Ghost Seer (18 page)

Z
ACH JUST STARED.
He’d only seen the profile drawing of the guy, but as the specter turned, he knew she was right.

And she was unsurprised.

A dog appeared near his face, his tongue coming out in a swiping lick that only brought cool air.

Puzzle pieces . . . like the puzzle box . . . clicked in Zach’s mind. He kept his eyes on the ghost and his arms around Clare. “You’ve seen him before.”

“Yes,” Clare said. She sat up, moving off his body to the edge of the couch . . . aware of his injury, then, making sure she didn’t hurt him. A big rush of feeling settled near his heart. Yeah, good call in not heading out.

When she’d changed position, the dog and man had blinked out of Zach’s vision. Since he wasn’t in contact with her.

He should let this be. But he felt good. And this was about Clare and not him, and she was an interesting woman, and it was
Jack Slade
of all people—ghosts—and a puzzle, and he liked puzzles . . . So he sat up, his muscles protesting a little at sleeping on the couch with a weight on him, but more because he’d taken out three bad guys in a short, brutal, very strategic fight. Zach stretched, set his arm around Clare’s waist.

The dog, Enzo, sat an inch from his feet, eyes big and dark. The man hovered at the threshold of a tiny hallway that went to the bathroom, Clare’s bedroom, and a little home office. Zach stared at the famous man, five feet, six inches, maybe. Zach wasn’t used to taking into account floating inches off the floor. Thin, maybe a hundred and thirty. The ghost’s light-and-shadow expression wasn’t good enough for Zach to read.

“Jack Slade,” Zach murmured.

Clare watched him from the corner of her eyes, as if she were waiting for him to get up and leave.

Zach faced the famous gunman. “So, did you kill Beni?”

Brows down, a flash of light in the dark eyes.
No. My men did, and got the lesser reward for doing so.
He turned back to Clare, giving Zach the cold shoulder, literally; Zach felt a chill wave from the guy, even as Zach’s insides felt a little icing from within. He thought he could hear the gunfighter’s words in his head. Eerie, bordering on scary.

He waited, breath hitching, for what the phantom would say next.

Clare wet her lips; Zach’s attention went straight to her mouth and sex, and his dick twitched.
The
best reason for staying with her as far as he was concerned. “That’s why you’ve been studying him,” he said. “He’s been haunting you.”

“Oh, yes.”

I regret my intrusion
, the ghost Slade said in a snide tone that made the courtesy a lie. He even gave them a sarcastic half bow.
But I insist that we deal with my business now that you have accepted your ability, ghost seer, ghost layer. We do have a time limit.

“A time limit for what?” Zach asked. Wariness began to replace fascination.

The ghost’s jaw flexed as if he had real muscles.

I must return to the place where I did my darkest deed and redress it.

“Returning to the scene of the crime. Which crime was this?” Zach ladened his tone with distaste.

More flashing, real flashing, from the specter’s eyes. His spine straightened. Though he was a small man—maybe medium-sized for his era, Zach didn’t know—the stagecoach chief certainly had presence. Most likely in life, too. The details of the man’s life were hazy in Zach’s mind.

“Cutting off Jules Beni’s ears,” Clare said crisply.

Of course Clare would know all the details, have them on the tip of her tongue. She, too, had straightened ramrod stiff in the circle of Zach’s arm.

Now Jack Slade appeared sad. He nodded, fingered his watch fob—where he’d kept one of those ears? Zach’s belly squeezed at the thought.

The anniversary of the date comes soon
, the ghost said, his face twisting into something Zach wasn’t sure he wanted to see, maybe even thinning to a shredded-flesh-over-skull deal.

“How soon?” Zach demanded.

September first.

“That’s only six days from now!” Clare sounded appalled.

Zach got the feeling she was one of those people who had a schedule and paced herself to it, moving faster when necessary, but liking the steadiness of the everyday. He could help her overcome that.

Jack Slade’s face set, no flashing eyes this time, more like hollowness.
If I am to move on. I must return the ears to the place where I cut the ears off.
He moved his shoulders as if under a huge weight.
That event still resonates in that place. It will continue to do so until I make amends and return the ears.

Not quite easy for Zach to wrap his mind around that sentence and whatever crappy woo-woo rules the damned spirit had to live under, but he felt tension run through Clare’s body.

“Return the ears?” Clare’s voice rose to a high squeak.

Zach glanced to where he’d put the puzzle box on the coffee table just last night. Yep, still in the exact same place.

The ghost drifted more purposely toward them. His face fleshed out a little, turned into a pleading expression, he held out a hand.
Please. Please help me leave this horror of a half life.

Clare began to tremble. Zach could almost hear the fight between reality and this weirdness in her mind.

Breathe!
The dog hopped around as if it were a small terrier. And that word sounded in Zach’s mind. Oh, yeah, mindspeak continued to be strange, and maybe scary if Zach gave in to that sort of thing. Zach pulled Clare closer. Her skin felt cool to the touch. He reached to where an afghan lay crumpled on the floor, picked it up, and wrapped it around her. For himself, he’d begun to sweat, and the ceiling fan swept it away. The night must still be in the seventies because there was no relief coming from the open front door.

Think! Work the case.
An unusual case, but still a damn problem. He gestured widely to attract the phantom’s attention and pointed to the puzzle box with the ear. “That’s one of the ears, right?” The whole auction thing made sense now.

Yesss
, the ghost hissed.

“Where’s the other?” Zach asked.

Somewhere near Virginia Dale
, Jack Slade said. Meant nothing to Zach. But Clare nodded.

“You gave tips to Clare about the ear in the box, right?” Zach asked. “You should be able to find that other ear.”

The shadow man grinned, appearing almost real and like someone Zach might actually be interested in having as an . . . acquaintance.

Yes!
His gaze latched on to Clare again.
Now that there is a conduit to help me leave, I can sense the other ear!

“Great,” Clare said grudgingly.

I will go now. Thank you!
He nodded gratitude and flickered out.

Breath whooshed from Clare. She leaned on Zach. “Thank you for being here.” Facing him fully, she narrowed her eyes as she examined him.

“An interesting puzzle. I’m in.” He kept it light, stood and drew her up; his foot dropped and he flopped it around and discreetly leaned against the arm of the couch.

Yay!
the dog said in his mind, and probably in Clare’s, again jumping around, rubbing himself like a cool breeze on Zach’s legs. When Enzo did that to Clare, she flinched, pulled the afghan around her, and stepped closer to Zach, her breasts just slightly away from his chest and her stomach close to his renewed erection.

“What’s Virginia Dale? A what or a who?” he asked, frowning because he thought he’d heard and now had forgotten.

“Ah,” Clare said. “Jack Slade’s headquarters he built when the Overland Stage line moved south because of Indian attacks.”

Nope, Zach hadn’t known any of that, but he knew Slade had lived in Colorado and Wyoming before ending up in Montana. “The trail moved south. What state are we talking about? Where’s Virginia Dale?”

“Here in Colorado. Northern Colorado about forty minutes northwest of Fort Collins. And Virginia Dale, Colorado, is not to be confused with Virginia City, Montana, where Jack died.”

Zach nodded. “Easily within driving distance.” He gestured to the puzzle box with the ear inside that rested on the coffee table. “Sounds like he expects you to return the ears to where he cut them off.”

Clare grimaced. “Yes.”

“And that would be?”

A line formed between her brows. “Um, one of the Pony Express and stage stations.” She shook her head. “Cold Springs, I think.” She sagged against him, and he wrapped his arms around her, shifting to brace himself a little more against the couch. But he smiled. Clare had forgotten about his disability, had been the first person he’d met in nearly a year who had treated him normally, and he would always treasure that.

She felt damn good in his arms. “Factoring everything in, and leaving a bit of room, one week, max, and this should be over,” she said.

His arms tightened even though he knew she wasn’t speaking of their . . . friendship.

Sighing, she said, “What time is it?”

Zach glanced at the large living room wall clock. He’d noticed the woman had a clock, sometimes more than one, in every room. “Five forty
A.M.
Dawn’s coming,” he said matter-of-factly. With the continuing nightmares he’d become all too aware of the time of daybreak.

“Oh. Hardly worth going back to bed,” she said. “Would you like an omelette or cereal?”

He grunted. He’d rather head to the bedroom with her. “Coffee would be good,” he said.

She stepped away, took off the afghan and folded it, draped it over the back of the sofa, and smoothed the throw so it looked nice. Then she crossed to the kitchen and Zach turned his head so the light coming on didn’t blind him. Reaching for his cane, he limped back and forth through the living room to get the blood running in his foot.

Definitely time to find a good therapeutic masseur. The sound of beans grinding came from the kitchen; he walked to the threshold to ask Clare for a recommendation, saw her still-tense back, and figured she wouldn’t have spent the money on something she’d think was an indulgence.

Zach hunched and released his shoulders. Maybe Rickman would have names—for a massage therapist and a dojo that specialized in cane work. Zach had been lucky to take down the three idiots and knew it.

He watched Clare move around the kitchen, and the ache to have sex with her intensified . . . more like he wanted the intimacy with her than the actual physical climax, and wasn’t that an annoying realization?

He clumped over to the front door. It faced west, so he saw some lightening of the sky and the stars fading away, but no colorful sunrise. He wondered how hot the day would get, but not enough to turn on the local morning news.

Stooping, he opened his duffel that he’d left there and fished out his tablet, settled himself back on the couch, and was looking at some maps of the Overland trail, the Overland Stage line, and the Pony Express when Clare walked out with a couple of good-sized mugs of steaming coffee.

He set the tablet aside, stretched his arms and torso before he took the cup, and had to suppress a grin when her stare focused on his chest when his muscles flexed. “Thank you,” he said.

She smiled and sat down beside him. “So how did your day go yesterday?”

He nearly spit out coffee as he laughed. He angled his head. “Pretty damn well.”

Barking. But he heard nothing in his mind and didn’t see any ghostly Labrador.

Clare sipped her coffee. “Yes, mine was . . . notable, too.” She cleared her throat, looked at the open front door. “When do Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee expect you?”

He wasn’t sure when the old ladies got up. “Breakfast is at seven thirty, even on Saturday, I guess. But they’d better not expect anything,” he said.

Clare looked surprised, then her expression smoothed. “Ah, you don’t want people . . . concerned about your well-being?”

“I don’t want them checking up on me.”

“Deal,” she said shortly.

“Didn’t really mean you,” he muttered. The morning peace had been broken, and he’d done it.

Her pupils were dilated in the dimness; she’d turned off the kitchen light. “I promise you I won’t check up on you. But that’s a mutual thing. You don’t check up on me. Like you did yesterday.”

“You needed it,” he said, remembering how terrible she’d looked when he’d met up with her in LoDo, trying to shrug off the recollection that he’d had to be chivvied into it by Mrs. Flinton. He felt guilty now that he’d had to be forced to help Clare. For the first time he wondered what she would have done about the robbery if he hadn’t been there.

He sized her up, let a quiet breath out of his nose. She wasn’t the type to have walked in and tried to handle the suspects herself—unlike many of the women he’d dated before. Not reckless, this woman.

But she frowned and looked pointedly at his cane. “This . . . relationship . . . will be based upon rules that apply to us mutually. If you get to ‘check up’ on me, I get to do the same to you.” She paused. “For instance.”

His teeth clicked together and he ground out, “You have a point.” The excellent coffee was gone and he stood looking down at her, hearing and ignoring more barking. Bending, he lifted her chin for a hard kiss, liked the heat that zipped along his veins. Then he straightened and stared at her. “I’ll be in touch, and you keep in touch, too.” He snagged his tablet and his gaze swept over the books. “Count me in on this whole situation.”