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

by Keta Diablo

  I take a few breaths and straighten, leaning against Betsy. The mule flicks her ear in irritation but otherwise tolerates my use of her as something to lean on.

  I think she and I are going to get along. Best friends, maybe. It seems appropriate that I’d be best friends with an ass.

  "New in town, Miss?"

  I still, feeling something akin to dread and ice in my veins. It’s a man’s voice, somewhere behind me, easy on the drawl and probably easy on the eyes. He can be one of two things: a nice gentleman who seriously wants to help me out. Or he can be a right bastard who senses that I was once a saloon girl. I know that the makeup and perfume that I wear give me away as my former self, but I can’t seem to stop wearing them. I like feeling pretty.

  Unfortunately, many men like me pretty as well.

  I gulp and straighten my skirts as I turn around to face the man. He’s in the saddle of a stallion that’s taller than any I’ve seen.

  And he’s...handsome.

  Tall, dark, and handsome. Chiseled chin, dark hair, a well-trimmed mustache, brown eyes that glitter with mischief. His luscious mouth slants upwards in a lopsided smile as he tips his Stetson to me. He has that weather-beaten look of someone who has grown up in the wild west, an unruliness that, untamed, could go toward outlaw or lawman.

  A quick look at the badge on his shirt says that he’s the latter. Which is confounding as I’m looking for a missing US Marshal. And there is one right here.

  Is he the one I'm looking for?

  "Yes, I am new in town," I say, giving him a shy smile back. I try to brush a strand of hair behind my ear, meaning to cover up the scar on my cheek. "I’m here for just for a few days."

  He raises an eyebrow. "It’s unusual for a woman to be traveling alone out to Carolina City."

  "I’m not traveling alone." I pat Betsy’s side, and she farts in reply. "I’ve got my ass with me."

  He throws his head back and laughs.

  Maybe it’s the laudanum or maybe it’s been a while since I’ve had a man in my bed—that hasn’t happened since Nat bought my way out of the saloon with an agent from the Agency handing me an envelope full of cash to pay off my debt, and I’ve tried to be a good girl since—but I feel my heart flutter in reply.

  This is bad news. I’ve always fallen quick and hard for a hardened, handsome man with a good laugh. Apparently, I never learn from my mistakes.

  I clear my throat and try to clear my head in the process.

  "Actually, Marshal, I’m in town for an investigation."

  "An investigation?"

  I pull out my papers, the ones that I have identifying myself as an employee of the Tremayne P.S.I Agency. They have far less merit to them than a badge, certainly, but at least they explain a lot more than a five-minute conversation ever could. I’ve found that out pretty quickly.

  He takes them and looks them over, his quirked eyebrow rising higher with each word that he reads. "Ghosts?"

  "And other psychic activity," I add. "Although I specialize in the ghost part."

  "What kind of ghost could bring you to Carolina City, Miss Hart?" That lopsided smile is back, waiting patiently for me to continue.

  "Well, I’m not too sure what kind of ghost, but I do know that I’m here to investigate the disappearance of a US Marshal."

  His smile disappears like water droplets in a desert. "A US Marshal has disappeared?"

  "My employer seems to be under that impression."

  I take out my telegram from my breast pocket and hand it to him. He reads that over as well, his frown deepening.

  "Kurt Bonneville?" he asks, frowning.

  Hope flutters in my chest. "Do you know him?"

  A look of indecision crosses his face, and he considers my question before shaking his head. "It sounds familiar, but I don’t recognize the name." He frowns, confusedly. "What’s more, your telegram appears to be incomplete," he says, handing it back to me.

  "Yes," I say, exasperated. "Something must have happened to the wire. But duty calls and that’s why I’m here. So it’s fortuitous that you should be the first person I meet in town." There I go, being very formal with my introductions, when all I want to do is stare into his eyes more.

  "Oh?" He looks genuinely interested.

  "Well, I’d assume that you’d know if there was a missing marshal or not. Are you sure you don’t know of any?"

  He frowns, our eyes meeting, and I feel my cheeks blush. He hasn’t asked about the scar on my cheek, for which I’m thankful. That is always such an awkward conversation to have with someone who pries into people’s personal lives.

  I get the feeling that he’s not like that, though. He has that boyish personality that I find magnetic, and he has such an intense stare, my insides heat up whenever he looks at me like this.

  And we’ve only just met.

  "Keep in mind, sir," I add, if only to fill the silence between us, "that he might have been missing for a few years now. I do investigate the dead, after all."

  He nods, perplexed, but he looks away from me, the stallion trotting in place. "Not recently," he says. "But I’m fairly new at my post—six months, which is not long."

  "No, it’s not," I agree, sighing. Of course, I’d find a marshal who’s new to the area.

  "I can have a look, though. Jack Shepherd, my deputy, grew up here, so if there is a Mr. Kurt Bonneville, he may know." He sizes me up and down. "Where are you staying while you’re in town?"

  "I haven’t quite figured that part out yet," I admit.

  I really do sound like an amateur.

  Yet he kindly points further down the street. "Maude’s Boarding House usually has vacancy," he says. "She’ll put you up in a soft bed, and she serves breakfast. And there’s room for the mule, too."

  Betsy snorts in answer. I give her another pat. "Thank you kindly for the recommendation, sir."

  "Call me Grant. Grant Madsen," he says, supplying me his name.

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

  "Likewise." He grins again, watching me. As if a decision has been made, he straightens up. "Come, I’ll introduce you to Maude, myself. I don’t think she’ll take to you, but that’s what’ll make this all the more interesting."

  I didn’t know what he meant until we set foot inside the hotel.

  * * *

  "Maude, you got a vacancy?"

  After tying up our stallion and mule to the hitch outside, I follow Grant into the darkened building, trying not to notice how his trousers hang around his hips as he carries my trunk into the boarding house. He stands a full head taller than I do, which is surprising, considering that I’m tall for a woman.

  The boarding house itself isn’t very busy, which is just fine by me. There are a few tables for eating food, a few couches, and a counter where a very big woman in her fifties is watching us with a shrewd expression.

  She must be Maude. She reminds me of a schoolmarm with her graying hair up in a knot. Her voluptuous breasts push at her apron as she examines us with contempt.

  "What’s it to you, Marshal?" she grunts as she polishes a glass. Her gaze then lands on me, and I can feel her judgment.

  She thinks I’m warming his bed tonight! I press my lips together and fume slightly. After all, that’s not the case at all.

  I look at Grant once more, wondering how often he takes a lady friend into this hotel. Or maybe Maude just looks at everyone like that.

  "This here lady needs a place to sleep tonight," Grant says, gesturing to me. "She’s new in town."

  "I can see that," Maude says in a gruff voice.

  I bristle. "I’m here on business. Me and my mule."

  She raises an eyebrow. "What kind of business?"

  And just like that, I’m on her bad side. Grant watches me with an amused expression, and I wish he wasn’t here.

  "I’m a psychic investigator."

  "Investigating what?" Maude asks.

  "Ghosts," Grant supplies. "She’s here to look into the disappearance of
a marshal and find a Mr. Kurt Bonneville."

  Maude puts a hand on her hip. "I ain’t ever heard of no marshal disappearing nor no Mr. Bonneville. Not ‘round these parts."

  Grant shrugs, coy. "Neither have I."

  "You’re new here," Maude says. "You wouldn’t."

  "Well I’m here to find out if there is one in the past who is missing," I say.

  Maude’s eyes rake me up and down dubiously, lingering too long on the scar on my cheek. "Right." She turns away from me, dismissive.

  I clear my throat, gathering my courage. "I would like a room, please."

  She glances back and quirks an eyebrow. "Just you?"

  "Just me. Oh, and my mule outside."

  The older woman nods. "Good that it’s just yourself. I won’t have any of that funny business on my premises."

  I don’t even get the chance to tell her that I find her assumptions as insulting as if she had just come out and called me a whore. But I bite my tongue, as I need a place to stay tonight. A quick glance at the windows shows that the sun has fully set and nighttime is settling over these dry, rustic hills.

  It’s just for a few nights. I’ll find this Kurt Bonneville—whether he’s alive or dead—and figure out what happened to that US Marshal.

  Maude leans to her left, behind the desk, and produces a large skeleton key.

  "Up the stairs," she says, pointing. "Second door on the left. Breakfast is served at sunrise, and I lock the doors at eight o’clock. I’ll get Stephen to put away your ass and take your trunk up to your room. Now—" she waves the key in front of me, like she’s disciplining me "—I mean it about that funny business. I ain’t having that here."

  "Maude—" I start.

  "Missus Benson," she corrects dryly.

  "Missus Benson," I say. "I am only here on official business."

  "Good." The way she says it makes me think that she’s unconvinced, but there’s nothing more I can do, other than solve this mystery about Kurt Bonneville, the missing marshal, and then get on my merry way.

  I clutch the key to my chest and take a deep, steadying breath.

  Do it for Nat, do it for Nat. Nat saved you.

  "Stephen!" Maude snaps, and I see a young boy emerge from the shadows to run out to take care of Betsy for the night. I see a passing resemblance as he rushes by me—he must be Maude’s son.

  Poor kid.

  "Can you please be sure to give Betsy a carrot?" I ask, handing the boy a coin. "I promised her one earlier, and I always follow through with my promises."

  From the corner of my eye, I see Maude’s disapproving frown, but Stephen looks at me with wide eyes. I think he doesn’t have very many visitors tip him like this.

  Grant sets my trunk on the ground. "Well, I’ll be seeing you around, Miss Hart." He tips his hat. "I’ll ask Jack if he knows anything about your Mr. Bonneville."

  "I do appreciate it," I say, deflated that he’s leaving. What’s happening to me?

  "And don’t let Maude get to you." He winks. "I think she likes you."

  "Likewise."

  He lingers for a moment longer, gazing at me with the dark eyes before nodding distractedly. "Enjoy your stay in Carolina City. And don’t hesitate to ask for my help if you need anything. I may be new here, but people tend to listen to an officer of the law."

  "Much appreciated, Marshal."

  I prefer to not get too acquainted with the locals during my investigations, but the gesture is nice. I smile, trying to keep my distance from him. It’s admittedly hard. The attraction I feel for him is distracting, and I have to keep my focus on his face, otherwise my gaze will start roaming over his muscular body.

  Our eyes meet one more time, before he quirks a smile to me, tips his hat once again, and he steps outside the swing doors.

  I let out a shuddering breath and turn back to the stairs, ready to collapse into anything resembling a bed tonight. My headache has gotten worse since I arrived, and all I want to do is sleep.

  "Have a good night, Missus Benson," I say.

  She only grunts and turns back to her countertop.

  This whole place is wearing me out. Looks like I’m going to sleep well tonight.

  Chapter Three

  Even though I had quite a few drops of laudanum to calm the frantic thoughts and aches that are running through my head, I’m still wide awake, staring at the ceiling while the quiet of the town outside unnerves me. Whatever it is, there’s something about being alone in the silence that makes me feel like I’m exposed and vulnerable.

  What I wouldn’t give for sleep without the headaches and some nice dreams.

  Still though, sometimes my dreams aren’t dreams at all. Sometimes, all I see is my past. Which may as well be called for what it is: a nightmare.

  And I wouldn’t trade a headache for one of those nightmares.

  Restlessness brings me to my feet, and I wrap a shawl around my shoulders and head to the window, where the moon hangs lazily in the sky. The room that Maude gave me isn’t that big, and my trunk dominates the space.

  But I pay that no mind as I frown slightly, looking out the window.

  There are...lights...out there. I can see the bundle of lanterns move among the darkness as the landscape and shrubbery blots them in and out of existence.

  Carolina City grew up as a silver mining town around the Haight Mines, that much I know. Still though, I’m almost certain that there’s no one who is dumb enough to go looking for silver at this time of night.

  The fires move, almost like they’re in slow motion, the blues and oranges mixing with each other. Almost ghostly in their appearance.

  I may have just found some psychic activity.

  I cross myself and retrieve my journal as I head back to the bed. I unscrew my pen and begin to write, cataloging these strange events. I’m sure that Nat would want this in my final report.

  Ghost fire, I write, and then I proceed to describe every detail I can remember. Can ghosts even make fire? After all I’ve seen in my time, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  It’s when you’re not surprised that you should be worried.

  A headache cracks against my skull again, and I wince in pain. Since I got here, these headaches have been nonstop. Generally, they herald the appearance of a spectral being, which means that I’m either surrounded by ghosts here or I’ve finally lost my mind.

  I wouldn’t be surprised for the latter. It might even be a relief.

  "Keep yourself together, Hattie," I tell myself, gritting my teeth. I try to not reach for the laudanum, but I never was good at ignoring my impulses. I grab the large bottle and drink, putting enough in my body to try to extinguish this pain.

  Instead, the laudanum makes the entire world tilt and feel like it’s reeling underneath my feet. I blink, shake my head, and let out a slow breath, willing the headache to subside (oh yes, please go away).

  To my pleasure, it does, but it leaves me with a loony, strange sensation. I’ve drugged myself, but so long as the pain is gone, I don’t really even care.

  I put aside the journal, and I dimly hear the pen tumble to the floor before I pull the covers up to my chin. Then my eyelids get so heavy, they crash down, throwing me into a world of dreams.

  * * *

  His lips are against mine, unusual, because I never let a man kiss me before when we’re doing this. But this isn’t just any man. I love him. He is my spirit, my world, my reason for being.

  If only I could remember what his name is.

  His hands are everywhere I want them to be, and I moan his name into his lips, like a prayer. Except I can’t hear what I say. But my soul knows.

  "Hattie," he whispers against my skin. "Hattie."

  He takes me by the shoulders and pulls me back. I dazedly look up at him. My vision wobbles, and there are four different versions of him swirling round and round. I can’t tell what he looks like, except that his eyes are kind. And I can tell that he loves me back.

  "Hattie," he whispers. His voice is so
far away. "Hattie. Save me."

  I blink, confused. "What?"

  "Save me, Hattie...Save me."

  * * *

  I grimace, feeling every layer of my being come back into focus, one at a time. Pain is the first foreign feeling as the drug wears off.

  My headache is back. What is going on?

  I press my palms to my eyelids and take in a shuddering breath. No, I’m not taking more laudanum. I’m supposed to be weaning myself off it, but instead I just seem to be taking it more and more.

  "Okay, Hattie," I tell myself, "you’re going to get up, get dressed, head downstairs for breakfast and then solve this case."

  And maybe see the town doctor. Then again, he may have me committed.

  I hear the whisper of something being shoved underneath the door. I sit up in bed, frowning at the folded-up newspaper that has appeared there. Something compels me to get to my feet, and I pad over to the door and pick it up.

  The Carolina City Gazette. I open it up, finding that it’s not a very big newspaper. I guess there’s not much to talk about when it’s a small town like this.

  The front page headline is simply, "SILVER DRYING UP!" with an opinion piece about how the town can recover from the rush. I read it with half-interest, feeling a nagging sensation in the back of my mind.

  Then I look at the date posted on the newspaper: "AUGUST 25, 1878".

  I know for a fact that the actual date is August 25, 1888. So why is this paper ten years behind the times?

  Such a strange town.

  * * *

  To my utter surprise and delight, Maude is not behind the counter when I head downstairs. It’s a girl who’s a bit younger than me. Unlike Maude, it seems like she hasn’t been burned by life. She gives an easy smile and gestures over to the empty bar.

  "Anywhere you’d like, sugah."

  "Where’s Mau—Missus Benson?"

  I must have sounded wary, because the girl laughs. "She’s still asleep. I work in the mornings for her."

  I sigh in relief. After my weird dreams and the headaches and the newspaper, I don’t think I could have handled her scrutiny.

  "You seem a much nicer person to deal with. Morning or any time of day."