by Gina Wilkins
She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, watching him closely. “You look tired.”
“Yeah. I guess I am.” He took a deep breath and looked at her, remembering the favor she’d asked him. “I spent the afternoon at a dedication of the new library. Margaret Peavy Vandover, your stepfather’s granddaughter, was there, as well as other descendants of people you knew.”
Anna’s eyes widened. “Charles’s daughter?”
He nodded.
“I remember when she was born. He and his wife were running the inn then. They sold it to that strange couple by the name of Harvey.”
“So you’ve been here at the inn ever since...?”
“Since we died? I told you. Sometimes here. Sometimes at that other place.”
“Can you leave the inn? Go into town? Get into a car, maybe?”
“No. Ian tried once. Once we reach the boundary of our property, we find ourselves back at the waiting place.”
Dean was too tired to dwell on the oddities of her existence. “Oh.”
“Did you find out anything at the dedication? Anything about us, I mean?”
“Very little. I met a man named R. J. Cooley. He’s the grandson of Jeffrey Parker.” He watched for her reaction as he said the name.
She reacted with a flicker of her eyelashes and a tinge of what might have been a blush on her pale cheeks. “Jeffrey has a grandson?” she asked a bit weakly.
Dean nodded. “R.J. talked about his grandfather and his grandma Wanda.”
“Wanda? Wanda Nisbet? Jeffrey married her?”
“I don’t know her maiden name, but apparently she was a friend of yours.”
Anna snorted. “A friend? Hardly. We were rivals from the day we started elementary school. Everything I had, Wanda had to have a better one. Every boyfriend I ever had, she tried to steal. I always thought she was secretly in love with Ian, but he never acknowledged her existence.”
“She must have gotten over him. She and Jeff were married for nearly fifty years and had four kids.”
Anna’s expression turned wistful. “I always knew Jeffrey would make a wonderful father.”
“If it makes you feel any better, apparently Jeffrey never really got over you,” Dean said grudgingly “He told his grandson that he had never forgotten you.”
Anna’s face brightened. “How sweet.”
“And he never believed the rumors about you. He thought you were an innocent bystander, in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
She beamed. “I’m so glad to hear that. At least Someone refused to accept those lies about Ian and me.”
Dean cleared his throat. “Er—”
She frowned suspiciously. “He did think Ian was innocent, didn’t he?”
Dean looked at the ceiling.
Anna stamped her foot. The gesture was no less expressive for being utterly silent. “How could he believe Ian could do those things? You tell Jeffrey that I would have expected more of him.”
“Anna, he’s dead. Has been for years.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Of course he is,” she said quietly. “Everyone is, aren’t they?”
“As far as I’ve been able to find out. It has been seventy-five years. We have to be realistic.”
“Didn’t you find out anything else today? Wasn’t there anyone who believed Ian and I were murdered, and that the real culprit was never unmasked?”
“Mark—the newspaper editor-said there werea few rumors, but for the most part everyone believed the official story, told by the lawman who allegedly caught you and your brother in a secret meeting with a known criminal.”
“I heard the story your bleached-blond friend told at your dinner table the other night,” Anna said scornfully. “I’ve heard others give various versions of the same tale. Garbage, all of it. Ian wasn’t meeting with Buck Felcher, and he didn’t open fire on Stanley Tag ert. Ian was walking with me, and he certainty wasn’t armed.”
“So you’re saying Tagert lied. That he was involved in the crime and used you and your brother as scapegoats.”
“Exactly. It was Stanley and Buck having the secret meeting. And another man. The one who shot us.”
“Buck was also shot and killed,” Ian said.
“I heard a third shot just as I lost consciousness,” Anna mused. “They must have killed Buck then. Maybe he wasn’t cooperating with them. Or maybe they didn’t want him as a witness to our murders.”
“Who was the third man? The one you say did the shooting?”
She threw up her hands in frustration. “I don’t know! If I did, I would have told you by now. Someone murdered us, and Stanley Tagert lied to protect him.”
Dean shook his head. “It’s hard to believe Tagert could concoct that elaborate a cover-up in such a short time. Surely there were witnesses from the party. People who heard shots, ran to investigate. Questions.”
“I don’t know,” she said curtly. “I wasn’t around for a while. By the time Ian and I came back, the investigation was over and everyone seemed to believe the lies. We’ve been determined ever since to find a way to clear our names. And you’re it, Dean. I just know you are.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, wondering how he’d ever gotten himself into this mess. “What makes you so sure I’m the one to help you?”
“I’ve thought about that,” she admitted. “Ian keeps asking the same thing. And all I can say is that I have a very strong feeling that you and I were meant to cross paths. There has to be a reason why you can see me, hear me, when others can’t. There has to be a purpose.”
He sighed. “I’m not so sure. Even if I could find evidence of your innocence—and that’s a real long shot, considering how much time has passed—who would believe me? And why would anyone really care, after all this time?”
“Ian and I care,” she said quietly. “We care very deeply. Why else do you think we’d still be here?”
He cleared his throat. “Where’s Buck? He was apparently murdered at the same time. Didn’t he come back with you?”
She shook her head. “We wondered about that for a time. Ian finally decided that since Buck was guilty of the crimes he was accused of, there was no reason for him to stay around to clear his name.”
That sounded as logical to Dean as anything else that had been presented to him in the past few days. “Tell me exactly what happened that evening, everything you remember,” he suggested. “Maybe I’ll be able to find something to back up your story.”
She started at the beginning. “Ian was outside in the garden, angry about the rumors that had been circulating. I went out to soothe him and to try to entice him back inside...”
She gave him the facts concisely, unemotionally, her voice quavering only when she described Ian’s death. “And that’s all I know,” she concluded a few moments later.
“You never saw the face of the third man? Didn’t recognize his shape? His voice?”
She shook her head. “Ian and I have discussed this endlessly. Neither of us knows who he was. Both of us have our suspicions.”
“Your stepfather?”
Anna went very still. “Why do you say that?”
Dean shrugged. “It’s a logical suggestion. Had you lived, the inn would have been yours and your brother’s after that night. Gaylon would have lost his comfortable position as manager. With you and Ian out of the way, the inn became his.”
“That’s what Ian says. He’s always believed Gaylon had something to do with our deaths.”
“And what about Charles, Gaylon’s son?”
Anna spread her hands. “There was no reason for him to hate us. He never seemed all that interested in the inn. He liked to party and carouse with his friends, for the most part. He and Ian never got along, but they were never really enemies, either. I’m afraid Ian didn’t get along very well with anyone after our mother died. He was so angry, you see, because he loved her so much and because she died so young.”
Anna’s face turned sad again. “We were
n’t even allowed to be with her after our deaths,” she murmured.
“I’m sorry,” Dean said ineffectually.
“Find our proof, Dean, and maybe we’ll be able to see our mother again. Please.”
He hated the pressure she was putting on him. “I’ll try.”
She patted his bare arm. “I know you will. And I want you to know that I appreciate what you’re doing for us. You certainly have no obligation. You’re a very special man, Dean Gates.”
Her touch startled him. It still amazed him that she could touch him, though he had the odd sensation that some thin, cool, invisible barrier lay between them, preventing him from feeling her warmth, her vibrance.
He was intensely aware of the quiet around them. They were alone in his bedroom, just him and this beautiful, intriguing woman, who looked so damned real, so infinitely desirable. It had been a long time since he’d looked at any woman and reacted with a racing pulse and sweating palms.
It was just his luck that the woman who made him feel that way now didn’t even have a pulse.
She looked at her hand where it lay on his arm. Her expression turned wistful. “I can’t feel you,” she murmured. “Not really. It’s as though I’m touching you through cloth.”
“That’s pretty much the way it feels to me.”
She raised her gaze to his face.
“I wish I could really touch you,” she murmured, almost as if to herself. And Dean asked himself if he was only imagining the desire in her voice. A desire very similar to his own.
He couldn’t stop looking at her mouth. Wondering how it would feel to kiss a ghost.
“Is, er, your brother here?” he asked, suddenly wondering what it felt like to be punched out by a ghost.
Anna blinked, as though making an effort to concentrate on his question. “Um, no. We’ve discovered that it’s easier, for some reason, for me to contact you when he isn’t here. I don’t know why. He waits for me to come back and tell him what you’ve said.”
“You seem to be staying longer each time.”
“Yes. As I said, it gets easier.”
“Can you still see me at times when I can’t see you?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “I have to make an effort for you to see or hear me. Don’t ask me to explain how. I can’t.”
Dean wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to ask, anyway. If he started thinking about it too deeply, he’d probably begin to question his sanity again.
Anna lifted her hand from his arm, slowly, and touched her fingertips to his face. It felt odd, but not unpleasant. Not at all unpleasant.
“I have to go now,” she said.
“But you’ll be back.” It wasn’t a question.
Dean didn’t want to think about how he might feel if she never came back.
She smiled. “Poor Dean. You didn’t know what you were getting into when you bought our inn, did you?”
His own smile felt rueful. “No. Not exactly.”
“You must be sorry you ever met me.”
His smile faded. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”
Her eyes locked on his face for a moment. Her fingertips brushed his lower lip. “I’m glad,” she whispered.
And she was gone.
Dean drew a long breath, then raised a hand to his mouth. He felt strangely as though he’d just been kissed.
It was quiet in his bedroom now. Lonely.
Still wearing his slacks, he lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, fantasizing about things that could never be.
Maybe he’d been too long without a woman, he mused. He was finding himself more and more obsessed with a beautiful, dark-eyed ghost.
6
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over...
Earth’s the right place for love.
—Robert Frost
DEAN WAS WORKING outside the next morning, starting the massive task of clearing away some of the deadwood around the garden path. He already had a sizable pile stacked at one corner of the grounds; he would burn it later. Though it was a cold day, he was sweating beneath his flannel shirt and work gloves. He hadn’t done hard manual labor in a while, and his muscles were letting him know it.
“Excuse me.”
The woman’s voice, coming from behind him, made him whirl, his pulse already racing in anticipation. He refused to acknowledge his private disappointment when the woman standing behind him wasn’t Anna Cameron, but a rather fragile-looking honey-blonde of about thirty. A little girl of about ten, her own hair so blond it was almost white, stood half-hidden behind the woman, peeking shyly out at Dean.
“Are you Dean Gates?” the woman asked.
“Yes, I am. May I help you?”
“I’m Cara McAlister. This is my daughter, Casey. Mrs. Harper told me we could find you back here.”
Dean nodded, waiting for her to get to the point. She looked very nervous, her wide blue eyes darting as though she expected to see danger behind every overgrown bush. Dean hoped heartily that her visit had nothing to do with ghost legends.
She drew a deep breath, as though for courage, and then spoke in a rush of words. “I’m looking for a job,” she said. “I’ve been told you’re restoring the inn and hope to open soon. I can help you with the restorations—I’ve had some experience with decorating. I work very hard, and I’m willing to do anything—painting, cooking, cleaning. All I ask for payment is room and board for myself and my daughter.”
Dean was taken completely off guard by the request. Surely the woman could see he was far from ready to hire staff for the inn. He had contractors and subcontractors doing the actual repairwork and he’d already engaged a reputable decorator, his opinion of Ms. Buchanan notwithstanding. As for room and board, he and his aunt occupied the only completed bedrooms. The other two private rooms weren’t even furnished.
He opened his mouth to politely tell her he was sorry, he couldn’t help her.
But he wasn’t given the chance.
“Hire her, Dean.” Anna materialized by his side, her attention riveted on the woman and the little girl.
He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t—”
“You can’t send her away. Look at her. She looks so tired and so sad. And that precious little girl! They need you.”
“Mrs. McAlister,” Dean began, trying to ignore the bossy ghost.
The woman lifted her chin in a proud gesture. “I’ve tried to get a job in town, but there weren’t any available,” she said. “A waitress at the diner said maybe you would have something.”
“She doesn’t have anywhere else to go, Dean,” Anna piped in. “I have a feeling about her. She needs help. Ian could tell you—if you could hear him—my feelings are always right.”
“I don’t even have a room ready,” Dean muttered, frustrated that he couldn’t talk to Anna without looking like a head case. “I just moved into the inn, myself, a couple of weeks ago. We’re a long way from being ready for guests or staff.”
“Casey and I don’t need special accommodations. We’ll share a room, sleep on cots, sleeping bags, whatever. I’d like to help you get the inn ready to open.”
“Don’t send her away, Dean,” Anna urged.
Dean was beginning to feel trapped. This was crazy. He didn’t need a cook or a maid or a live-in decorator. And an inn in the middle of renovations was no place for a little girl. Despite Anna’s prodding, he was all set to turn the woman away.
And then he looked into her eyes.
Cara McAlister wasn’t exactly begging—Dean had the impression she wasn’t the type—but she was as close as a proud woman could come to doing so. He could see the desperation, and the despair. “I’ll work very hard,” she repeated.
He sighed. “When do you want to start?”
Her eyes lit up. “Our things are all in the car. We can move in immediately.”
“Poor dears. They don’t even have a home,” Anna murmured.
Dean flicked her a glance, then turned back to the other woman. His new employee.
“We’ll have to see about getting some furniture in one of the extra bedrooms. There are some old beds and chests stored in one of the rooms upstairs. I’ll haul a couple down for you until we can come up with something better. Aunt Mae’s been doing all the cooking and has started cleaning the parts of the inn that are ready. You can work with her. We’ll discuss salary later.”
Cara gave him a shy, grateful smile. “Thank you. Yon won’t regret lit.”
He sincerely hoped she was right. He nodded toward the child. “Make sure she stays away from the construction crews. It would be dangerous for her to be around them when they’re working.”
“She’ll stay out of their way,” Cara promised.
The little girl nodded in agreement. Dean wondered if she was always so quiet and subdued. He couldn’t help questioning what this odd couple was running from. That they were running from something was obvious. The most logical explanation was an abusive husband and father. Dean stifled a sigh, asking himself how much more complicated his life was going to get since he’d “simplified” it by buying the inn.
He glanced at his watch. It was just after noon. He’d bet Cara and Casey hadn’t eaten lunch, maybe not even breakfast. He would also bet Aunt Mae was already in the kitchen, preparing food for them.
“Why don’t the two of you go inside to Aunt Mae for something to eat,” he suggested. “I’ll put away my tools and be right in.”
Cara nodded, took her daughter’s hand and turned away. She paused at the end of the path and looked back over her shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Gates.”
He nodded, uncomfortable with the hint of tears in her voice. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Go have something to eat.”
“You really are a sweet man,” Anna said approvingly when they were alone. “I had a feeling about you from the first”
“Let’s just hope your ‘feelings’ don’t get me in a truckload of trouble,” he said bluntly. “Damn it, Anna, I don’t need her here. What am I supposed to do with her?”
“The inn needs maids,” she said with an innocent expression. “We always had at least three on staff.”