t go there to see him."

  Small consolation, she told herself. There were only two other reasons he would have gone to the saloon. To get drunk or to find a woman.

  He reached up and rubbed the back of his head, wincing slightly.

  "What happened?" she asked, concern momentarily erasing her other worries.

  "Somebody hit me over the head and tossed me in the alley," he grumbled, obviously ashamed to admit it. "Then your friend, Sally, emptied her wash water on me."

  "Are you all right?" she asked. "Who did it? Why?"

  "Yes. I don’t know. And again, I don’t know. " He scowled fiercely and pushed
one hand through his hair. "Damn, I'm getting tired of saying that."

  "Were you robbed?" Rachel demanded, leaning her broom against the wall and stepping closer.

  Jackson snorted a short laugh. "I don't have anything worth…" His eyes widened, and he shoved one hand into his pants pocket. Quickly, he drew it out again and looked down at the handful of change on his palm. One golden coin gleamed dully.

  "You had two left, didn’t you?"

  "Yeah." Worry tightened his features, then he sighed in relief as memory flooded back to him. He'd slipped the other coin into his shirt pocket just before going upstairs with Kitty. Quickly, he reached into that pocket. His face fell. "It's gone."

  "What do you mean?"

  Her voice sounded far away as he swallowed a groan of disgust. Christ, was nothing going to go right for him?

  Jackson remembered clearly the greedy look in the bartender's eyes when he'd spotted that coin. The man had seen Jackson stick the coin in his shirt pocket. So had Kitty.

  He rubbed his eyes tiredly and told her, "I stuck one of the coins in this pocket, and now it's gone."

  "Maybe it fell out when you were thrown into the alley."

  "Yeah, maybe." But he didn’t think so. The way his luck was running, he figured the chances were slim. Still, it was worth a look. Grumbling, he spun about and headed down the boardwalk with Rachel hot on his heels.

  Jumbled thoughts cartwheeled through his mind, one on top of the other. How could he have been stupid enough to lose one of his last two coins? And what would happen to him once Lesley found out? That notion reared up in his brain and almost stopped him cold. No doubt, Lesley already knew about it.

  What was it he'd told Rachel not long ago? That he'd always run from the messes he’d made? He'd never stuck around to clean them up… to right wrongs. Well damn it, maybe it was time he started.

  When they reached the alleyway between the saloon and the laundry, they separated, each of them searching one side of the narrow passage. Jackson kicked at rubbish as he stalked up and down the alley, his gaze moving over the ground relentlessly. Rachel moved the toes of her shoes across the dirt, straining to see the tell tale gleam of gold.

  But there was nothing.

  A short, sharp wind whipped down the alley, lifting trash and sending it tumbling along the ground. The door to the laundry was closed, and the silence surrounding them grew until it was suffocating. Shadows crept closer, twilight deepened, and the first stars appeared overhead.

  Finally, Jackson faced her.

  "It's not here." Shaking his head gingerly, he added, "Whoever hit me's probably got the coin."

  "And you think it was Noble."

  "Damn right I do."

  "If it was, don't we have to try to get the coin back?" Rachel took a step toward him. "What if he says the wrong thing while holding it? Anything could happen."

  "I guess it's too much to hope for that he'd wish himself to Hell."

  "Jackson."

  "I know. I'll think of something." He took her elbow and guided her back to the mouth of the alley. "I can't go and say, 'You know, that coin you stole from me is magic, so be careful.'"

  "But —"

  "But nothing," he snapped. "Whatever I do, you’re out of it. I don’t want you anywhere near Lynch."

  Rachel pulled her arm free and looked up at him. "That’s not for you to say, Jackson."

  "This isn't something I'm going to fight about with you." He sucked in an impatient breath and said, more calmly this time, "I know Lynch. You don’t."

  "But —"

  "Blast it, Rachel, I’m the ghost, here. He can't hurt me any more than he already has."

  "He wouldn't hurt me," she argued. "He wouldn’t dare."

  "You don't have any idea what he would dare."

  A long, tense moment passed before she nodded slowly. "All right, Jackson. I'll stay out of it. For now."

  "If that's as good a promise as I'm likely to get," he muttered, taking her arm again and heading them toward the street, "then I'll take it."

  Close beside him, Rachel thought she caught a whiff of the lingering traces of perfume. She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. Had he been with a woman at the saloon? An ache settled in her chest and pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Had she been so wrong about his interest in her? Hadn't the kiss they'd shared meant anything to him?

  As they stepped onto the boardwalk in the deep, lavender haze of twilight, they heard a man's voice shouting over the thunder of a horse galloping at a dead run.

  Up and down the street, doors were opened, curtains were drawn back, and windows were lifted. Slashes of lamplight made broad strokes in the dirt, and people called questions to each other.

  "What on earth?" Rachel whispered.

  Finally, the rider drew his lathered horse to a rearing stop. He jumped off the animal, stood in a splash of golden light, and shouted. "I did it! Hellfire, if I didn’t do it!"

  "Do what, you fool?" a voice yelled.

  The man turned in a slow circle, looking from face to face in the growing dusk. As his gaze swept across Rachel and Jackson, she heard her companion groan.

  Before she could ask what was wrong, the stranger shouted again. "I found the damned mother lode, that's what !" He threw his arms wide, let his head drop back on his neck, and crowed to the deep purple sky, "I'm rich!"

  Jackson’s grip on her elbow tightened, and he drew her away from the crowd of people spilling out of their houses to hear the man's story.

  "Where are we going?" she asked, looking back over her shoulder.

  "Home."

  "But why? This is exciting. Don't you want to hear how he did it?"

  Jackson shot her a quick look. "I know how he did it."

  She dug her heels in and yanked back on her arm until he was forced to stop. He rubbed the back of his neck viciously.

  "How did he do it, Jackson?"

  He looked at her, then let his gaze slide to one side. "He's the one."

  "The one what?"

  "The drunk I traded that coin to on the first night I was here."

  She gasped, glanced back, and peered into the growing darkness at the man surrounded by well wishers. "You mean —"

  "Yeah. He found the mother lode because of that gold coin."

  "Oh my."

  Jackson inhaled sharply, then blew it out in a rush. When she turned around to look at him, he was staring at the sky, scowling in disgust.

  "Thanks for your help," he snapped. "Those coins work on the prospector. On Sam. Hell, they even made me disappear when Rachel wished it. Would you mind letting one of 'em work for me?"

  "Who are you complaining to? Lesley?"

  His scowl didn't lift when he glanced at her. "At this point," he snarled, "I'm complaining to anybody who'll listen."

  "But the coins did work for you. On Sam and Mavis."

  "The wrong woman."

  "She was the right woman. For Sam."

  His eyebrows lifted. "You’ve changed your tune."

  "I’ve talked to her." Then something else occurred to Rachel and she asked, "Did you use a coin I don't know about on Hester?"

  Jackson shook his head. "Didn't have to."

  "What do you mean? I spoke to her this afternoon, and she's all aflutter over Charlie Miller." Rachel folded her arms over her chest. "She never was before. So when she told me that she had spoken to you, I assumed —"

  "You assumed wrong,"

  "But how —"

  "She was half in love with the man already, and Charlie, poor devil, took a hard fall when she looked at him through those big blue eyes."

  "Hester?" she murmured. "In love?"

  "Yeah."

  His simple, one word answer rattled around inside her head for a moment or two. This was yet another example of how little she had really known the people she'd thought she was closest to. First Mavis, then Hester. Her thoughts stopped dead. She sent him a sharp, questioning look.

  "What about Sally?"

&
nbsp; "A big Irishman's got his eye on her."

  "O'Hara?" Rachel laughed shortly. How many times over the last few months had she listened to her friend complain about O'Hara? She'd never said a kind word about him.

  "No," she said, "this time, I'm sure. Sally isn’t interested in him. Why, just the sound of the man's name makes her shudder."

  He shook his head and shrugged. "We'll see…"

  She didn't like this. Any of it. Everything was changing. Everyone she loved was slowly leaving her behind. Mavis and Sam would marry and have children. Then Hester. And very probably, Sally would too. If not to O'Hara, then to someone else. They would all be busy with their new lives and families. They wouldn't have time for her anymore. Oh, the friendships would still survive, but they’d be different.

  So different.

  Ridiculously enough, the image of her new house leaped into mind. That huge place. The home she'd built her dreams around. Dreams of a family of friends, living together, caring for each other.

  Now, she would live in it alone. She would sit there in the evenings listening to the quiet. She would lie awake at night, straining to hear the sound of another voice. Empty years stretched out ahead of her, and Rachel rubbed her upper arms briskly, hoping to get rid of the chill creeping up on her.

  There wouldn't be any magic for her. She knew it deep in her bones. The others could find love and have families. She couldn't.

  Because the man she loved had died fifteen long years ago.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Days passed quickly and by the night of the social, Rachel’s nerves were drawn as tight as the strings on a finely tuned fiddle.

  Walking out of the Mercantile into the brightly lit night, she shivered as cool, damp air settled on skin rarely exposed. Maybe wearing the new dress was a mistake, she thought, and glanced down helplessly at the alarmingly low neckline.

  Just as quickly, though, she told herself that whether it was a mistake or not, she wasn't going to change. She had a plan and a feeling that wearing this dress just might help it along. Still, she drew her black lace shawl up higher to cover bare arms displayed by the off-the-shoulder sleeves.

  Someone called "hello" to her and Rachel smiled, her gaze already darting over the crowd wandering about under the glow of colorful Japanese lanterns. Puddles of light shifted and danced over the faces as the gentle breeze rocked the lanterns hanging from wires strung across Main Street.