Still Close to Heaven

by Maureen Child

  Reality came crashing down on him, and he pulled back slightly before tipping her chin up with his fingertips. "It’s not right, Rachel. Even if we could, it wouldn't be right."

  "Why not?" she asked. "Why do Mavis and Hester get to love the men they choose and not me?"

  He let his head fall back on his neck and for a moment or two, he simply stared up at the clouds rushing in to hide the stars. "Rachel, we’ll find the right man for you."

  "I already found him. Fifteen years ago."

  "Don’t." He straightened and looked at her, silently cursing the darkness that kept him from seeing her eyes.

  "It's true. You are the one I was meant to be with," she said in a rush of words. "I knew that then and I feel it now."

  "Rachel." Couldn't she see how hard this was? Didn't she know that every word she spoke only drove fresh knives into his soul? What kind of punishment is this, Lesley? He demanded silently, without really expecting an answer. Was this a new kind of Hell? Did Lesley and his boss send him here only to be tortured?

  Well, whatever crimes he had committed in life, he figured he’d been punished enough. Besides, they didn’t have to torture Rachel, too. She hadn’t done a damn thing to earn the pain he'd brought her.

  "Jackson," she whispered and reached up, cupping his face between her palms. Her touch sent spears of warmth into the deep, dark shadows of his soul, and he had to fight to concentrate on her voice. "When they sent you here, they only told you I had to be married, isn't that right?"

  "Yeah."

  "They never said to who."

  "No." They hadn’t. In fact, he’d had the impression that as long as she became a mother, they didn’t much care one way or the other just how it happened.

  "Then why can’t it be you?"

  Speechless, he stared down at her, wondering if it was possible. Was t here even the slightest chance of making some of his imaginings come true? Did he have the right to snatch at some kind of happiness before returning to the prison The Black Hound saloon had become?

  "I don’t know for sure how long I'll be here, Rachel," he said sadly. They’d only told him she had to be married before the end of six weeks. He'd assumed that the moment his mission was completed, he would disappear. But then, the one thing he’d found out since dying was that he couldn’t be sure of anything. "It might be a few days or a few weeks. The only thing I know is, I can’t stay forever."

  "I know." She licked dry lips, pulled in a deep breath, and said, "But no one is together forever, Jackson. Everyone dies."

  He winced.

  "You could marry me off to that lumberjack you foisted on me, and a tree could fall on him tomorrow."

  He wouldn’t have minded that one little bit.

  "Don’t you see," she went on quickly, "we could spend whatever time you do have here — together. Instead of you working so hard to hand me off to someone else, you and I could have this time together."

  He closed his eyes when she dipped her head to press a kiss to the V of exposed flesh at his collar. Fires burst into life in his blood, and Jackson tightened his hold on her.

  Obviously sensing that he was obviously weakening, Rachel reminded him, "I told you that I wouldn’t marry anyone unless I was in love. I can promise you that I won’t love anyone else but you."

  Caught by the simple certainty in her voice, Jackson was lost. How was he supposed to fight that? When he'd been alive, no one had ever said those words to him. Hell, maybe that's why he’d never valued his life when he had it.

  A wry smile touched his face briefly. Why did it seem so logical that the one thing that would have saved his life only came to him after he was dead?

  Then Rachel stepped back from him, and he felt empty.

  Alone.

  She looked at him, long and hard, then slowly turned around and walked back toward the crowds and the music. She didn’t look back.

  She'd left the decision up to him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rachel kept walking. Slowly but steadily as she threaded her way through the crowd toward the Mercantile, she didn't look back. Not because she didn't want to, but because if Jackson wasn't following her, she couldn't bear knowing it.

  As she crossed in front of the dance floor, she absently noted Hester dancing with her lumberjack. Off to one side, staring at each other over cups of apple cider, were Sam and Mavis. Envy pricked at her. She'd like to have been a better person, but she couldn't help herself. It wasn't that she begrudged her friends their happiness.

  She only wanted it, too.

  The ground looked blurry. She blinked, but it didn’t help.

  It wasn't until she lifted her hem to step up onto the suddenly wavering boardwalk that she realized it was the tears in her eyes distorting everything. She sniffed, rubbed the end of her nose, then blinked back the tears. She wouldn't cry.

  At least, not yet.

  Behind her, Rachel thought she heard someone running. Coming closer. Hope leaped into life. She held her breath and waited.

  The sharp crack of a gunshot sounded, just over the din of the crowd. The band crawled to a stop, one of the fiddles screeching like a terrified cat. Startled, she turned in the direction of the shot. Jackson leaped up onto the boardwalk and moved to stand between her and whatever was happening in the street.

  She barely had time to enjoy the fact that he had come after her when someone shouted.

  Rachel moved to one side, rose up on her toes, and tried to see what was going on. A few of the people crowding the dance floor drifted toward the saloon down the street.

  She glanced at Jackson. His gaze locked on a tight cluster of people near the front of the saloon.

  "Stay here," he muttered, then he started walking.

  A heartbeat later, she followed him. Her footsteps rang out in time with his as she matched him step for step. He tossed her a quick glare, but she ignored it. She wouldn't be set carefully in a corner by anyone. Apparently, Jackson accepted that, because he didn’t try to turn her back.

  Still a good twenty feet from the saloon, he stopped, holding one strong arm out in front of her to make sure she did, too.

  "What happened?" he asked a man standing near the boardwalk.

  "Not sure, but I think that gambler shot somebody."

  "Lynch." A hard, cold knot formed in the pit of Jackson’s belly.

  "That's the one," the man told him.

  "All right folks," a loud, deep voice shouted, "go on back to the social."

  "What's goin' on, sheriff?" someone in the crowd called out.

  Jackson took a single step forward. He was hardly aware of Rachel, clinging to his right hand with both of hers.

  The sheriff's booming voice pealed out again. "Nothin' for you to worry about, Harry."

  A sprinkling of chuckles rose up and settled back down.

  "There was a shooting, but it's over now. Everything's fine," the sheriff said. Then he waved one arm at the motley band. "Go on boys, play something lively."

  The fiddlers struck up a tune, and soon the other musicians joined in. Most of the townsfolk meandered back to the dancing, with only a few of the more curious standing about waiting for details.

  "Let's go home, Jackson."

  He didn’t even look at her. "Not yet."

  A minute or two later, a short man with wide, excited eyes set in a lean face bustled up to the man standing in the street before Jackson and Rachel. "You shoulda seen it, Jim," he wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

  "What happened?" Jackson asked, forcing his voice to work despite the tightness in his throat.

  The little man looked up at him to answer his question.

  "Lynch shot a fella who called him a cheat."

  That hard, cold knot in his belly iced over. A deep chill shook him as memories rushed through his mind. But the other man went blithely on.

  "Lynch went all tight lipped and mean. Though I got to say, he give the fella a chance to back up. Lynch says," and the little man paused to screw
his features in to an imitation of Noble Lynch’s autocratic face, "'You don’t want to be saying something you'll be sorry for.’ But that damned fool didn’t take the opening Lynch gave him. Just called him a cheat again, then went grabbin' for a gun, and Noble shot him dead. Neatest piece of shooting I’ve seen in some time. Right through the heart. Kid was cold before he hit the floor."

  Tremors wracked him. His jaw clenched, Jackson turned to stare at the saloon where Noble Lynch had just gotten away with murder.

  Again.

  "Told the sheriff what I seen," the little man went on, talking to his friend now, "Sheriff said it was self-defense, pure and simple."

  Self-defense.

  "Jackson, please." Rachel tugged at his arm. "Let's go. Now."

  That's what they’d called it when Lynch had killed him.

  "Jackson?"

  He swiveled his head to look at her, finding her blue eyes wide and appealing. She met his gaze as if she knew what he was thinking. Feeling. But she couldn't. She couldn’t possibly know what it was like to stand by helplessly as your murderer went on killing others.

  Turning from her, he glanced down at the well lit saloon and wondered if there were a new ghost inside, trying to figure out what had happened to him. Or had the dead man gone straight to whatever rest was being denied Jackson?

  "Please?" she repeated.

  Dragging great gulps of air into his body, he tore his gaze from the saloon. He looked at her, noting the flush in her cheeks arid the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Splashes of colored light, thrown from the lanterns overhead, dappled her. Her eyes glittered as she met his gaze, and he wanted to lose himself in that deep, cool blue.

  The bone-deep chill had crept through his body until the only warmth left to him was in the hand Rachel held so tightly. He drew a long, shuddering breath. He wanted that warmth. He wanted to feel alive again. Really alive.

  Especially now, when memories of his death were so near.

  With his fingers curled around hers, he started walking toward the Mercantile. With every step, he moved a bit faster. Desperately. Urgently. He heard the quick tap of her heels against the boardwalk as she struggled to keep up with his long legged stride. Still, they weren't moving fast enough. The familiar path to the store had never seemed longer. He tightened his grip on her hand. He heard her short, sharp breathing, and the rapid gasps teased him, urging him to hurry.

  When they finally reached the Mercantile, Jackson threw the door open, led her inside, and slammed the door closed again. He flicked the latch, then pulled her into his arms.

  His mouth came down on hers in a wild, desperate kiss. She parted her lips for him, and his tongue plunged inside her. He groaned in the back of his throat as he tasted her, reveling in the sensations he'd denied them both for too long.

  Rachel let her shawl drop to the floor, then encircled his neck with her arms. She held him tightly, determined to keep him with her. This time, there would be no stopping. No questions. No guilt. This time, she would finally know what it was to be loved.

  Thoroughly. Completely.

  His tongue moved over hers, and she gasped at the ripples of need racing along her spine. Damp heat centered between her legs, and a deep ache she'd never known before was born.

  When he tore his mouth from hers, she moaned and tightened her hold on him. But she needn’t have worried. Instead of pulling back, Jackson dipped his head to follow the line of her jaw with his mouth and tongue. She felt the warm traces of his attention as he moved over her flesh with an almost desperate need.

  She let her head drop back. His kisses moved down her neck to her chest. Her fingers speared through his hair and held on as he bent farther to taste and explore the naked flesh of her chest. One of his hands slipped from her waist to cup her behind. He caressed her backside through the fabric of her gown, and all she could think of was getting out of that dress so she could feel his touch.

  As if reading her mind, Jackson straightened abruptly, then bent again and scooped her into his arms. Cradled close to his chest, she looked into green eyes hazy with passion.

  "Rachel," he said, and his rough voice scraped the air. "Here's your chance. I give it to you. You say no now and I'll walk away."

  Her breath caught.

  "It'll kill me," he added. "But I'll go."

  "If you go now," she said, "it would kill me." She leaned up to catch his lips with hers.

  A soft moan escaped him, and his teeth nipped at her bottom lip, sending sparks of delight flickering through her.

  Then he paused, smiled, and headed for the stairs. Tucking her head beneath his chin, she kissed his throat, flicking his skin with her tongue. His arms tightened around her.

  He took the steps in a hurry then marched down the short hallway to her bedroom. Turning the glass knob, he shoved the door open, stepped inside, and kicked it closed again before striding to the high, wide bed.

  With one hand, he tossed back the yellow rose quilt, then set her down on the edge of the mattress.

  Apprehension warred with desire.

  Wisps of moonlight strayed in through the windows on the far side of the room. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she looked up into Jackson’s face. His features tightened as his eyes seemed to glow with a fire she was only beginning to recognize as the same flames burning inside her.

  She shifted on the bed, and the old springs squealed into the silence.

  "I’ve wanted to do this for a long time," Jackson whispered and reached for her.

  Rachel held her breath. Afraid to do something wrong, something foolish, she did nothing.

  Whatever she was expecting, he surprised her.

  She felt him pull the pins from her hair. Her eyes widened as one by one, he discarded them. She heard them hit the floor and skitter across the polished surface. Her hair, freed of its knot, tumbled down across her shoulders.

  "Beautiful," he said in a hushed, reverent tone. His fingers combed through the heavy mass, and she closed her eyes to better concentrate on his touch. "I knew it would be beautiful."

  Spearing through the hair at her temples, Jackson pulled her face close and lavished a long, slow, kiss on her lips. He rested one knee on the mattress and eased her backward. The fresh, white sheets felt cool against her flesh. Still kissing her, he invaded her mouth with whispered promises. His right hand sneaked around behind her and began to undo the line of buttons marching down her spine.

  Rachel half lifted herself toward him to make his job easier. When she did, her already aching nipples brushed across his chest, and she gasped at the contact. He smiled against her mouth, then as the back of her dress loosened, slipped the dress down, off her shoulders.

  He sighed, and she felt his breath dust across her skin. Her stomach churned; her mouth went dry. She wished desperately that she knew what to do. How to act. She wanted this time with him to be special. Yet she feared her own ignorance would ruin everything. Closing her eyes tightly, she lay ramrod stiff, awaiting whatever came next.

  "I want to see you," he whispered and moved, toward the bedside table. "Let me light the lamp."

  "No," she said quickly, her eyes flying open as she reached for him. This she was sure of. "No light. Please."

  Rachel couldn't bear to watch him look at her. What if he were disappointed? She knew her breasts were too small and her body too thin where there should be curves. In the darkness, maybe he wouldn’t notice.

  "All right, Rachel," he said softly as he lay back down along her side. "No lights."

  As he spoke, he pushed her dress farther down until only a thin, cotton chemise covered her nakedness. He smiled slowly and in the dim glow of moonlight, she watched him reach for the tiny pink ribbons holding the fragile material over her breasts.

  She felt the gentle, insistent tug as he parted the fabric that hid her from him. Gently, he stroked her skin with the flat of his palm and moved the material aside.

  Rachel bit down on her bottom lip and squeezed her eyes tightly shu
t. For several long moments, nothing happened, and she knew he was looking at her. What was he seeing though? Was he pleased? Disappointed? Her heartbeat hammered in her chest and though she wanted the answers to her questions, she didn’t want them badly enough to risk opening her eyes.

  Then her worries disappeared.

  His mouth came down on one hard, distended nipple. Her eyes flew open, and she lifted her head slightly to look at him. At what he was doing to her.

  His tongue and teeth moved gently over the sensitive flesh. Her fingers curled into the sheet beneath her and she held on for dear life as her world began to rock.

  Jackson's right hand swept down her body and smoothed her dress down, over her hips to fall off the mattress and puddle on the floor.

  She heard the whisper of movement, but didn’t care. Nothing mattered except the incredible sensations she was experiencing. His mouth closed tight over her nipple. Rachel gasped, her back bowed and arched her breasts toward him. He suckled her, his lips drawing, pulling. She groaned aloud and stared blindly at the ceiling as her body began to hum with an indescribable need.

  The ache at her center tripled. His right hand moved up her leg, caressed the curve of her knee, and through the fine cotton lawn of her drawers, explored her inner thighs.

  She lifted her hips instinctively. He moved quickly, his fingers slipping beneath the band at her waist to slide her pantaloons down and off.

  Hot. She was hotter than she had ever been. Even lying nearly naked on cool sheets, she felt heat continue to build inside her. Her head moved from side to side. Her fingers curled and uncurled into the sheet. His hands smoothed over her hips, her legs.

  He shifted slightly and turned his attention to her other breast. "Perfect," he murmured in between kisses. "So perfect."

  She looked at him and wished she’d allowed him to light the lamp. Now she wanted to see him. She wanted to watch him kiss her. Embarrassment rushed up and stained her cheeks. How bold she had become in just a few short minutes.