The Bone Orchard (6 page)

Ambrose nodded. “Well that’s easy. The gallows or the jailhouse.”

Ezra glanced heavenward, as if he was thinking it through, then closed his eyes. “Of course. He’ll be drawn to where he spent his last moments, just as you are.”

“The better question is how do we get rid of him when we find him?” Ambrose said. “You can’t hang a ghost.”

“That is quite the conundrum.”

“I’ll say.”

“To truly understand the method of his violence, I believe we need to understand the rules a little better,” Ezra insisted. They’d returned to his hotel room under the guise of allowing him to collect his investigative implements. He didn’t have investigative implements, though, because he hadn’t been intending to investigate in San Francisco, so he’d have to remember to find some before he returned to the scene of the crime.

“What rules?” Ambrose asked. He was in his rocking chair, the creak of it the only other sound in the room.

“There have to be rules. We’ve already discerned some of them. You can’t seem to touch objects unless you’re emotional. You always return to a certain location, in your case the saloon or this hotel room. What else?”

Ambrose shrugged, glancing around the room. “Only thing I got on me is what I had when I died. Means Jennings won’t even have his boots on. I can take off my hat and toss it away, but then I’m back in the saloon wearing it again.”

“Aside from making you look quite dashing, what’s the significance of that?”

“He died with a hood over his face.”

Ezra frowned for a few seconds, confused. Then it hit him. “Which means whenever he returns to his . . . wherever, he’ll be wearing the hood again. He won’t be able to see an attack coming!”

“That’s real convenient, if you know where and when he’ll poof back up.” The wry tinge to his words made Ezra both want to hit him and kiss him again. Ambrose raised an eyebrow, his grin rematerializing. “What’s that look for?”

Ezra shook his head, glancing away and running his hand over his eyes. “Nothing. You said no one else could see you, correct?”

“Not that I’ve noticed. Folks ain’t never been in the habit of coming up to say howdy to me, though. Ghost or not. So I suppose it’s hard to say who sees me and who don’t.”

“Why can I see you?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“Perhaps it was some sort of spiritual link between us. Something . . .”

“I don’t know what that means,” Ambrose admitted.

“I mean . . . perhaps I can see you because we’re special to one another.”

Ambrose’s expression softened, and he lowered his head, examining his hands for several silent moments. “Don’t explain why you could see me before we were . . . special to each other. I’m a sight more willing to believe that explanation than any other, though. Maybe . . . maybe I knew you were my only hope. You can see me ’cause I needed you so damn bad.”

The admission sent warmth spiraling through Ezra’s body, but it was followed swiftly with the melancholy of reality. He was rapidly falling in love with a man who’d died over a fortnight ago. Back east it was difficult enough to introduce a living man as your companion.

The progression of his thoughts made him smile, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

“What’s funny?” Ambrose asked. He was observant, even in death. Perhaps
especially
in death. It was hard to get anything by him.

“I was thinking . . . it would be so difficult to explain you to my family.”

Ambrose sat staring at him for several seconds before he burst out laughing, covering his eyes with one hand. Ezra smiled as he watched him, idly wondering if the other guests in the hotel could hear Ambrose. He hoped so.

“So if you can see me ’cause we’re . . . special,” Ambrose finally drawled, “how is anyone going to see Boone Jennings until it’s too late?”

“That’s where we once again rely on you. You said his victims were all waiting outside the hotel during his trial. You could see them.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re sure they were . . . otherwise deceased?”

Ambrose smiled gently. “Yeah, I’m sure. Saw a few of them put in the ground myself.”

“Then it stands to reason that you’ll be able to see Jennings. Ghost to ghost.”

Ambrose was nodding, but he looked grim.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m the only one can see Jennings. You’re the only one can see me. Means . . . Well, it means you may be the only one can put Jennings in the ground for good.”

Ezra swallowed hard against a suddenly dry throat. Ambrose Shaw was said to be one of the fastest shootists in the West, and he’d been gunned down in a fight with Boone Jennings. Ezra’s specialty was investigation, not putting people in the ground. “Oh, dear.”

“This feels like a bad idea,” Ezra whispered in Ambrose’s ear.

Ambrose shivered, even though he couldn’t feel the cold or the breath of Ezra’s words on his neck. “This was your idea.”

“Yes, but now I’m having doubts.”

Ambrose chuckled softly. They were hunched together at the base of the gallows, leaning against a bale of hay. It was a good thing it wasn’t a cool night, or Ezra would have been out of luck. It wasn’t like Ambrose was keeping him warm or anything. They couldn’t even lean against each other because when Ezra had tried roughly an hour before, he’d fallen right through Ambrose’s body and sent Ambrose zipping through a whirlwind of confusing sights and sounds that landed him at the saloon of the Continental Hotel, looking for a light.

Ezra had retrieved him, giving the bartender a sheepish look when he didn’t buy a drink, and they’d returned to the gallows for their vigil.

“We both know he’ll have to turn up here eventually,” Ambrose said, keeping his voice low and soothing. “It’s as good a plan as any.”

“But if he’s not loitering around here or the jail, then he’s off . . . hunting someone.”

“You can’t think about that.”

Ezra looked up. The flickering light of a distant streetlamp reflected off the glass of his spectacles. “How do you not think about that?”

Ambrose fought to swallow past the tightening of his throat. He met Ezra’s eyes, his frown deepening the more he thought of it. “When I was on his dust, thinking about who he might be hurting kept me up at night. It damn near drove me crazy.”

“Did you learn to cope?”

Ambrose had to look away from Ezra’s brown eyes. They were so sincere, so hopeful. The answer hurt Ambrose’s heart to speak. “No,” he whispered. “That’s what drove me here, to do what I did. I was so desperate to know he would never hurt someone else while I was trailing after him, it got me killed.”

Ezra didn’t say anything. He just reached out for Ambrose’s hand and gripped it. To Ambrose’s surprise, it felt solid in his, not the gauzy inconsistency of the other touches they’d shared, or even the kiss they’d managed. It felt warm and solid and real.

Ambrose’s eyes shot up to meet Ezra’s, who looked just as surprised. They held up their hands, joined together. As soon as they did, though, that odd feeling began to return. Ambrose let go before they could lose the contact, or worse, before it exhausted him to the point that he’d return to the hotel.

“I suppose any sort of emotion is effective,” Ezra said. “Even sadness.”

“I’m beginning to wish I was more excitable, then,” Ambrose joked. He’d always been on an even keel, never getting too worked up about anything, never nervous, giddy, or overly angry, never losing himself in sadness or loneliness. People had gone so far as to call him emotionless, but he’d never paid them much mind. He just considered himself steady.

Ezra stared at him, blinking rapidly when Ambrose looked into his eyes. The rise and fall of his chest was more noticeable, and his breaths were harsh to Ambrose’s ears.

“Will you try to stay?” Ezra whispered. “When he’s gone, I mean.”

Ambrose’s heart stuttered. Or it felt like it had. He wasn’t even sure it was still ticking in there. He ran his teeth over his lower lip, fighting his instinct to touch Ezra’s face. He finally did anyway, trailing his cold fingertips against the searing heat of Ezra’s cheek. “I would stay just for you, if I’m given the choice. But I’d be a selfish dog if I did.”

“Ambrose.”

“The living shouldn’t wait on the dead, Ezra. You’d have no kind of life with me as your constant companion. Soon enough I’d be your only companion, and what good would your life be without someone warm to hold to you?”

“I don’t care about that,” Ezra insisted, and his resolute tone matched the steel in his kind eyes. “I’ve found more fascinating conversation with you in two days than with a year of warm companions.”

Ambrose fought the feeling spreading through him, but it was useless. When he was alive, he might have called it warmth. Now, though, without the sensation of real warmth, it simply felt like coming home. “If only I’d met you before he drove me to desperation. I might have had reason to . . . second-guess my bravery.”

Ezra closed his eyes and lowered his head, turning away. A tear trailed down his cheek, and he quickly swiped it off. “It’s odd to mourn the loss of someone sitting beside me.”

Ambrose ran his fingers down Ezra’s back, even knowing the touch would be cold comfort. “It’s odd to be lost.”

“It’s selfish of me to ask you to stay.” Ezra shook his head. “To give up . . . Forget I asked. Forget I said it at all.”

A sound like lightning striking ripped through the peaceful night, and Ambrose instinctively covered his head, flinching away from a light as bright as any sun. He’d heard enough cannons fire, seen enough barrages during the war, to know when to duck and cover.

“Ambrose? What is it? Is it him? Are you okay?” Ezra touched his shoulder, then his back. His fear made the touch solid and somehow comforting, even as Ezra’s hand burned him.

Ambrose raised his head, peering around carefully. “What in the damn hell?”

They both scrambled to their feet, Ambrose still looking everywhere, Ezra watching him in utter confusion.

“Did you see it? Hear it?”

Ezra shook his head. “I neither saw nor heard anything but the horses in the stables neighing.”

Ambrose searched frantically through the darkness, and finally he saw the figure over Ezra’s shoulder, stumbling across the gallows. His hands and feet were bare and shackled in irons, and the hangman’s noose was still around his neck and draped across his shoulder. The black hood that had shielded onlookers from the ugliness of his death was still on his head, but Boone Jennings was reaching up to yank it off.

“There,” Ambrose whispered.

Jennings ripped the hood off and tossed it to the ground, his wild eyes searching around him. They landed on Ambrose, and a sneer curled his lip. “You,” he growled.

His eyes were red and bulging, his once-handsome face distorted and blue in death. He was the very picture of a demon straight out of Hell.

“I come to finish what I started, Jennings,” Ambrose called out. From the corner of his eye, he could see Ezra frantically trying to see Jennings, trying to figure out where he might be. Ambrose stepped in front of him, putting himself between Jennings and Ezra.

Jennings growled. “You damn spook. Too stubborn to die once, I’ll just make sure you go again!” He went for a gun, but he was wearing none. He’d been stripped of everything before his hanging.

Ambrose drew on him and fired.

The slug hit him in the shoulder, the very spot where Ambrose had hit him in the saloon the night he’d died. Jennings stumbled back, looking at his shoulder in shock. Then he reached up to pat at the bloody spot there. Ambrose trotted toward the gallows to take another shot, but to his horror, Jennings shoved two fingers into the bullet wound.

It made a sound like a boot pulling out of the mud as Jennings tugged the bullet from his shoulder and held it up like a prize, light shining on glistening blood. He dropped it to the wooden floor of the gallows, and a moment later, it was gone.

Ambrose stood frozen, mouth gaping.

“You can’t kill the devil, Marshal Shaw,” Jennings cooed. His maniacal laughter echoed through the night.

Ezra brushed up against Ambrose, cursing. “I can hear that,” he gasped. He sounded positively terrified.