Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2)

by Robin D. Owens

  No more than three minutes later, she and Zach were downstairs in the great room. Desiree had excused herself.

  Mr. Laurentine aimed a false and cheery smile at Clare. Rossi stood beside him.

  Rubbing his hands, Mr. Laurentine said, “I think it’s time you see Curly Wolf.” His smile widened. “It’s completely in your area of interest, isn’t it? Both historically and ghost-wise? If you haven’t been leading me on.”

  So he hadn’t liked her previous barbs. Well, she didn’t like his continuing superior and patronizing manner. She stiffened, almost, almost ready to walk away again.

  Zach caught her fingers in his. “I’m sure Clare can handle the place. I spent some of the morning at the archives, and the historical reports only have three ghosts in Curly Wolf, not including J. Dawson Hidgepath. And that’s when it stood on its native ground. Who knows whether they came along or not?”

  Chin jutting, Mr. Laurentine said, “We still have a great atmosphere, with or without ghosts, but I’m sure what was in Curly Wolf when I bought it and moved it remains.”

  “You’re probably right. All the buildings belonged to the town. It’s complete. It’s not as if Curly Wolf is Buckskin Joe,” Zach said.

  Clare had vaguely heard of Buckskin Joe. “Wasn’t that a theme park?”

  Zach nodded. “But it wasn’t a full, original town like Curly Wolf. Buckskin Joe had buildings brought in from other towns, and one was cobbled together from a barn and a couple of other structures. That barn had been the scene of hangings.”

  Clare shuddered. “No, I couldn’t go there.”

  With a not-nice smile, Zach said, “Documented restless ghosts in that town.” He lifted a shoulder in an uber-casual shrug. “But the billionaire who bought and moved Buckskin Joe in southern Colorado didn’t seem to care. He’s probably not having ghosts bothering him up in his home. They stay tidily down in the town.”

  Mr. Laurentine flushed; his breath came out in a hiss. Zach had insinuated he was a copycat. And Clare knew she’d just lost any chance of avoiding the stroll down Main Street Curly Wolf.

  Before they stepped out the front door, Zach murmured, “Enzo?”

  The ghost Labrador appeared, as cheerful as ever. I am here, Zach and Clare!

  “Take a look around the area, as far as you can, and see if you can sense any danger from live humans to Clare,” Zach said in a quiet tone.

  Yes, Zach! Yes, Clare. I love you, Clare. He slurped an icy tongue along her free hand and she rubbed it on her jeans to warm it, as she replied automatically, from her mind to the dog’s, I love you, too, Enzo.

  Zach kept his hand holding hers as the four of them walked down the drive to the reconstructed town, his pace faster than her own lagging steps. She insisted on coming to a stop about ten yards outside the transferred town. It looked pretty, painted in good, solid colors, and the old buildings of unpainted wood had been weather treated. A couple of men were working.

  Mr. Laurentine had done well by Curly Wolf. But the place seethed with energy she could all too easily sense; an oppressive atmosphere wafted to her like a cold and stinging wind waiting to wrap around her like a smothering ice blanket. She braced herself.

  TWENTY

  ZACH TOOK HER arm and ordered Rossi with a gesture to walk on her other side. The bodyguard raised his brows and glanced at Laurentine. Zach frowned. Rossi shrugged. Clare thought she actually figured out the little byplay—Rossi was hired to take care of Laurentine—but nothing so far that she’d seen had shown he was in danger.

  Unless her accident was only an opening move in a game that would escalate to harming the multimillionaire.

  Clare took a step past the edge of the first building, and her chest constricted as the air became harder to breathe. She kept on.

  Rossi walked with her and Zach, the three of them following the owner of Curly Wolf. The bodyguard had sharpened his observation. She also figured that Rossi should have refused Zach’s request to stay by her side . . . but both of the men thought she was the real target? She didn’t know the inner workings of men’s thoughts, let alone military or cop types, but she supposed she would learn if she stuck around them long enough.

  Zach angled his head and spoke in her ear. “It’s all right. I don’t think any of the ghosts are on this end of town.”

  Perhaps that was true, but the town was saturated with the past, nearly vibrating.

  “Comin’ up behind you,” a man called and Rossi whirled, a gun appearing in his hand. Zach had yanked Clare around, too, then dropped her hand and pulled a gun from the small of his back.

  He kept his gun beside his leg, out of sight.

  Baxter Hawburton loped toward them, a smile creasing his weather-beaten face, with a rifle in his hand. He noticed Rossi’s gun but didn’t react.

  “What about bartitsu?” Clare asked Zach under her breath. “Your cane is a weapon, too.”

  He didn’t even look at her. “Not a projectile weapon. Hard to fight a damn bullet with a cane.”

  “But you can use a cane to disarm a man with a gun,” she said. “You’ve proven that.”

  His smile lifted a side of his mouth. “Those were urban street toughs and amateurs. Not a man with a hunting rifle that has a range of a couple of hundred to several hundred yards. An excellent sniper can make eight hundred yards.”

  She did the calculations in her head and felt the blood drain from her face. “That’s twenty-four hundred feet.”

  “That’s right.” His expression hardened. “Can I check out your rifle?” Zach asked Mr. Hawburton. Zach’s own gun had been replaced in his holster.

  The rancher frowned, then shrugged. “If you gotta.”

  “Please,” Zach said but it was more of a demand. He handed her his cane, then did something to the rifle that was too fast to follow and handed it back to Mr. Hawburton. Zach’s nostrils flared. “This weapon has been cleaned recently.”

  “Well, sure,” the rancher said, keeping the barrel pointed at the ground. “No use carrying a dirty weapon. Elk season is coming up in a couple of weeks.” He shrugged. “There are mountain lions around here, too.”

  “Right here and right now?” Zach asked dryly. “Is that why you’re carrying a weapon?”

  “Hereabouts,” Baxter said. “And I have the rifle because it’s an H-S—”

  “Precision 2000 PHL customized weapon,” Zach said. “Guarantees a half-inch minute of angle.”

  “That’s right. You know your rifles.” Mr. Hawburton’s forehead creased as he looked at Zach, the sports coat he was wearing, unlike the plaid shirts that Mr. Hawburton himself and Mr. Laurentine wore. Zach did have more of a city look.

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a hunter,” the rancher said.

  “I hunt.” Zach’s smile showed an edge, and Clare suppressed a shiver. He hunted men . . . people . . . and puzzles, too, but mostly people who didn’t think laws and justice were for them, she guessed.

  “The FBI sometimes uses H-S rifles,” Zach said.

  Rossi grunted agreement. Oh, yes, he hunted people, too.

  She didn’t quite hunt ghosts, not yet, but from what Enzo and the Other intimated, she might in the future. That was not her idea of a good deal.

  Mr. Laurentine walked up. “What did you think of the H-S PHL, Baxter?”

  “Very nice. Thanks for letting me try it out.” He handed the gun to Mr. Laurentine.

  “You’re welcome. You can put your weapon away, Rossi,” Mr. Laurentine said. Reluctantly, the bodyguard did so.

  “Did you fire the H-S this morning?” Zach asked.

  “Nope.” Mr. Hawburton barely spared him a glance as he studied the main street of Curly Wolf before him. He smiled at Mr. Laurentine and then Clare. “Mind if I walk along? Been a coupla seasons since I saw the old store. You were going to paint it white with blue trim?”

  “Since that’s what your records say the original colors were.”

  “Not my records, Dennis. We don’t have detailed records li
ke that, but that’s the family lore. Great-great-granddad hated red.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Laurentine said easily, turning and beginning to saunter back into the town. “It’s Patrice Schangler’s folks who wrote down such particulars in their journals.”

  “Don’t you need to put that . . . probably very expensive gun away?” Clare asked. “Give it to one of your men to take to the house?”

  Mr. Laurentine grinned. “Not right now.” He patted the part that Clare thought looked like wood—the stock? “I like this rifle, and I know how to use it. Rossi can continue to guard you,” he ended on a slightly mocking note.

  Clare’s lips compressed but neither Zach nor Rossi showed any emotion. Mr. Laurentine began a steady stride, and once again she had to put one foot in front of the other on the hard-packed dirt road that ran straight between the Old West buildings.

  Gesturing, Mr. Laurentine said, “Maybe you should try the boardwalks. They’re in fine repair, I assure you.”

  “No, thank you,” she responded. She wasn’t going close to the buildings if she didn’t have to.

  Rossi had heightened his vigilance again. Zach only carried his cane as a visible weapon, though since he used it for balance, maybe Mr. Laurentine and Mr. Hawburton didn’t think of the stick as a threat.

  They passed a drugstore on the left and the newspaper office—The Howl—on the right, then walked by the house of a prominent person. Shadows and lingering pressure from the past tingled against Clare’s skin, but she sensed no strong and coalesced ghostly presences.

  Enzo? she whispered in her mind, surprised he hadn’t returned before now. How far had he roamed? The dog appeared, running flat out toward her.

  Glad you’re here, Clare. Hi, Zach! I didn’t find anyone hating at Clare around the ranch.

  Good to know, I guess, Clare aimed her telepathy at both Zach and Enzo.

  Yes! Enzo nodded and trotted next to Zach.

  Zach nodded, too, so he must have heard Enzo’s and her conversation.

  At that moment, Rossi relaxed infinitesimally, his steps became less sharp, even slightly louder in the dirt, and Clare noticed that Desiree Rickman had separated from the shadows near the saloon doors and walked out to join Mr. Laurentine. No doubt Rossi considered her able to protect his—their—client.

  You are doing fine, Clare. Enzo’s mental voice took on a cheerleading quality.

  “Three,” she murmured.

  “What?” Zach asked.

  “From my research there are only supposed to be three ghosts haunting Curly Wolf.”

  “But J. Dawson isn’t included,” Zach said.

  J. Dawson ROAMS, Enzo said.

  After filling her lungs with as big a breath as she could take, Clare repeated, “J. Dawson roams.” She winced. Who knew how many other unknown ghosts she might encounter?

  “Right,” Zach said, and his steel-like right arm came around her waist. That settled her. He usually kept his right hand free for his weapon.

  “This appears to be wearing on you,” Mr. Laurentine said to Clare. He raised a hand and waved at a man standing in the doorway of the general store to the right. The guy nodded and went inside, came back with a small crate that contained gleaming metallic multicolored sports bottles, all with the logo of the DL Ranch.

  Mr. Laurentine beamed. “I have souvenirs for all my guests.”

  The man held out the tray. Mr. Laurentine picked out a pink metal bottle—the only pink bottle in a nice lot of darker colors—and held it out to Clare.

  “Is something in it? If so, what?” Zach asked suspiciously.

  “Water from our own well,” Mr. Laurentine said. “Have one?”

  Zach took a black one. He looked at Rossi. “You’ve drunk from these bottles?”

  “Yeah,” Rossi said. “Often.”

  Zach promptly opened the top, poured out some on the dirt, sniffed the bottle, and took a glug. Then he took Clare’s, smelled it, and did the same. Two little wet patches showed on the hard-packed road. He handed Clare back her bottle.

  Mr. Laurentine rolled his eyes. “It’s water.” He wiggled the bottle at Clare. She wasn’t too fond of pink, and rather resented the fact that Dennis Laurentine apparently considered her a woman who would prefer pink. But she realized that her mouth was dry.

  She pulled open the top and took several gulps of cool, refreshing water.

  Meanwhile Zach was drinking. After he stopped, he wiped his mouth on his hand and attached the bottle to a belt loop of his pants with the hook. Mr. Laurentine gave Desiree Rickman a maroon-colored bottle. She licked her lips and the men focused on her mouth, then she opened the thing and drank. The multimillionaire snagged one of the bottles diagonally striped in “his” colors—dark brown and white—and drank, too.

  Baxter Hawburton took a red one and chugged some down.

  “Good enough,” Zach said.

  With a nod, Mr. Laurentine dismissed the man with the bottles back to the general store. They all waited while Clare continued to sip, delaying until Mr. Laurentine swept his arm in a wide gesture, and with a smirk, said, “Shall we?”

  As a last delay, Clare turned to Mr. Hawburton, and asked, “Was that your forebear’s store?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “No. There wasn’t any shortage of stores in a mining camp. My great-great-granddad had plenty of competition. But his wares were the best quality.” Mr. Hawburton winked at her and pointed to a white building with blue trim in the middle of the block to the left. “That was Hawburton Emporium.” Clare gritted her teeth. Of course, he’d said the building was white and blue, just minutes ago, and she’d forgotten! An indication of how rattled she was about this whole business.

  It occurred to her that if she moved faster, she could get this over with sooner. She began to jog, saw Zach looking grim as he kept up, so she slowed to a walk that would stretch her legs but not bother her lover.

  “You were saying about the ghosts, Clare?” Zach asked, catching her fingers in his.

  She answered, “Most historic records place J. Dawson at the Curly Wolf Cemetery and agree that there are only three ghosts in the town. The first is the little boy who peeks through the second-story hotel window.”

  Zach nodded to one of the largest buildings on the right-hand side four structures down. “There’s the hotel.” He grinned. “And I read about the moaning and vomiting drunk in the old saloon.” The dance hall and saloon was just this side of the hotel painted a gaudy red. Neither the hotel nor the saloon had false fronts like some of the others, to make the buildings look taller and more elegant.

  “I’m not going inside anything,” Clare said, her mouth flattening at the words. She didn’t see any ghosts exactly, but there were shades and shadows that weren’t caused by the sun . . .

  Enzo, who’d been sniffing at the others, with various reactions and nonreactions, then running in and out of each building, trotted to her side. Hi, Clare! Hi, Zach. Clare, you are here! I knew you would come and I told my new friends so! I have been here many times and talked to them!

  “Yes,” Clare hissed between her teeth as quietly as she could.

  There is a ghost who needs your help!

  Her lips formed no, but she didn’t say the word. Instead she sighed, and found that her breath flowed warm over her cold lips. She gestured to a moving patch of gray. “Those aren’t complete ghosts. What are they?”

  Enzo huffed. Just leftovers of ghosts that have passed on, the very last of their energy that got stuck in buildings or something. They are NOT bad composites. Maybe fading emotions. His head wrinkled. That one is worried.

  “Nothing to be worried about, he’s dead and gone,” Zach said.

  Rossi slanted them a glance but said nothing. Mr. Laurentine and Desiree sauntered a couple of yards in front of Zach and Rossi and Clare and apparently didn’t hear the byplay.

  SHE, Enzo said. She is gone. He snorted and looked straight at Clare. Too many people worry TOO MUCH!

  “Yeah, yeah,
” Zach said. “We’ll teach Clare not to do that.” He looked at Rossi, who was staring straight ahead. “Not to worry too much.”

  Yes! said Enzo. He shot down the street to the end, then back in a streaky smear of gray.

  CLARE, A GHOST NEEDS YOUR HELP NOW, HURRY! Enzo danced in front of them, then raced through them; she felt the freeze through her jeaned legs and hiking boots. Zach grimaced. Rossi flinched.

  “If a ghost needs Clare’s help, he’s already been here a long time and can wait a little longer,” Zach said.

  She! Enzo corrected again. At the train station at the end of the street!

  Clare’s gaze met Zach’s. “The third documented ghost of Curly Wolf, the brunette lady—”

  “In black silk,” Zach ended.

  With another good breath—she could breathe easier now she’d become more accustomed to the heavy atmospheric pressure in the town—Clare said, “Let’s go then.” She started walking a little more quickly. The dirt road was smooth, with no fake wagon ruts . . . or tufts of grass that might grow in a real abandoned town. Mr. Laurentine kept the street grated.

  “Are the ghosts here a threat to Clare?” Zach stared at the trotting Enzo.

  The ghost dog whirled, then loped back toward them, his eyes serious. It IS safe. None of the shades or ghosts will bother Clare. They are old and familiar with this place and fine with being here and not grumpy or scary . . . but the lady is very, very sad. She cries and cries. You need to help her, Clare.

  “Uh-huh,” Clare said, wondering how much “need to help her” would cost her in terms of strength, energy, and respect. I’ll help, she said mentally to Enzo. She’d been told that if she didn’t accept her gift, she’d die. Well, she’d accepted it.

  If she didn’t use her gift, help ghosts, she’d go mad. And she believed that, too. It wasn’t as if any of them—including Enzo and the Other—would go away if she ignored them. More likely they’d turn into incessant screaming banshees in her mind. Even so, the more she got to know the people the ghosts had been, the more she felt she was helping them in her new vocation. That was important, and would comfort her.