Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2)

by Robin D. Owens

  By the time he’d sweated through an hour of workout, he knew what he’d do about Clare.

  • • •

  Zach strode up to Clare’s door. The pattern of lights left on was different. Clare’d awakened, and he hadn’t left a note before he’d gone to untwist himself. Women hated that. He hadn’t spared her, them, trouble.

  He used the doorbell, and when she didn’t answer, his gut did a loop and a squeeze that she was ignoring him, had already given up on him.

  A worse idea was that she wasn’t home. Stupid to think an independent woman like Clare would stay where he left her. The neighborhood was safe and close enough to bustling Cherry Creek that she could walk to a club if she wanted.

  So he used the fancy brass knocker. No answer.

  Maybe she’d gone from sad to mad. That was okay; he could deal with her anger. It even excited him, his uptight Clare coming unraveled.

  He was just about to go around the fence and to the backyard—he didn’t think she’d forgive him, yet, if he broke into her house . . . and had she already changed the alarm code on him? That was a question, a real indicator of where he might stand. His fingers shifted to the keypad, flicked in the air, ready to tap.

  The door opened and Clare stood, hipshot and frowning, wearing a robe. He couldn’t tell whether she was naked under it or not. She crossed her arms over her breasts, looking magnificent, her hair wild, her skin with a glow that he had to resist kissing.

  Instead he pried one of her hands away from her opposite elbow and stuck the key fob in it, spoke first since she deserved that he did so. “It’s hard for me to talk about some stuff,” he said.

  “I don’t think partnerships, relationships should be easy.” She took a breath. “How can I help?”

  They stared at each other under the light. He straightened his spine, met her dark gaze. “You can go with me to see my mother to puzzle out my psychic gift. She’s up and waiting for us. We’ll take your new Jeep. You can drive.”

  That brought shock to her face, and her gaze went beyond him to the red Wrangler parked at the curb. He’d liked the one with the granite gray metallic paint job, but Clare now spent a lot of time in a world of grays, so he’d gotten the fire-engine red. “My. New. Jeep.”

  Irritated, he hunched a shoulder. “Yeah. I bought it for you. Great for off-roading in the mountains . . . mountains without ghosts, even.” He tried a smile. She didn’t seem to notice as she stared at the vehicle.

  “It’s pretty,” she murmured.

  He winced. Looked tough and muscular to him, a nice vehicle for a guy or a gal.

  Her stare arrowed back to him, her expression a little softer, and he relaxed.

  Her brows went up. “You bought it?”

  He expanded the explanation. “For you. I bought it for you. Your new Jeep. I have a good, black truck.” He wouldn’t mention that he’d gotten the option of “easy passenger access.”

  She blinked. “You can’t give me a car, Zach. It’s too expensive a gift.”

  But she was damn well weakening, wasn’t she? Her grip on the fob was solid.

  He snorted, put his free hand up against the jamb, and leaned toward her. He wanted more than a slight whiff of her, wanted a real good sniff. Yeah, she’d showered him and the scent of their sex off. “I may not have the resources you do, but I’ve got enough money to buy a damn vehicle for the woman I’m involved with, exclusively, when she doesn’t have wheels.” He kept leaning and leaning and leaning in until he could see tiny gold flecks in her hazel eyes, until his lips hovered close to hers.

  “The woman you’re involved with?” she asked in a breathy way that went straight to his dick.

  “Yeah.”

  She sighed out, shook her head. Her hand planted against his chest and pushed. “No kiss.” She met his eyes, all serious Clare. “Seen any crows today?”

  He flinched, didn’t pull back. She’d figured that much out about his gift, either before and hadn’t said, or in the couple of hours since he’d left. “Nope. Not today, Clare.” His shoulders had risen high, but he kept his stare matched with hers. “I want to . . . talk to you.” More, she needed more and deserved it from him. “I want your help,” he managed to mumble without wincing. True enough.

  Again her gaze went past him to the Jeep.

  “My mother’s waiting for us.”

  Tilting her head, she stared into his eyes. He could have fallen deep into her gaze, lost himself.

  “So, Zach, will you tell me the next time you see crows?”

  He nodded slowly. “I will.”

  “And what the crows mean?”

  He glanced aside.

  “They are your ‘touch of the sight’ that Mrs. Flinton talked about once?”

  So he moved his cane and made it soldier-straight, too. “My maternal grandmother knew a rhyme she taught to me.”

  Clare nodded as if she weren’t surprised that whatever gift he had, touch of the sight or not, came through his mother.

  He recited:

  “One for sorrow,

  Two for luck;

  Three for a wedding,

  Four for death;

  Five for silver,

  Six for gold;

  Seven for a secret,

  Not to be told;

  Eight for heaven,

  Nine for hell,

  And ten for the devil’s own sell—self.”

  He stared at her. “Is that sufficient to show I’m accepting my gift?”

  She gave him a slow nod. “For now. If you’ll let me know . . . occasionally . . . when you see them.”

  He returned a half smile. “Occasionally, huh?”

  “Yes, and I’m pleased to help you, Zach.”

  • • •

  The exit for his mother’s facility was coming up, and Zach hadn’t spoken to Clare except to say he wanted her help in tracking down the source of his . . . gift.

  Clare had driven silently, giving him room.

  He flexed his fingers, moved his left foot, still in the braces that he was getting really tired of wearing today.

  “This isn’t going to be easy either. Talking to Mama about her family. My family.” He grimaced. “I must’ve gotten whatever I have from Mama’s side.” He gave Clare a quick glance. “From Gran Aislinn Warren, my Scots grandmother. She supposedly had the sight.”

  “She did have the sight,” Clare corrected, keeping her eyes on the road.

  Zach wouldn’t go that far, but kept his mouth shut.

  “Tell me about her,” Clare said.

  Zach cleared his throat. “Gran was wealthy in her own right, and married a man who had money and ‘breeding,’ too. Jim and I loved her . . . and I gotta tell you about Jim and . . . and my previous gift, that failed me, failed us. But, but not now.” He paused and Clare glanced at him, that hurting, haunted expression on her face, though he sensed it was for him, not because of him. Improvement.

  Change the subject. “I barely recall my grandfather, who’d died in an experimental aircraft.”

  “I like your mother very much,” Clare said softly.

  “Yes, she’s always been soft and cheerful and a little fey.” He paused. “I can say now, Clare, that I . . . seem to have a psychic gift. That my mother is a little fey and her mother, Gran Aislinn, had a gift, too.”

  “You’ve made great strides,” Clare said solemnly.

  He found his mouth curving. “Are you teasing me?”

  “Maybe. We tend to be serious people, Zach.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Automatically, he had her stop at a supermarket and he picked up the best-of-a-mediocre-lot bouquet for his mom.

  “Good idea,” Clare said. “You’re sure she’s up?”

  “She’s more of a night bird. The General’s up-at-dawn habits were hard on her.” Not that Zach’s father had cared. Zach didn’t think he’d been back to see his wife for at least three years . . . since Zach had moved to Montana, and was closer.

  Close in the West was a relativ
e thing.

  They signed in at the care facility and received smiles from the staff at the front desk.

  A couple of minutes later, the nurse knocked and opened the door when his mother called, “Come in!”

  His mother sat in her big chair angled toward the windows, only the soft light from the table lamp illuminating the room. To his surprise and pleasure, she was reading on the tablet he’d given her for her birthday. He didn’t think she’d gone beyond reading yet, but this was a serious first step. Maybe Clare could help her—

  His mother placed the tablet on the table, rose with the grace that he loved, and came toward him, her hands out. He’d stood near another chair where he could prop his cane and enveloped her in his arms, held her tight. She was almost too thin.

  Then she withdrew and he let his arms drop, though he’d wanted to hold her more, drink in the scent of her—mother—for longer.

  She smiled at the bouquet, a lovely smile of pure gratitude, and his heart tightened, as ever, but he could have still used Enzo pulling a trinket out of thin air for him, something special to please her more.

  “Hello, Mama.”

  “Hello, Zach.” In the quiet light, her smile widened. “My beautiful son.” She looked at Clare. “Hello, Clare.”

  She’d remembered Clare’s name. Zach stilled. His mother often just lived in her own world, reality and other people barely impinging upon it.

  Clare stepped forward and took the hand his mother offered and squeezed it. “Hello, Mrs. Slade.”

  “Geneva, please.” Head tilted, staring at them, she said, “There seems to be some . . . constraint . . . between you two.”

  Was it that obvious? Or obvious because she knew her son? Or was that part of her gift? And here he was, becoming even more accustomed to accepting the idea of a familial gift.

  “Uh,” he said. “Maybe.” He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But he reverted to childhood and shifted his feet.

  “Ahhh, Zach.” She shook her head.

  And Clare came to him, slipped her arm through his right one. “We’re working things out.” She shrugged. “You know how it is, always bumps in a relationship, especially a new one when you’re figuring out the balance.” She gave him a look that said she remained unhappy at what she believed the current balance of the relationship to be.

  His mother nodded. “That’s true.” She gestured to the chairs around the table by the window and returned to hers.

  He took the one next to his mother and indicated Clare should move hers out of the arrangement to sit closer to him.

  Then he fiddled with setting his cane against the low table just where he could reach it best. Faster. Though there was no threat. And the back of his neck tingled. Several moments of conversation had passed and his mother hadn’t mentioned Jim. Nearly unheard of.

  Zach couldn’t bring up the topic of the “sight.” Just. Couldn’t. Instead he lounged back in the chair and angled his feet under the low table, smiled with warmth and love at his mother, felt Clare’s steady support.

  “Oh, that smile,” his mother said. “That smile is what attracted me to your fath—and Jim—” She stopped and tears filled her eyes and she looked away.

  Something was changing between them and Zach didn’t know why and didn’t understand what, but dreadful hope that she might be accepting a little reality into her life fluttered tiny wings inside him, and wonder brushed his heart. “Tell me of Gran Aislinn.”

  His mother’s shoulders relaxed. “She was a wonderful mother, always there.” His own mother’s glance slid by his. “Though my father was a . . . hard man. A businessman.” Her lips curved as if she tried to minimize the lack of love from there, even as Zach thought again that she’d repeated the pattern. Then she stared at him coolly. “It was more of a marriage of financial interests than affection . . . or love.” She paused, stared at him. “Love is important, Zach.” Her gaze scanned him, then went to Clare. “And I like the emotions flowing between you and Clare.”

  Clare dipped her head. “Thank you.”

  So his mother had intimated that she’d loved her husband. For an instant, Zach thought he caught a glimpse into her heart and the feeling she and the young military man had shared between them when they’d met. His mother had married for affection and love. Who had changed? What had changed?

  “Your grandmother was always there for me . . . until . . .”

  Nope, no more of his mama thinking of death. “She was great. A wonderful grandmother. She told fabulous stories.”

  Laughter rippled from his mother as her mind slid back to comfortable things. “Yes, she did. Fabulous and fantastic. Of voices that whispered in the wind to her . . . the spring breeze or the howling nor’wester or the fitful summer draft.” Zach’s mama’s voice went dreamy. He hadn’t known about those voices.

  “My father made a great deal of money, was interested in new things.” She paused. “And knew which ones to invest in,” she ended lightly.

  Zach got it. In a blinding of insight that literally flashed his vision white. His grandfather had known of his wife’s “gift” and used it. He stared at his mother, at a loss for words. Since she seemed to be enjoying good memories, he had a little time to cover his shock.

  Clare reached out and took his right hand and they linked fingers and it was great.

  Suppressing an urge to clear his throat, he said in as gentle and musing a tone as he could manage, “Yes, she told wonderful stories. Stories that were passed down in her family.”

  His mother nodded, still calm and enveloped in memories. “That’s true. We had some good family stories.”

  “Yes, of Thomas the Rhymer and his poetry and prophecies. And other folklore rhymes.” He swallowed, kept his voice low and smooth. “Like the ‘Counting Crows Rhyme.’”

  His mother’s brow showed lines. “I don’t recall that one, especially.”

  Zach wished desperately for something to drink, a beer, a glass of water even. “She recited it to me at bedtime.” And to Jim, as they lay in their twin beds in their room at their grandparents’ house.

  Gran’s dark eyes had been piercing under old and droopy lids. Zach squelched irritation. Like all the women in his family, she’d been saying something without actually putting it into words, hinting that he, or Jim, or both of them would see crows nobody else did? Have that little touch of the “sight”?

  She’d sat in the middle of the room and held their hands, as if she were a bridge and they were all connected.

  An undeniably solid connection Zach had thought that he’d shared with Jim, a whispery tingle in his head near his spine that indicated Jim’s direction from him.

  Goddamn crap.

  Yeah, Gran had danced around the subject of the “sight.” He much preferred Clare’s steady hazel eyes, her direct confrontations instead of tippy-toeing around an issue.

  “Zach?” His mother looked at him quizzically.

  “Sorry.” He let out the sigh trapped in his body.

  But his mother was shaking her head, and she picked up the bouquet she’d laid on the square coffee table and sniffed the flowers. “I’m glad you came to see me, but you and Clare should spend more time together.”

  He pulled in his feet, shoved up, his fingers tightening around Clare’s as she stood, too. She winked at him.

  His mama rose. “Jackson Zachary Taylor, you know you should.” She sent a sparkling smile to Clare. “It’s obvious that Clare’s a special person, so you treat her right.”

  “Thank you, Geneva,” Clare said.

  “I s’pose,” he grumbled as he’d always done when scolded, for show, and bent and kissed his mother’s cheek, took her in another, sweeter, hug before he picked up his cane. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Of course you will, and Clare, too. I’m glad you found a woman who unsettled you. It’s good for you.” A shadow came into her eyes and the past and her broken marriage, broken mind, touched them again.

  “You’ll always be in my hea
rt,” he said, then blinked, had to think where that had come from. His gran Aislinn.

  His mother’s smile was radiant, as if she recalled, too. “You’ll always be in my heart, dearest Zach.”

  He nodded. Clare hugged his mother. The sight made his heart ache.

  When they were back in Clare’s Jeep, Zach said, “You mind if we drive by the family house?”

  “I’d love to.”

  He gave her directions and she didn’t just drive by, but parked across the street from the large and well-lit Victorian home. The prof tended it well. Nice paint if a little girly in peach with beige trim.

  A home he’d spent some time in now and again, but not enough that he’d felt the room his parents had given him was his own. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt the places he’d stayed in were home. Not since Jim had died. Jim had had a way of making their rooms on the Marine bases seem like home, just because he was Jim. Jim and Zach together was home, and Mama. Mama had been home when he was very little.

  It unsettled him to think that he considered being with a person more important and more a home than a brick and mortar building. Because then he’d be looking for a person as a home maybe. Like Clare.

  She hadn’t said a word while he stared at the house. And she wasn’t looking at the place, but at him.

  “This is my father’s and his father’s home,” Zach said.

  Clare nodded. “And it’s your mother’s blood that carries the ‘sight.’ Like my own.”

  “Well, I’m pretty damn sure it isn’t any mystical Native American stuff in that strain from my dad. Not that we know much about that. No, it’s from Gran Aislinn and her ‘voices.’”

  Softly, Clare said, “The voices gave her the ‘sight.’ A little precognition like yours?”

  He hunched a shoulder. “Maybe. She never actually discussed it.” His lips curled. “And it sounds like she was priming Jim and me to use the crow rhyme as interpretation for our ‘gift.’” He nearly spat out the word.

  Reaching over, Clare took his left hand in both of hers. “I know how it is to dislike that word.”

  “Can’t depend on a psychic gift. Not at all.”

  The streetlight showed her raised brows. “Really?”

  “You’re always looking for rules with your own, because you don’t know what you can or can’t do. But it might be . . . capricious. Ever thought of that?” Yeah, he sounded extremely bitter. He was.