Under A Prairie Moon (5 page)

“I don’t know about heaven,” he muttered, “but I sure feel like I’m in hell.”

She sipped her coffee, her mind whirling as she tried to recall everything she had ever heard about ghosts. Weren’t they supposed to be people with unresolved pasts, people who thought they had left unfinished business?

“Maybe if you removed the curse, your soul would go to…to wherever it’s supposed to go.”

He grinned wryly. “Kind of late, don’t you think? Conley’s long gone.”

“Well, that’s true, but his heirs are still alive. Wayne’s…” She swallowed hard. “Wayne’s mother is still living.”

“What are you suggesting? That I go to his old lady and say I’m sorry?” He slammed his palms down on the table. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t leave this place.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t leave the county. I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried. But every time I try to put this place behind me, it’s like I hit a stone wall.”

“That’s weird.” She frowned. “Maybe Janet could come here.”

“Why? She wouldn’t be able to see me or hear me.”

“It probably wouldn’t do any good anyway. She doesn’t own this place anymore. Wayne’s grandfather left it to him.”

“And now it belongs to you.”

Kathy nodded.

“So you think if I tell you I’m sorry, I’ll be zapped into eternity?”

“How should I know? But it’s worth a try.”

Dalton’s gaze moved over her. She was an incredibly pretty woman, with her curly auburn hair and sun-tanned skin. She had brown eyes, large and dark, like those of a doe. Guileless eyes that revealed her every thought, her every emotion. What if she was right? What if he told her he was sorry and that somehow ended the curse? What then? He hadn’t lived the kind of life that merited a trip to the pearly gates. And he was in no itching hurry to find out first hand whether Hell was a real place or just an empty threat.

Kathy cocked her head, waiting, wondering what was going on behind those fathomless black eyes.

He leaned forward, so close that she could feel the coolness surrounding him. “Can I touch you?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“Can I touch you?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice shaky. “Can you?”

He stood up and rounded the table. She watched his every move, her brown eyes wide, filled with apprehension, as he lifted his hand and laid his palm against her cheek.

“Soft,” he murmured. “So soft. And warm.”

Kathy shivered. His palm was cold against her skin.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, mistaking her trembling for fear. “Can you feel my hand?”

She nodded, her heart in her throat. “It’s cold.”

“Is it?”

His fingers slid up into her hair and she shivered again, but for an entirely different reason this time. His touch was gentle, tender, almost erotic. He was looking at her, staring at her as if he had never seen a woman before.

“I’d forgotten,” he murmured, “forgotten how soft a woman’s hair is. And how good it smells.” He lowered his head and took a deep breath. “Your hair smells like…” He smiled at her. “Like peaches.”

Her mouth was suddenly dry, her heart beating wildly as he dragged his knuckles over her cheek. She drew in a ragged breath as his thumb traced the outline of her lips.

“So soft,” he whispered.

He couldn’t be a ghost. Ghosts didn’t have substance, did they? But she could feel his hands moving over her face and in her hair, the calluses on his palms when he cupped her cheek again.

“Damn.” Abruptly, he drew his hand away and backed up a step.

She stared up at him, breathless and confused by the feelings he aroused in her. “Mr. Crowkiller…”

“Dalton,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Call me Dalton.”

“Dalton.”

He looked down at her for a long moment, his eyes hot, his hands clenched at his sides and then, muttering something she didn’t understand, he vanished from her sight.

Kathy stared at the place where he had been, her skin still tingling from the touch of his hand. “Damn is right.”

* * * * *

Feeling the need to get out of the house, she went into town that afternoon. Saul’s Crossing was a small town located about fifteen miles from the ranch. Originally, it had been nothing more than a few shops, a general store and a couple of saloons, which had been patronized by the local cowboys. Now, it was more of a tourist trap. Many of the original buildings had been restored. Still, for all that it was only a few blocks long, it had an amazing variety of small shops and a few large department stores, including a Sears and a Walmart.

She parked her car at one end of town, deciding to explore from one end of the shopping district to the other.

It was a pretty day, warm, but not hot. She passed Norton’s Hay and Feed, which was one of the town’s original buildings. In addition to selling hay, they also rented horses, several of which were standing head to tail in the shade, idly swishing flies. She passed the Square Deal Saloon, which had been restored and turned into a family restaurant.

She found several of the items on her list in Kirby’s General Store: shower curtain, new towels, sheets, a lovely pale blue and white print bedspread with matching curtains for the bedroom, a couple of blue throw rugs for the bathroom.

Across the street, she saw a bowling alley, a movie theater and a small Hallmark store. She grinned when she saw a horse tethered to a hitch-rack in front of the video store.

She found a bedroom set, a sofa and loveseat, an oak coffee table and matching side table in Lawson’s Furniture Emporium, established, according to the sign over the cash register, in 1871.

She pointed at the sign as the clerk rang up her purchases. “You’ve been in business a long time,” she remarked.

“Yes ma’am. My family was one of the original settlers.” He smiled at her. “I’m John Lawson. Would you like this delivered?”

“Yes, please. To the Triple Bar C.”

He blinked at her, then checked the name on her Visa card again. “You’re not related to the Conley family, are you?”

“Yes I am.”

He whistled softly. “And you’re staying out at the ranch.” He shook his head.

“Yes, why?”

He grinned, somewhat sheepishly. “Well, folks hereabouts claim it’s haunted.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that too. How soon can I expect this stuff to be delivered?”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to get it out to you before Saturday. Our delivery truck’s in the shop for repairs.”

“Saturday will be fine, thank you.”

“I remember my great-granddaddy talking about what happened out at the old Conley place the night before the hanging. His daddy was there.”

Kathy slipped her credit card and credit slip into her wallet. “Really?” she asked. “What did he say?”

He leaned back against the counter, arms folded over his chest. He was a handsome young man, of medium height, with dark blond hair and brown eyes.

“Well, near as I can recall, it happened the year before my great-great-granddaddy—his name was Rowdy Lawson—opened the store here in town. He was just a young man then, in his early twenties, working as a cowhand for Russell Conley. He never forgot that night. He wrote all about it in the letters he wrote to my great-great-grandmother.”

Kathy’s heart was pounding so loud, she was sure Lawson could hear it. “What did he say?”

“Near as I can recall, he said Crowkiller claimed he was innocent, but of course, no one believed him. Aside from being a hired gun, he was a half-breed, you know. Couldn’t be trusted. My great-great-granddaddy said everybody knew he’d cause trouble sooner or later.”

“I read somewhere that he was innocent.”

Lawson snorted. “I don’t know where you could have read a thing like that. No, he was guilty, all right. My great-granddaddy said he was always watching Lydia Conley. I think my great-granddaddy had a bit of a crush on her himself.”

“Well, I can’t blame him. Judging from the picture I saw, she was a very pretty woman.”

“I’ve got an old photograph of her here somewhere. Hang on a minute.” Lawson rummaged through his desk, then pulled out a cigar box. “This belonged to my great-great-granddaddy. He kept a picture of Lydia. My great-grandmother said he kept it because it made her mother jealous. Here.” He thrust a faded photograph into Kathy’s hand. “You look a lot like her.”

Kathy studied the picture. Lydia didn’t look so prim and proper in this picture. Her hair was down, curling over her shoulders, and she was smiling, as if she had a secret.

“I don’t see much of a resemblance,” Kathy remarked.

“No?” Lawson stood behind her, peering over her shoulder. “I do.”

“Well, if you say so.” She placed the photograph on the counter. “Thank you for everything.” She shifted the strap of her handbag on her shoulder and picked up her packages. “I really need to be getting home.”

“Nice meeting you, Miss Conley.”

Mrs.
, she almost said, and then let it go. He might ask about her husband, and she really didn’t want to talk about Wayne, didn’t want to explain she was a widow. “Thank you. What time shall I expect you on Saturday?”

“Noon?”

“Fine, thanks again.”

* * * * *

She thought about Dalton Crowkiller on the ride home. What had he been doing for the last hundred and twenty-five years? What was it like, to be a ghost? Why, except for Lydia, was she the only one who could see him? She had always had a secret yearning to write a book. What would he think about letting her write the story of his life? Even if it was never published, it would give her something to do to pass the time at night.

She pulled into the driveway and switched off the ignition. She sat in the car for a minute, looking at the house, her resident ghost momentarily forgotten. As soon as she got the inside painted, she’d get started on the outside. White, with dark-blue trim. Or maybe a deep forest green with white shutters. She glanced at the barn, wondering if maybe she should have someone come out and demolish the thing and start from scratch. Of course, she didn’t really need a barn, although it was a great place for storage. There were about fifteen boxes of stuff in there that she hadn’t gone through yet. She had a feeling that she didn’t need most of it.

With a sigh, she got out of the car, opened the trunk and started removing her packages.

“Here, let me help you.”

Startled by his voice at her elbow, she jerked upright, her packages tumbling to the ground. She yelped as she hit her head on the lid of the trunk. “Stop sneaking up on me like that!”

He looked at her, one brow arched in wry amusement. “Want me to shout ‘boo’ next time?”

She glared at him, one hand rubbing her head. “Just what I need,” she muttered, “a comic gunfighter.”

She closed the trunk while he picked up her packages. Side by side, they walked up the path to the porch steps. She held the door open for him.

“Where do you want these?” he asked.

“In my bedroom.”

He lifted one brow; then, stifling whatever he had been about to say, he turned and walked down the hall toward her room.

She was in the kitchen, mixing a pitcher of lemonade, when she sensed his presence behind her.

“So,” he asked, “how were things in town?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“I reckon the place has changed some since I was there last.”

“No doubt.” She dropped some ice cubes into a glass and filled it with lemonade. “Did you know a young man named Lawson when you worked for Conley?”

“Rowdy Lawson?”

“That’s the one. He was one of Russell Conley’s cowboys.”

“Yeah, I remember him. Skinny kid, always mooning around after Lydia.”

“Really?” She sat down on one of the chairs. “I met his great-great-grandson in town today. He runs a furniture store.”

Dalton grunted. “Guess some things haven’t changed.” He hesitated a moment. “You look a little like her, you know, like Lydia.”

“Do I? That’s what Mr. Lawson said. He showed me her picture. I didn’t see any resemblance.”

“It’s your eyes,” Dalton said quietly, “and the color of your hair.”

“Oh.”

Silence stretched between them. It made her uncomfortable.

“I was thinking, that is, how would you feel if I was to write your life story?”

He pulled a chair from the table, turned it around and sat down, his arms crossed over the back. “Why would you want to do that?”

“I don’t know. I thought it might be interesting.” She shrugged. “It was just an idea.”

“A book about me?” He grinned. “You mean like those dime novels Buntline churned out? Sure, why not? Maybe you can make me famous, like Hickock and Earp.”

“Maybe. I read somewhere that Ned Buntline made something like twenty thousand dollars a year on those dime novels.” She took a sip of her lemonade.

“That’s a pile of money.”

Kathy nodded. “I did a report on him in high school. He was quite a character. Ran away from home when he was only ten or eleven and became a cabin boy on a freighter. When he grew up, he was quite a ladies’ man. Married eight women.”