He wondered if there was something wrong with his hearing. “The past what?”
She shook her head. “For you to truly understand what is going on you will need to talk to the niña, Rachel. Much of it is her story to tell, not mine.”
Jared felt his blood pressure rising. He threw up his hands. “Fine, then why don’t you tell me your story.”
“You must know hers before you can understand mine.” Maya filled his plate with eggs and bacon. “It will be very warm today. You should do your hard work early, before it gets too hot outside.”
If she could ignore his questions, he could ignore her orders, even if they made perfect sense. The last thing he’d want was a bad case of heat stroke. But he had to figure this out. The trouble was, his tangled thoughts were making him more than a little crazy. At the moment, he felt a strong need for some distance.
“I’m going into town to pick up supplies. Let me know what you need.” He fixed a skeptical gaze on her as he ate. “Should I find some silver bullets or wooden stakes? Or maybe a few gallons of holy water?”
Maya’s upper lip curled as if she knew he was making fun at her expense, even if she didn’t entirely understand what he meant. She set his refilled coffee mug down next to his elbow with great care. He got the feeling the hot coffee could have just as easily landed in his lap.
Jared deliberately took his time eating breakfast, and ignored Maya’s gloomy mutterings that the day was already half-gone. Since dawn was a little over an hour old, he disagreed with her. Not that he’d say so aloud. The coffeepot was still half-full.
As he ate, he thought about Rachel’s apparent disappearance. He told himself it was nothing more than some kind of trick. For all he knew he’d fallen asleep and just thought she’d disappeared in front of him. Maybe he hadn’t tried to kiss her, after all. Maybe he only dreamed that he did.
But people didn’t just disappear unless David Copperfield was in town. There had to be another explanation.
He only saw her at night, and she didn’t seem to have anything that resembled a magic wand.
Then there was her refusing to talk about her past.
He recalled the night she’d talked about life on the ranch. Her description of a working ranch from more than a hundred years ago sounded pretty real to him. Was there a chance she was describing the ranch as it once was? Maybe she’d seen pictures of it at the historical society. Or in one of the few books that talked about the town’s history. Maybe she just had an incredible imagination.
And Maya. Sadly, there were still people who couldn’t read or write, but there was something about her that spoke of a culture that hadn’t existed for more than a century.
He could have been eating sawdust for all the attention he gave his food.
As a homicide detective, Jared was used to dealing with puzzles. He didn’t like puzzles that made no sense. What had happened with Rachel that morning didn’t make sense. And it was apparent that Maya wasn’t going to explain things to him.
Once he’d finished his meal, he refilled his coffee mug and carried it into the other room. He sat down with his laptop computer and logged on to the Internet. He wasted no time tracking down the Web site of the local historical society. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but it was the only place he thought might have some answers for him. He clicked on the link taking him to the section displaying historical photographs from the county’s past.
He felt another punch to the gut when he spotted an old photograph showing a local rancher and his wife. Jared stared long and hard, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
The black-and-white image was faded by time, the couple in the stiff pose of that era as they faced the camera. The woman was seated primly in a chair, with her hands folded in her lap, while the man stood behind her, a hand resting on her shoulder. As had been the norm with photographs in the 1800s, neither person wore a smile. Jared didn’t bother looking at the man; it was the woman who caught his attention. The stark photo depicted her delicate features, large eyes and hair pulled back in a neat coil. Her lush mouth looked ready to smile if given the chance, but her eyes told a different story. They told him of a woman who was unhappy, frightened even.
The man’s conservative suit did little to disguise the bulky build of someone who enjoyed his food and drink. His fingers were large and blunt. The hand lying heavily on her shoulder looked accustomed to hard labor, and had probably engaged in a good share of physical battles during its time. Jared was positive this man was possessive of anything he considered his. There was no doubt he considered the woman seated in front of him as one of his possessions.
With a sense of doom, Jared read the caption under the photograph.
Caleb Bingham, one of the founding fathers of Sierra Vista, then a dying mining camp dubbed No Name Camp, and his wife, Rachel. Mr. Bingham was known for his drive in building the camp into a thriving town.
Jared felt a strange chill invade his body as he stared at the picture.
Rachel Bingham.
The Rachel Bingham shown here was married to Caleb Bingham in the 1800s. That Rachel Bingham could be his Rachel’s twin sister. While the photograph wasn’t in color, he didn’t miss the style of dress the woman wore. He’d swear it was the same gown he saw on Rachel every night.
He felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Jared worked with logic, not fantasy. He didn’t believe in the supernatural crap so popular these days.
As he stared woodenly at the photograph, the barest hint of jasmine teased his nostrils.
“Maybe I’m imagining that, too,” he muttered, without looking up from the computer monitor. “For all I know, Maya could be putting something funny in my food.” He clicked on another page, which gave an abbreviated history of Caleb and Rachel Bingham. He skimmed most of it until he came to the section that mentioned Rachel’s death as one of the most heinous crimes in the area.
He read the chilling story—that she’d been killed by one of the ranch hands, who was immediately caught and hanged for the murder. Barely twenty-four hours later, Caleb Bingham had been brutally murdered. His killer had never been found and the murder remained unsolved to this day.
The coffee Jared had been drinking suddenly tasted like acid in his stomach. He set the mug down and closed the Web page. He noticed the scent of jasmine was now absent.
“Terrific. All I got were more questions and not enough answers,” he muttered, shutting off his computer. He got up and walked back to the kitchen.
Maya was strangely reticent as she recited her list of items needed. Jared didn’t look at her once as he wrote them down.
“I’ll be back later this morning.” He whistled for Harley.
She followed him out onto the back porch. “If you wish, the dog can stay here,” she said grudgingly. “You say dogs cannot go into your general stores now. If you leave him by your smelly machine, someone might think he is a useful dog and try to take him. Not that I would miss him. He is a great deal of trouble.”
Jared was stunned—not just by Maya’s offer, but that she had spoken more directly to him than she usually did.
“Tell me something, Maya. If I brought back something fancy for you would you throw it at me or thank me?”
She sniffed loudly as if she encountered a bad smell. “Men think they can tempt a woman with a few pieces of ribbon or a new hat, but we know better.”
“Then I’ll make it easy on both of us and just bring you a new broom to fly on.” He walked over to his Harley. When the dog started to follow, he gestured for him to return to the house. The young pup whined in disappointment at not being able to go along, but made his way slowly back to the steps.
“Do you think I do not know what you mean when you speak of flying brooms?” Maya called after him. “Do not talk lightly of such things, Señor Stryker. There are powers in this world you cannot even imagine. Just because you die does not mean you leave the land. Some spirits remain and continue to be aware of what go
es on around them.”
About to swing his leg over the bike, Jared paused. He turned around and walked back to the bottom step, looking up at Maya. He guessed he had just been given an important clue, or else she was messing with his mind big time.
He shook his head, refusing to accept what he’d just heard.
“No way. No way,” he declared, more strongly the second time.
She crossed her arms in front of her and stared down at him. Her silence told him that she believed every word she spoke was the truth.
“You’re saying Rachel and you are…?” He couldn’t use the word. “That you’re…” He shook his head again, still refusing to accept what she implied. “No way. That is not possible in this world.”
The older woman’s black eyes betrayed no emotion as she gazed down at him with the haughty manner of a queen born in an ancient land. A sensation skittering along his spine told him this woman was more than a mere housekeeper. Logic would never be able to explain her existence.
“History says that Caleb was a cold son of a bitch who ruled his land with an iron fist,” Jared murmured. “But you never let him rule you, did you? You always looked him in the eye like you’re looking at me right now.” He didn’t believe one word he said. There was no way she could have been alive back then. He just threw out the bait to see her reaction.
She crossed her arms in front of her. Normally this would be a defensive gesture, but with Maya it was the opposite. “History depends on who tells the story.”
“Then why don’t you tell me your history?” he invited.
Maya’s smile was a bare twist of the lips. “Go ride your machine of noise and do what you must do. You will learn the truth when it is time.” With a swirl of her ankle-length skirts she turned around and walked back into the house, slamming the door behind her.
He stared after her for a moment, then mounted his bike and headed for town.
Jared did a lot of hard thinking during his ride into Sierra Vista.
What flashed into his mind was the look of faint resignation on Rachel’s face just before she’d faded into nothing.
For all he knew, he’d been having a pretty incredible dream these past weeks since he’d moved into the house.
But if he wasn’t dreaming, the Rachel he knew was the same Rachel who’d been murdered more than a hundred years ago.
Jared might enjoy watching science fiction and horror movies, but that didn’t mean he believed little green men lived on Mars. He liked the escapism the films offered, so he could briefly forget the nights he spent visiting crime scenes that always involved at least one dead body.
In his world, the dead stayed dead.
Jared parked his Harley in front of the Sierra Vista Historical Society, set on a side street only a few blocks from the police station. The elegant Victorian-style house was painted a pearl-gray with white trim. A white wicker settee, chair and small table sat on the porch, and a basket of colorful flowers had been placed on the table, as if the lady of the house had just selected them from her garden. On one side of the front door was a small bronze plaque posting the society’s hours. A plaque on the other side announced that the house was listed in the state’s historical register. He noted that it had been built the year Rachel Bingham died.
When he stepped inside the foyer he looked to one side and noticed the parlor, where he found two elderly women seated on a dark red velvet antique love seat that, to him, looked very uncomfortable, but appropriate for the room. A china tea set sat on a small table in front of them, as if they were two old friends enjoying a morning visit. Jared’s first thought was that Rachel would look right at home in this room.
The women looked at him warily when he stepped inside. He hid a grin, doubting that someone dressed in a much faded green T-shirt, tan jeans and scuffed boots was a typical visitor. Jared told himself it was a good thing he’d left Harley home. He doubted the wicker furniture on the porch would have survived the dog’s chewing skills.
He brought out the smile he used when he needed to reassure panicked witnesses, along with his detective shield, to assure them he was one of the good guys. He noticed both women wore dresses that looked very similar in style to the gown Rachel wore. One of them had an old-fashioned cameo pinned to her lace collar. The smell of something floral emanated from a crystal dish on a table near the love seat. He struggled not to sneeze.
“Good morning, ladies.” He nodded at each one. “I am hoping you can help me with something.”
“Yes, young man?” The one whose tiny badge pinned to her breast declared her to be Daisy spoke first. Her silver hair was piled on top of her head in a series of curls.
Luckily, he’d prepared his story during the ride in case there was a chance someone was here to help him. “My name is Jared Stryker. I own the Diamond B property just outside town.”
The other woman, named Clara, nodded. “You’re Winnie Davis’s grandson.” Her gray hair was pulled back in a sedate coil on the back of her head.
“My grandmother died before I was born, ma’am.” He realized this was going to take more socializing than he’d planned on. Not to mention had the patience for. Evenings spent at The Renegade hadn’t given him the right kind of education for dealing with sweet little old ladies who’d known his mother’s mother.
“Your father was a nasty little boy,” Clara said bluntly. “I wasn’t surprised he ended up in prison. If you follow a life of crime, you must expect to pay the price. At least you had the good sense to make a better life for yourself.”
“You’re embarrassing the boy, Clara,” Daisy chided, before turning back to Jared. “When you get to be our age, you tend to speak more openly.”
“It’s nice to know that someone doesn’t try to lump me with him,” he admitted. “Actually, I’m here to find out more about the ranch. I’m curious about the original owner. I’ve heard some pretty fantastic stories, but I thought I’d come here to see if there’s more known about him.”
Daisy’s nose twitched as if she smelled something foul. “Caleb Bingham!” She said the name with contempt. “Some say he gave life to the town when it was nothing more than a camp, but that’s not true. He took advantage of gaining a great deal of land by cheating people. He was a very evil man.”
“But as you said, he was one of the town founders and helped make it a thriving area,” Jared stated, recalling what he’d read on the Web site. “It’s even been said Sierra Vista wouldn’t have existed without him and the horse ranch he built. That without his influence, the town would have been nothing more than a dead-end mining town. He even built a racetrack, thinking it would generate additional business, but that didn’t work out.”
Daisy nodded. “I’m sure he preferred history say he was a wonderful man only thinking of the community, but that is not true. The trouble is, no one likes to air a town’s dirty linen. Especially any as nasty as Caleb Bingham’s.”
“What is it you wish to learn, dear?” Clara asked.
“Whatever you might know about the ranch’s beginnings. About the people living there.” He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to voice Rachel’s name out loud.
Clara stood up and crooked her finger. “Come with me and we’ll set you up. Would you like some tea? No, I suppose you don’t drink tea.” She looked him up and down. “But we do have some nice iced raspberry tea.”
“No, thank you, ma’am, I’m fine.” Jared realized he was using up all of his limited social skills in a very short period of time.
Clara led him down a narrow hallway to a rear room she described as the former butler’s pantry, although the owners of the house at that time didn’t have a butler. Now the room held several tables with computer monitors on them, hooked up to a computer network. She soon had him seated in front of a monitor. “We were able to scan many of the old records. All you have to do is type in the name you’re looking for,” she explained as she carried out two large books and set them on a nearby table. “You will also find ne
wspaper articles from that time period in here.” She studied him. “So you’re currently living in the house?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am, for about six weeks now. I inherited it when my mother died, but it was held in trust until my thirtieth birthday.”
“At least she had the good sense to insure the property would be saved for you. That way your father couldn’t try to sell it,” she said bluntly upon seeing his shocked expression. “It’s a small town, young man. There are no secrets here.”
I can think of one. He composed his expression so he wouldn’t laugh.
“Thank you for your help,” he murmured, hoping she would leave him alone with his research.
She smiled. “We’re here to help. Just call out if you have any questions.”
Left alone, Jared turned back to the monitor. He spent the next two hours reading newspaper stories about Caleb Bingham obtaining land with the intention of building a ranch and stocking it with prime horseflesh. Bingham vowed that, once his ranch was successful, he would find himself the right wife, so he could start his own personal dynasty. Jared fast-forwarded until he found the story of Bingham’s marriage to Rachel Weatherly of Atlanta, Georgia. The story added that her family owned one of the few remaining plantations to survive the Civil War, but her parents had died of fever when she was a small girl and that she had been cared for by distant relatives. He noticed the picture in the newspaper was the same one he’d seen on the historical society’s Web site.
Jared felt acid eating away at his stomach. “He wanted a wife with a pedigree as good as his horses,” he muttered.
But after that article there was nothing else on Rachel until he found a story dated almost eighteen months later, where a headline announced that Caleb Bingham’s wife had been murdered. He noticed that Rachel’s name wasn’t mentioned once in the article.
Jared scanned the article.
“No worrying about readers’ sensibilities here,” he muttered, wincing at the lurid descriptions of stab wounds and the blood-covered body found in the Bingham house. He would have sworn he was reading a crime scene report.
After the Midnight Hour Page 9