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

by Keta Diablo

  Nonetheless, Carolina City has been kind. Despite my lack of appetite, the food has been plentiful, and most everyone (other than Maude) has been extremely kind and helpful, if not with my investigation, but with everyday life in the Nevada desert. I met Mayor Beckham my second day here, and he was a jovial gentleman who genuinely wanted to help. The strange thing is, he was unfamiliar with a missing marshal or Kurt Bonneville, too. Out of everyone here, I would have thought that he’d know the answers to my questions.

  I haven’t crossed paths with Grant too much since that day he ran off the John Douglas Gang, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t crossed my mind. When I’m alone, my thoughts drift to him and his roughened jaw, his warm eyes, his strong body. I’m not an innocent, blushing virgin by far, so my thoughts drift to other inappropriate scenarios.

  And I like it.

  I know that I’ve been avoiding it because of my attraction to him, but this should be the time to have a chat with the good marshal and his deputy. And with this dead end at the General Store, it’s high time.

  I gulp back the lump in my throat as my heart flutters. I pass by the saloon, where I see the saloon girls hanging out over the balcony.

  It’s incredibly un-ladylike—but I’ve already established that I’m not a typical lady—so I head straight through the swinging doors and take a seat at the bar.

  The saloon is mostly filled with men and cigarette smoke, and a few turn interestedly to look at me. I’ve talked with most of these men here about my investigation, but the atmosphere of the saloon is an entirely different feel.

  I pass by a poster that says in big block letters, "TOWN FESTIVAL SEPTEMBER 9, 1878." I frown at it. Again with the strange date. I met Bill Barnett, the town printer, during my questioning, and he seems like a nice guy. A little absentminded, but aren’t we all?

  After all, I’ve been at this for two weeks, and I can’t even manage to find a solid lead.

  Is the date just a repeated mistake, or is there something else?

  I wonder if any of these saloon-goers will be at the Town Festival. With everyone at the social, the streets will be like a ghost town, meaning that I may be able to talk to some of the dead without distraction.

  Maybe one of them will be Kurt Bonneville.

  I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I turn toward Virgil Reynolds, the bartender, who’s polishing a glass.

  "Whisky," I say roughly. "Strongest you’ve got."

  I know from experience that a strong drink will be the only thing that helps.

  "Right away, Miss Hart," Virgil says with a curt nod. He grabs a bottle from under the bar and starts pouring. All the way to the top of the glass.

  I glance around, taking stock of my surroundings. A few men are still leering toward me, and I note their positions relative to where I am. If they try anything, they’ve got another thing coming.

  "How is your search going, Miss Hart?" Virgil asks as he slides the glass over to me.

  "Thanks," I say before tipping the drink back. It burns all the way down and immediately dulls my raging headache. "It’s not going too well."

  "Maybe your Mr. Tremayne got it all wrong?"

  "Maybe," I agree blithely. I’d been wondering that myself.

  Mr. Tremayne...I actually have no idea if Nat is a man or a woman. The thought amuses me as I take another sip.

  "You goin’ to the festival tonight?"

  "I’m not sure," I say honestly. "It wouldn’t be fun for an out-of-towner like me. I may get in the way of a—"

  "You’re right, it wouldn’t be fun for someone like you," an unfamiliar voice says. A hand falls on my shoulder. And, judging by Virgil’s expression, that’s not a good thing. "What’s a lady like you doing in a place like this anyhow?" a man asks in my ear, his breath hot and overwhelmingly saturated with alcohol.

  "Wanting a drink, like everyone else here," I mutter, refusing to reward this chap with a look.

  "Sure you don’t want anything else? Like a man?"

  "Now, Luke," Virgil warns. "Leave the lady alone."

  "I’m not doing anything the little lady here isn’t willing to do. Ain’t that right?" My assailant leans in so closely to my cheek, I can feel the prickle of his beard against my skin. I fight the urge to shudder in revulsion. "You’re looking for a man to warm your bed after the festival tonight, ain’t ya?"

  I clench my fist around the glass. If he says one more thing....

  Then he does.

  "After all, that’s all you’re good for, ain’t it?"

  I throw back the rest of my whisky, over half the glass full, gathering the courage to look at the man who dares speak to me this way. I don’t recognize him, but based on his appearance, Luke could pass for the town drunk. Even in my lowest days, I would have never had him as a client. Even more insulting.

  He gives me a gaping grin as most of his teeth are missing. He’s about to miss a few more.

  I grip the glass and smash it into his face. The shards cut my hand, but more importantly, they cut his face. He reels backwards with a cry, and I get to my feet, ready for his cronies to come to his aid.

  Luke is screaming, flailing, as he clutches his face. And there’s a whole group of men stalking toward me.

  "Sorry about the mess," I say to Virgil. And I don’t mean the glass; there’s about to be a far bigger mess.

  "Look at what the little whore did to Luke Johnson!" one of the men sneers, stepping forward.

  "She got him good!" another one adds.

  "I think she’s looking for a real man. Don’t you?"

  One of them grabs me by the upper arm, meaning to pull me to him, but I use that momentum to slam my fist into his face. It’s been a few years since I’ve punched a man, but bar fights weren’t uncommon in the bad side of St. Louis. I feel the man’s nose break under my fist, and I raise my knee into his crotch.

  The man drops to his knees as pandemonium breaks out.

  A pair of arms grabs me from behind, thinking that he’s going to subdue me. I rear backwards, the back of my head hitting him in his face. He cries out in agony as I whirl around to face the others.

  There’s a good half dozen of them, and our little fight has attracted the attention of everyone in the saloon. From my vantage point, I can see the look of horror on Virgil’s face as he watches his establishment get torn to pieces.

  I’ll have to dig into my petty cash to pay for damages.

  Another man rushes me, but I dodge and slip away. I drag my foot behind me, which tangles up with his feet. He trips and goes down like a tree trunk.

  Learning their lesson, three men come at me at once. This is far too much for me to handle alone. One grabs my arms and the other grabs my feet as I shriek in anger.

  "Oh, she’s feisty all right!" the man who is holding my arms exclaims.

  "We’ll take care of her!" another says excitedly.

  Like hell they will.

  I spit in one’s face, and he responds by backhanding me. Stars dance across my vision as I fight to remain conscious. The world spins, thanks to the combination of whisky and pain, and I spit blood onto the floor.

  "You little bitch!" the man that slapped me yells, grabbing me by the chin.

  We all freeze at the sound of a shotgun being cocked.

  "I’d kindly ask that you take your hands off Miss Hart," Virgil says, his voice wavering. My heart flutters with appreciation that he came to my rescue, even though he’s shaking and unable to hold his shotgun straight as he does so. It’s nice to know that I’ve made friends here in my short time.

  "Or you’ll do what, old man?" the man holding my feet asks.

  "Or we’ll have to arrest every one of you," another familiar voice says, adding to the fray.

  Through my haze of pain, I turn to see Grant Madsen in the doorway of the saloon, loading his pistol as he pointedly looks our way. His young deputy is behind him, looking far less confident, but still determined to do his duty.

  The group holding me hostage fre
ezes, stunned for a moment.

  "Virgil," Grant says evenly, "what happened here?"

  "Miss Hart was having a drink when Luke Johnson, ah, propositioned her," the bartender explains. He’s so meek for a bartender, I’m surprised he’s able to survive in such a tough town.

  "And then?" Grant asks, cocking the pistol.

  Virgil’s eyes meet mine. "She turned him down."

  "Seems like a lot of destruction for a simple ‘no’," Deputy Jack observes, his boy-like voice at odds with this harsh environment.

  "But it wasn’t a simple ‘no’, now was it?" Grant asks.

  "She—she broke a glass on Luke’s face!" a voice cries.

  "Sounds like he deserved it," the marshal says coolly. "Now, let the lady go."

  The men do, and I fall to the ground in a heap. Between my hunger, my headache, the whisky, and being slapped like I was, I’m in poor condition.

  Boots come into my line of sight, and I look up to see Grant towering over me. He offers me a hand. "Jack, help me get Miss Hart out of here."

  Chapter Five

  "This is not exactly what I had in mind," I mutter, putting my forehead on the bars of my jail cell. I grasp at the bars with my hands. My right hand is roughly bandaged to stop the bleeding from where the broken glass cut me. "Shouldn’t you fellows put those men in here instead of me?"

  Deputy Jack frowns and then looks at Grant for guidance. I get the feeling that he isn’t very experienced in his role.

  "This is probably the safest place for you to be right now, Miss Hart," Grant says as he sits on the other side of the bars. I can’t help but think he’s a free man. "You just made enemies of a lot of men in this town."

  I quirk an eyebrow. "And you?"

  His lips twist into a grin. "Well, you just made a headache for me. The good news is I get to spend a little bit of time with you while things cool off. Speaking of, hey, Jack," he says, looking to his deputy.

  The boy straightens up. "Yessir?"

  Grant gestures with his head in the direction of the saloon. "Go make sure that everything is all right back at Virgil’s. I’m sure Luke and them are grumbling about something."

  Jack glances back at me, then nods and runs out the door.

  "Tell Virgil I’ll pay for any damages!" I call after him.

  Grant shoots me a glare. "Like hell you will. You shouldn’t have to pay for damages. Not for defending your honor like that."

  My cheeks redden. "I have no honor left."

  Grant doesn’t say anything, the awkward silence stretching long enough that I shift and sit on the floor with my back to him. It’s a good thing that these bars are between us. Otherwise, I might not have any control with him so close to me.

  Ugh, what is wrong with me?

  A former prostitute has no business hoping to be courted by a US Marshal. Anyway, I live in St. Louis when I’m not traveling across the country investigating ghostly appearances. I’m twenty-seven and unmarried. There’s no reason for me to even entertain the thought.

  Then my stomach growls loudly. Embarrassingly so.

  "Hungry?" Grant asks behind me.

  "Ravenous. I haven’t had a good meal since I arrived. I think Missus Benson has been secretly trying to poison me."

  "It’s not so secret that she would try." I hear the scrape of Grant’s chair as he gets up from his seat. "Let me see what I can rustle up for you."

  "You don’t have to—" I say, twisting around to look at him.

  He gives me a gentle smile. "I was taught to always treat my guests kindly. And you look like you need somethin’."

  I’m not the only one who’s noticed that I’m losing weight. I’m flattered that he paid attention. I could fight him some more on bothering with getting me something to eat, but the thought of food—any sort of food—has my mouth watering.

  "All right," I concede. "I’d like that. Thank you."

  He nods, then disappears out back behind the jailhouse, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The jailhouse itself isn’t too lavish. There’re only four cells, two on each wall, with a desk in between them, and a front and back door. Based on the presence of the John Douglas Gang, I would have expected there to be more and maybe even one of them in here. It’s dark, as night is falling outside, and the entire place is illuminated by only one candle.

  Twenty minutes later, Grant comes back with a steaming bowl of black beans. And unlike what I’ve been eating at Missus Benson’s Boarding House for the past fortnight, this smells delicious. I grab it through the bars and start spooning the food into my mouth.

  "Figured beans would be easy on a weak stomach," Grant says, "but it looks like your stomach is no longer weak."

  I shrug. "Maybe you’re just a good cook."

  "Hardly."

  In minutes, I devour the meal, and I set the empty bowl down and sigh contentedly.

  "Feel better?" Grant asks.

  "Much, thank you."

  Now that I’ve gorged myself, I feel sluggish and heavy. But at least the constant ache in my stomach is gone. I’d been joking earlier, but maybe Maude really is trying to poison me. Or, at the very least, starve me with terrible food.

  "I’m surprised I haven’t seen more of you," Grant says carefully, causing me to look over at him. His face is neutral as he watches me, but I have to fight back the rising heat in my complexion. "You’ve been the talk of the town since you arrived, yet you haven’t stopped by to say howdy."

  I clear my throat. "You were next on my list."

  "Was I now?"

  It is the truth, but I chuckle and run my fingers through my hair. My fight at the saloon has messed up my sausage curls. That and with the scar on my face, I must look a fright to him. But he’s watching me like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.

  At least, I think so. A lot of men have looked at me like that, especially in my younger years. Not recently though, so I may be out of practice at recognizing it.

  But I want it to be. So badly.

  I remember my dream, the one where a man is telling me to save him. I briefly wonder if it’s him. If I—

  "Say," he asks, and I see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. "Are you going to the town festival tonight?"

  I look at him, unable to form an answer. I hadn’t planned on it, especially with the brawl at the saloon, so why is he asking? Is he asking to take me to festival? Or is he just asking out of curiosity, like one would.

  Should I say yes? Or should I say no?

  Should I remind him that I’m not the most liked person in the town right now?

  "Marshal?"

  We both turn to see Charlotte standing in the doorway of the jail, wringing her hands. She looks flushed and sweaty, her eyes darting between the two of us. She watches me longer, her face pinching slightly as she looks at me like she’s wondering what I’m doing in a jail cell.

  Yet at the same time, she looks as if she’s seen a ghost.

  "What is it, Miss Freeman?" Grant asks, getting up from his seat.

  Charlotte jumps as he comes up close to her. "It—it’s Missus Benson."

  My veins turn to ice. "What about her?"

  "She’s sick. Doc Strom is with her now. And he wants to speak with you, Marshal."

  I’ve been around death and ghosts long enough to know exactly what that means. And I can tell based on the way Charlotte is speaking that it’s a matter of life and death.

  I shiver as Grant nods and grabs his hat, his movements heavy. Like he knows exactly what’s happening. He wouldn’t be summoned if it was a simple sickness.

  "Let me come with you," I blurt.

  He looks at me warily. "Miss Hart—"

  "Hattie."

  "Miss Hattie." His perfect lips pull into a fine line. "You don’t have to do this."

  "I’m a psychic investigator," I say. "I’ll be able to help."

  I think he knows why there might be a need for a psychic investigator in a situation like this.

  * * *

 
The smell of sickness hits me as we enter Maude’s inner sanctum of her boarding house. I’ve been staying here for two weeks, so I know that her living quarters are in the back of the establishment, behind the counter. I’ve just never been allowed back here.

  That doesn’t seem to be a problem as the three of us enter the room. Urine, vomit, rice stool, and sweat all intermingle within the chambers, and I cover my mouth and nose with my hand to keep from gagging.

  It’s strong, and the reason for the odor is on the bed in front of me.

  Maude, for all of her angry outbursts and scrutinizing glares at me earlier, cuts a pathetic, broken figure on the bed. She doesn’t even know that I’m standing in her room. She’s somewhere in between consciousness and sleep, muttering and thrashing about.

  There’s a young man in a white shirt huddled over her, his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. It’s Doc Strom; I’ve talked with him briefly when I was asking around. He’s putting a cold compress on her forehead, although it doesn’t stay on as she’s whipping about.

  She’s dying, I realize.

  "Doc," Grant says, clearing his throat.

  Doc looks up at us and lets out a weary sigh. "Marshal," he says. "You might want to get out of here, Charlotte."

  The girl lets out a nervous giggle and ducks through the door, and the doctor’s gaze falls on me, and he frowns with vague recognition. "You might want to step outside too, Miss—?"

  "Miss Hart," I finish, but I stay rooted to my spot. Maude and I may have had a difference of opinion when it came to each other, but I’m not going to abandon her.

  Another figure joins us, and I look up at him, surprised that he’s here. "What’s wrong with her?" Mayor Beckham asks, filling the end of the room with his big frame.

  Doc looks to Grant for permission before answering.

  "Tell him, Doc," Grant murmurs softly.

  Doc nods and gulps nervously. "She’s sick. Has dysentery or cholera. I can’t tell which. Not with the tools available to me. We can send a wire out to another doctor, but I don’t know if she’ll last long enough for them to arrive."