The Good, The Bad and The Ghostly ((Paranromal Western Romance))

by Keta Diablo

  "No. I suppose not. Well, I’m glad he’s left. That apartment really is too small for the two of us, anyway."

  Neetie balanced on the side of the bed and wrinkled her nose as Lizzie forked up a pile of mash that looked not unlike the poop emoticon but in white.

  "I’m here to take you home. The doctor should be in shortly to release you and then—"

  "What day is it?"

  "Wednesday. Why?"

  "I’ve lost track of time, is all. And I take it the year is still 2016?"

  Neetie looked a bit uncertain, not of the year Lizzie was sure, but as to Lizzie’s state of mind.

  "Two-thousand-sixteen it is!" she replied with a touch too much gaiety.

  "Good." Lizzie lifted the drumstick and wondered if eating it from her hand was allowed. But hunger was grabbing at her and she chomped into it, finished it in a few bites. "When can I get back to work?"

  "Oh, darling sweetheart. Let’s leave it ’til Monday, shall we? I can certainly manage until then. And really—I don’t think you’re in any state to come back so soon. Even Monday might be a bit too early. You let me know."

  Some hospital staff entered and the tray was removed at Lizzie’s request before the doctor made his grand entrance. A few words were exchanged with both Lizzie and Neetie, and then they were told her release papers would be at the hall desk.

  "And here’s your clothing, sweetheart," Neetie added. "Looks like you were wearing one of Jason’s belts."

  Lizzie took the belt in her hands, running the rough leather through her fingers and smiling. "No. Not Jason’s," she informed her friend. "Another man I knew. From a long time ago."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lizzie’s yearning for Colby was like a sickness for which there was no remedy. She spent the weekend wrapped up in his belt, bereft now of any smell of him since she had been the one wearing it. At night, with city sounds and street lights reminding her she was in a different life—her own, real life—she found it difficult to sleep without the comfort of Colby’s body to envelope her. Monday morning saw her bleary-eyed and groggy, but with the thought occupation might prove her cure.

  As she stumbled along, practically sleep-walking to the antique shop, it struck her she should have taken Dudley Worksop more seriously, and perhaps asked him if she and Colby could ever get back in touch. Too late. Or maybe too late for Dudley, but perhaps another, current agent might have the answer?

  There it was, the handsome brass plaque she had passed so often, the building and offices she had described to Colby, the Psychic Specters Investigations office still in residence. Well, of course it was still in residence—that was how she knew to contact them and get Dudley. Could there be someone there who might have the answer?

  Inside, the deep marble hall with its board of office names, and security man at a desk, made her hesitate. So many offices, and all so lavish. She wondered what the charge would be for a consultation, thought better of it, and started to leave. As she swung away in her somnolent state, she went crashing into a young man who was dashing toward the elevator.

  She gasped, her hand swinging to her mouth.

  "Dudley! Dudley?"

  The young man stared at her a moment, sizing her up. "I’m so sorry, did I run into you? Are you all right?" His voice and accent were unmistakable Worksop.

  "Dudley? Dudley Worksop?"

  "I’m terribly sorry, you must be confu—did you say, ‘Dudley Worksop’?"

  "Yes. Yes. Aren’t you? You look just like—"

  "I, um, well...Dudley Worksop was my, well, actually, we had three Dudleys. You may have known my uncle?"

  "No. I don’t think so. It was in 1897."

  "It was...." The young man stood for a moment staring at Lizzie. "Perhaps you should come up to my office? I’m Malcolm Worksop, by the way." With that, he took hold of Lizzie’s elbow and guided her into the elevator.

  "Really," she said somewhat disconcerted. "I should be getting to work."

  "And so you will, and so you will. But first—1897, did you say? Did you actually mean that?"

  Malcolm steered Lizzie through the main office door, giving her a brief moment to take in the Persian rugs, fine antique furniture, and chandeliers. He whisked her into his office, closing the door behind him, and turning the key. "So, now. Let me get something out if you would. My Trifield Natural EMF Meter. Won’t hurt you a bit."

  "Mr. Worksop! Are you trying to see if I’m a ghost? I am not a ghost!"

  "But you did say you knew Dudley Worksop—my great, great, great—possibly four greats, I’m not quite sure—grandfather in 1897, did you not?"

  "Yes. It’s a long story, and I have no money to pay you for your time."

  "My time is pro bono, absolutely gratis to you." He ran the meter over Lizzie but nothing sounded. "Nil. You are not a ghost. I concur."

  "I told you that! I was a ghost, but I’m not one now."

  Malcolm’s mouth hung open. "A reincarnation?"

  "Look. Let me tell you a story you may not...come to think of it, you may be one of the few people who do believe me. So let me tell you...."

  An hour and a half later, Lizzie’s mouth was dry and her hankie was wet, but Malcolm Worksop had an indecipherable smile on his face. He sat back in his desk chair, hands templed together, eyes directed at the ceiling as if seraphim were dancing above his head. "Yes," he mumbled. "Yes, indeed."

  "Yes, indeed what?" Lizzie demanded.

  The desk chair rocked forward with a crash and Malcolm faced her. "A most unusual story, Miss Adams—"

  "Why, it’s—wait! How did you know my name? I only mentioned being called Mrs. Gates!"

  "Family history," stated Malcolm, getting to his feet and approaching Lizzie. "And I really must get back to work."

  "What? What family history? Do you believe me?"

  "I do believe you, but there is little I can do for you, I’m afraid. And now if you’ll excuse me?" He opened the door, his hand extended as if pointing to the exit.

  Lizzie rose from her seat, tears beginning to blossom once more and find their way past her nose. "You and Dudley have the same personality. It must run in the family, such rudeness."

  His only response was the small smile and lifted brow that reminded her immediately of his forefather.

  * * *

  "Lizzie!" Neetie greeted her. "I’ve been so worried. I thought perhaps you were taken ill again, or had passed out, when there was no answer to my call."

  Lizzie blew her nose with a honk into a tissue and met her employer-friend’s gaze. "Sorry. I must have left my cell phone at home. It’s hard to remember these modern things."

  "Modern? Are you sure you’re well enough to work?" Neetie eyed the belt wrapped around her friend. "Are you sure you’re...okay?"

  "Yes, yes, keeping occupied will be the best thing. Really."

  "All right." There was a hint of dubiousness in Neetie’s tone. "I thought you might do a bit of stock-taking out the back today so you wouldn’t have to deal with customers. How does that sound?"

  "Fine."

  "I bought a number of small, new items that need to be assessed. Just have a look at the pile, tag them with the—"

  "Neetie, I know how to stock-take. I’ll be fine."

  Small new items. Would an old coin with a dent from a bullet be one of them? She doubted it. She pushed through the curtain that separated the stock area from the shop and found the accounts book on the counter there, lists of prices paid for new items, penciled in prices to be marked on tags. A china doll. A brass carriage lamp. Staffordshire dogs—about the hundredth pair that had come through the shop. An enameled French coffee pot. A Worcester chamber pot with lid. The morning dragged on with an inventory of items Lizzie might have used in a former life, but these were not ranch items. Neetie didn’t carry old firearms or saddles, lariats or wagon wheels.

  As she wound down toward her lunch break, she heard the jingle of the front door swiftly followed by Neetie’s breezy, "Good afternoon. Fee
l free to look around, and let me know if I can help you."

  There was a moment’s hesitation before the customer responded. "I...I’m looking for an Elizabeth...Lizzie Adams."

  Lizzie stood cemented to her spot. The voice was warm as sugar syrup, yet with a hint of authority.

  Her knees went weak. Her stomach met the floor. Her heart soared to the ceiling and crash landed in her chest.

  "I, um...." Neetie hesitated, unsure of what to do. "May I ask what your business is with Miss Adams?"

  "Well...I guess you might say I’m an old friend."

  "I see."

  Trembling, Lizzie pulled the curtain aside and peeped out. She could only see the back of the man, but his head was topped by a Stetson.

  Dancing from foot to foot, unsure of what to do, Neetie told him, "I’ll just see if she’s avail—"

  Lizzie whooshed aside the curtain, then stopped as he spun toward the sound.

  The corners of his mouth curved up as he removed his hat and ran a hand through his light brown hair. "I paid a call on Malcolm only a day ago. The Denver office is no longer. Anyway, he phoned me straight away after you’d seen him, before I could head back to Wyoming...."

  "Colby?"

  "Good thing my family’s always given that name to their first born sons."

  "How? How can it be?"

  "You think about it, sweetheart. How many lives have you had? You think you’re the only one? Ever since I was a small boy, I’d been telling my parents things about our ranch, things that had happened years and years before I’d been born. Things that happened in 1892 and 1897. And in 1903, when I finally, somewhat reluctantly, remarried. She was a good woman, and we had a great mutual respect if not the love you and I shared. As for my parents—my present-day parents—they could never understand it, all I told them—thought I’d been making it all up, or reading stories and retelling them. Then recently, the feelings got so strong, I had to get in touch with someone who knew about this sort of problem, so I came here and saw Malcolm."

  "Colby." Lizzie was frozen to her spot.

  Neetie’s gaze went from one to the other with confusion as if they were speaking Chinese.

  "Well?" Colby tilted his head, spinning his hat in his hands.

  "If you’re truly Colby, what have you got in your shirt pocket?"

  Colby put his hat back on, adjusted it, and smiled. He laughed, a deep gravelly laugh that came from somewhere near his heart. He reached inside the breast pocket of his shirt clasping something in his hand before strolling over to Lizzie.

  His left hand reached out and pulled her closer by the belt around her waist as his right hand opened up to the shine of his lucky gold piece.

  "Lemme tell ya, when we say, ‘Til Death Us Do Part," we’ll be lying, you know that, don’t you?"

  And Lizzie laughed.

  * * *

  Historical note

  The town of Buffalo, Wyoming, is so steeped in history, there is no doubt in my mind it must be home to several ghosts, although whether Lizzie Adams is one is not recorded. It was the main town for the many cattle companies formed along the Powder River in the early 1880s; one cattle baron, Moreton Frewen, even had twenty miles of telephone line laid from his ranch to the town so he could order supplies and easily send telegraphs.

  Later, when these large cattle companies fought the smaller ranch-owners, Buffalo played a part in the lynching of Cattle Kate and, subsequently, had an important role in the Johnson County War.

  The Hole-in-the-Wall, situated around Ghent’s Cabin, is, indeed, near Buffalo, and was home to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, when necessary, throughout their career. Elzy Lay, Maude Davis, and Black Jack Ketchum were all part of their Wild Bunch gang at various times, though I cannot attest to their having gone after gold buried on Colby Gates’ ranch. Maude divorced Elzy in 1899 when he received a life sentence in New Mexico, although he was later pardoned by the governor. He died in 1934 in Los Angeles. Black Jack Ketchum was hung in 1901 in New Mexico for attempted train robbery.

  The Occidental Hotel in Buffalo still stands, and is said to be haunted. It has played host to Cassidy and the Kid, as well as to Teddy Roosevelt, Calamity Jane, Buffalo Bill, Tom Horn, and many others. For more information go to http://www.occidentalwyoming.com/.

  * * *

  Thank you for reading Long a Ghost, and Far Away by award-winning author Andrea Downing. If you’d like to read more of Andrea’s books, you can find them here on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Andrea-Downing/e/B008MQ0NXS/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

  and at her Author Home: http://andreadowning.com

  A GHOSTLY WAGER

  By Blaire Edens

  Copyright©2016 by Blaire Edens

  Cover art by © Freebird Designs

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organization, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  About A Ghostly Wager

  Annabelle Lawson hops a train to Reno to escape a marriage to an older man. Alone and nearly destitute, she spots an advertisement that might change her life. If she can use the dreams that haunt her to land a job with the mysterious Tremayne P.S.I Agency, she might be able to buy a ticket home to Kentucky.

  Agent Cole Swansby is an up and coming detective for Tremayne P.S.I. There’s only thing that can sink his career: if the boss discovers he’s a skeptic. He’s under tremendous pressure to solve a case before the president of Midas Mining comes to town.

  For Glenn

  whose love of westerns might be rubbing off on me.

  Chapter One

  Virginia City, NV 1881

  At half past three on a Sunday afternoon, nineteen-year-old Annabelle Lawson was sewing the last button onto a new green calico dress when her father lurched through the front door. His blue eyes were bloodshot and the sweet, sour smell of whisky quickly filled the stale room. Her stomach lurched.

  The odor was bad enough but what he’d done to her the last time she’d smelled it was much worse.

  She rubbed her jaw. Even though the soreness had faded, the memory hadn’t.

  "Fix me something to eat," he bellowed. She could easily judge the state of his inebriation by the thickness of his Kentucky accent. Tonight, he was well into his cups. Her father was a large man with broad shoulders and a small waist. His clothes were rarely dirty. Papa may have come to Virginia City to work the mines but it hadn’t lasted long. These days, most of his money came from the faro table in Bucket’s Saloon. In this house, feast or famine was decided by how hot his luck was running.

  He’d been having a drought. In the richest city in the United States, the two of them were close to starving. Every day the pantry looked even more bare and it had been a month of Sundays since they’d had enough sugar to bake a cake.

  Finished with the button, Annabelle laid the dress on the table and walked to the kitchen. He had no idea that when he fell asleep, she planned to slip into her new dress and out the front door. God willing, this would be the last meal she cooked for him.

  He was damn lucky she wasn’t going to poison it.

  She’d spent her last night in this rickety shack and with any luck, she wasn’t just leaving her father and the prospect of marrying a man twice her age behind her, but maybe the dreams would finally stop, too.

  Ever since she’d had scarlet fever, the disease that had killed both her mother and her baby brother, they’d been coming to her every night. Four years of fragmented dreams. Ghosts, trapped between the living and the dead, haunted her. One after the other, like a macabre parade of nameless, faceless people who couldn’t find peace. Soldiers from The War, mothers with babies on their hips, old men with skin so wrinkled it was hard to see the glimmer of their eyes.

  They all wanted the same thing: Annabelle’s help. Each of them begged her to contact a love
d one, pass on a message.

  But she couldn’t. She hadn’t known the people when they were alive. How would she know how to contact their families and friends?

  It wasn’t that the ghosts scared her, it was that they made her feel powerless.

  Maybe, when she left this place, the dreams would finally stop.

  She scrambled two eggs and put them on a plate along with a biscuit left over from breakfast. "Here you go, Papa."

  He shoveled the food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. "This bread is stale."

  "Sorry, Papa," she said in the sweetest voice she could manage. "We’re all out of flour or I’d make you some more."

  "Always wanting money from me," he grumbled.

  She’d gotten, well stolen, a dollar from him the other day while he slept off a midday drunk. She spent the money on the cloth for the new dress. It was the first one she’d made since they’d come west four years ago. The beautiful green calico was the same color as her eyes and she knew her late mother would be proud of her handiwork, small delicate stitches and attention to detail.

  When he finished eating, he pushed the plate to the center of the table with a grunt. He staggered to his bed and Annabelle breathed a sigh of relief.

  The San Francisco Express came through town at six.

  She prayed he wouldn’t wake until she was halfway to Kansas City. Not that she had the money to make it that far.

  A few minutes later, after his snores became deep and even, she shucked off her old dress and slipped into her new one. Even though she’d hurried her sewing, it fit perfectly and she smoothed the waist with the palm of her hand.

  Careful to make no sound, she rushed into her small room. She took the money she’d stashed into a salve tin and dumped it into one of Papa’s socks she’d recently darned. She stuck it, along with her mother’s wedding band, a battered deck of playing cards, a piece of treasured lace, a stack of letters tied with a scrap of red ribbon and her knitting into a carpet bag she’d brought all the way from Kentucky.