Текст книги "Ghost Seer"
Автор книги: Robin D. Owens
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!
Laughing, laughing, she helped steady him and levered them up.
“Wow,” she said. “You are one incredible man. We tried out the elevator instead of the bed.” She frowned. “Wait, you didn’t . . . ah . . . um.” Swiftly she unlocked the gate, opened it, opened the regular door. Then she bent and handed him his cane and took his free hand. “Yeah, we gotta get to the bed ASAP.” She bounced as she walked, dammit, not an athletic female, but a completely healthy one. He hated this, his nonflexing ankle, his weakness.
The heat of irritation and anger turned back into lust when she stood with him beside the bed.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SHE UNBUTTONED HIS shirt, opened it, smoothed her hands over his chest, flicking her nails over his nipples, had him swelling against his pants again. He welcomed the greedy passion, the lack of thinking that would come with surrender to sex.
Her hands went to his fly and he closed his eyes, tried to settle into a balanced stance that had once been second nature, had to grip his cane. Then he gripped it even harder as she unzipped his work trousers and slid them down his legs.
He stepped out, glad she always seemed focused on his dick instead of the hideous scars on his leg and ankle.
She stood, skimming her fingers up the inside of his thighs, and he flinched and his cock jerked at the anticipation of numbing pleasure. Her fingers came closer and closer to where he really wanted them, and she cupped him and he kept an aching groan behind his teeth and fought to keep from grabbing her. He’d give her a little control before he ripped it from her, letting the reins of his own self-command blow away in the hot wind.
The slightly dazed look in her eyes, the plumping of her lips, the flush in her cheeks, all gave him gut-deep satisfaction. She was in this thing with him, all the way, and as completely as he.
He’d stop thinking soon, but now he savored the thickening and heaviness of his dick. His own lust and the evidence of hers. Hell, even his cheekbones felt hot as she smoothed his pants with trembling hands, folded them over the back of a chair. Oh, yeah.
Bracing his leg against the bed, he propped his cane on the curved wooden footboard, slid his thumbs into his boxers and dropped them, nearly groaning with pleasure as his erection was freed.
She turned back and her gaze went straight to his cock and he swelled even more and gritted his teeth as she sauntered back toward him, eyes glittering. Standing no more than a foot from him, with her usual efficiency, she stripped, jeans and cotton panties dropped, showing the slight curve of her stomach, the pretty dark curls covering her sex, her long tanned legs. His breath caught, his turn to focus on her every movement as she pulled up her tee, folded it, paced back and put it on the seat of the chair holding his pants. His mouth dried as she unhooked her bra and let her beautiful full breasts spill from it, the tips rosy and nubby with passion.
When she bent down to pick up her jeans to fold them, too, Zach thought he’d whimper. His mind went blank and all there was, was the blood pounding inside him with need, need, need.
Walking back, she wore that half smile before sex that yanked at his heart as well as his balls. She touched him and that was it; he picked her up—hardly noticing the pang in his leg—and threw her to the middle of the queen-sized bed. White bedspread, golden Clare. Perfect.
“Zach,” she said, and he didn’t know if it was slurry because she said it that way or he heard it that way. She lifted her arms and his gaze went to her breasts and he had to taste them.
So he did. Touching her, he made sure she quivered, shuddered, slicked with sex, and yelled his name as she climaxed. She yanked at him, pulled him over her, not pleading, no, demanding he thrust into her. He did that, too, slid into wet heat that drove him mad and he pounded into her and the bite of her nails on his shoulders added to sweet, sweet desire, stoked him and he grabbed her hard and held her and their bodies arched and flexed in a hammering rhythm and he emptied into her, whispering her name as she yelled his.
Slowly the rushing of his heartbeat in his ears calmed. His chest didn’t rise and fall so raggedly and the noise of his harsh breathing diminished. His muscles should work now, and he rolled and slipped from her and grunted at the loss.
Turning his head, he saw that her brown hair had tumbled around her face, no smoothness here, and she looked great. “Give me a coupla minutes,” he said.
She laughed, teeth white in the fading light. Man, he wanted to study her, a golden goddess against the white, like he’d seen her moments before, like the image that would be burned in his memory forever. Her pupils had turned more golden-brown than green in the hazel of her eyes. Her lips were red, her cheeks pink under that tanned skin, peach.
Just absolutely beautiful.
Perfect.
As he was not. He’d never be whole again. No, he didn’t like that thought and pushed it away.
• • •
They showered in an awesome glass deal that had six crossing streams. He got his hands all over her slippery, sexy body, and this time he didn’t disgrace himself in a small enclosure.
Clare changed back into one of the sundresses she preferred, this one with a built-in bra that he approved of, and, to his disappointment, she slipped on cotton panties. White, sort of innocent. The more he thought about that, it drove him a little crazy. But despite her wild Gypsy side that she let loose in bed, Clare was innocent in most of the ways he wasn’t. She believed the best of people, believed they’d try their hardest—with the exceptions of her parents. She lived by her rules, and as far as he could tell, she hadn’t broken any of the major ones that were important to her.
He’d broken quite a few rules . . . but none that were important to him.
They didn’t eat in the formal dining room, thank God. That would have reminded him of his childhood before he’d lost Jim. The room was pretty enough, with a polished and gleaming dark wood table and a set of eight chairs with nice tapestry cushions. Instead, with a wide wave of her arm, she indicated the patterned brick patio and a couple of fancy outdoor lounge deals. They didn’t look new, but they did appear originally expensive. Probably some of her great-aunt Sandra’s furniture.
Since he believed Clare wanted to putter by herself in her own new kitchen, Zach went out to one of the two loungers with a nicely sized rectangular table set between them. He cranked the chair to a notch he preferred, then settled in, gritting his jaw at the continuing ache of his leg. He wasn’t much use to carry stuff since he had only one free hand.
Clare walked out with a pizza box smelling of cheese and dough and pepperoni and his mouth watered. On top of it she balanced two plates, a couple of beers, and a bottle of lemonade. She arranged everything on the table, and when she lifted the lid of the box, he saw that she’d put at least three types of pizza inside to choose from. Very efficient, that was his lady.
He took a meat-lovers’ slice and bit into it, not quite searing his tongue or the roof of his mouth. Fabulous.
“What did you do today?” Clare asked, opening her lemonade.
He grimaced.
“Oh. Do you not want to talk about your work?”
What he was doing was hardly work. “I looked into those names you gave me. Three turned out to be dead ends. Only one old guy was still alive and living in a state-run nursing home. He said he didn’t recall anything about his father getting furniture from Mrs. Flinton’s childhood family. I got the impression his family probably sold the furniture as soon as they’d received it. He was all about needing cash.” Zach frowned, remembering the interview. “He pretended I was one of his nephews and tried to hit me up for money.”
“Pretended?” Clare asked.
Zach leaned back in the lounge. “Yeah. He was sly, yeah, sly. He might have known what happened to the stuff. If this was a violent case, I may have gone back and reinterviewed.” He shrugged. “Guy is soft, got the idea that he didn’t work much in his life, depended on others to take care of him.”
Clare’s mouth turned down before she said, “A sponger.”
“A moocher,” Zach said at the same time.
They smiled, but one of those shadows was in her eyes and she thought it applied to him in some way. “I am not a moocher.”
“Of course not,” she replied absently in a matter-of-fact tone. She glanced toward the house; the light was dying, the sunset gone fast behind those high redbrick walls. A small light in the kitchen beamed welcome and comfort. “I’m sorry the leads I gave you didn’t pan out.”
He shrugged. “Not surprising, after all these years.”
“Um, did you speak with Rickman about it?”
“Of course.” Not that their meeting had been long. Rickman seemed much less intense than usual, almost offhand. Zach thought it was a strategy of the man, whether to show him the guy was really hands-off and trusted him, or waiting for Zach to really commit to the company . . . or having decided to give him enough rope to hang himself and get him out of there with no hard feelings by Mrs. Flinton.
When they were done, Clare tidied up the meal, came back out, and, to his surprise, sat on his lap and leaned against him.
Tenderness surged and he let it wisp through him like a balm, soothing stuff he hadn’t known hurt.
Head tucked under his chin, she said, “My first night in my new home. I love it here.”
He stroked her hair, her back, soaking in the quiet. The heat didn’t seem as bad since he knew a few steps would take him into cool relief whenever he wanted. Studying the yard, he thought the mature trees and the tall brick walls kept it shady during the day. “Good choice and good job getting this place. It suits you.”
Her sigh was long. “Thanks. I’m glad you like it.”
A few breaths of quiet. “Would you like to stay with me here tonight?” she asked.
Always. The word came to his mind, shocked him silent. Nope, he didn’t fall that fast or easily. He didn’t fall at all, and he should pull back now. Instead he said, “Sure,” stuffing the notion of love in a back cupboard in his mind. Neither he nor Clare had mentioned love.
Both of them were enjoying the sex.
“I have a work bag in the car.” His mouth kicked up. “With clean clothes.” Women preferred that. He’d whistled when he’d thrown it in, like this time with Clare was sliding from a few nights’ sex into an affair or something. Studying her, he acknowledged she was still damn compelling. If he looked at her too long, too closely, his dick stood right up. And if he unexpectedly caught a whiff of her—Clare or that exotic perfume she wore that revealed that true wild self of hers—he wanted to start a-nibblin’ on her and get her under him, over him—get into her fast.
“Good,” she murmured. “That’s good.”
So he held her as twilight deepened into night and crickets whirred their syncopated songs.
• • •
Enzo’s rapid yips woke her. She jerked to sit and reached for Zach’s hand. He stiffened beside her and though he didn’t draw his fingers away, neither did he intertwine his with hers. Glancing down, she saw that his eyes were open and alert and revealed no emotion, which struck her as part of his cop manner. She couldn’t tell whether he’d just awakened and did so fast and ready for anything, or whether he’d been awake thinking private thoughts.
Jack Slade is here! Enzo barked. He’s come at last!
TWENTY-NINE
“GREAT,” CLARE SAID as Zach grunted.
She watched as the apparition walked through the shut door of the master suite, into the conversation area, then to the end of the bed. He didn’t look around or show that he was aware of the change in her surroundings. How much did a ghost know of those? The cowboy had known of the EZ Loan, but Clare understood that he’d been a ghost tied specifically to a location. Too many aspects she still didn’t understand.
She was glad she wore a nightshirt; still, she wished she had on underwear.
The ghost appeared to be a little . . . worn, not as substantial. Clare stiffened. Had something happened to him? Or was it something in her, the warning that if she didn’t “work” harder at her gift, she might go mad?
Good evening, ghost seer, the apparition said.
Zach’s fingers tightened around her hand. She turned her head toward him. He nodded, mouth flattening.
“Hel . . . Hello, Jack.”
I have found the exact location of the second ear I cut off Jules Beni. The ghost lapsed into silence for enough beats for Clare’s mind to wing to the puzzle box and its contents, in the house safe in the living room.
“Where is it?” she asked.
It is buried in an old depression that held a post of the corral behind the barn at Virginia Dale. There is no barn or corral now.
Jules Beni had been tied to a corral post.
Jack Slade’s lips twisted. And that hole is close to a post holding a large sign reporting lies about me.
“What lies?”
That I robbed the stage. He grew more dense, the angles and shadows of him more defined. Betrayed my employer. I might have been bad when drinking, but I was an honest man in my work! His chest actually seemed to rise and fall with agitated breath. He turned his glittering eyes on Zach. And I led no robbers in Montana, you who upheld the law, there.
Zach sat, grimaced, lifted a hand. “I’ve never been in Virginia City, Montana. I worked south of there.” He hesitated. “And I’m a law officer; I don’t believe in the vigilante ‘justice’ that condemned you.”
Jack Slade inclined his head. Thank you. He seemed to actually pace along the end of the bed, not drift. I don’t like people thinking I was so bad as to rob gold going to pay soldiers at Fort Laramie.
Again the ghost looked at Zach. Needed my reputation to keep order. That was the only thing that worked with the roughnecks under my direction, with outlaws and horse thieves like Beni, with the damn French ranchers and the Sioux. You know about rep.
Zach grunted, but Clare saw him nod.
The ghost continued, Then I got to liking my bad reputation too much. He moved his hand in a smooth gesture. Things happened. When drunk, I turned into a different person. And after Beni shot me—his image rippled—the pain never quit, and I drank more and I lost control.
The apparition lifted pale hands, waved them. But that is all past. We must hurry. The date of my wrongdoing is in three days. We must be ready—YOU must be ready to help me right the ill I caused. We should leave shortly, go to Virginia Dale, Colorado, then on to Cold Springs.
She supposed that was more efficient, but she’d just gotten her own home and she’d been traveling a lot lately and didn’t want to spend another night on the road. “They aren’t in the same direction,” she pointed out. “But they can both be day trips from here.”
The ghost scowled.
“I don’t ride horses,” she said. “And our vehicles are very fast.” She scraped her mind for other reasons. “I’d like to be rested and . . . and prepared. It will be a long day tomorrow, digging up . . . doing what needs to be done, and an even longer day”—she swallowed—“the day I help you . . . transition. Let me get some rest in my own bed in between times.”
Pacing faster until he blurred, the specter said, It comes near, my time; we cannot linger. I MUST go on. My Virginia waits for me. I can’t bear to be trapped any longer!
Sucking in a breath, Clare strove for more logic.
But Slade vanished.
She was cold, cold, trembling with it.
Zach drew her under the covers and gave her blessed warmth and mind-destroying release.
• • •
She rose at dawn after a restless sleep . . . even the two times she and Zach had made love hadn’t released all the anxiety she had about digging up something on land that didn’t belong to her.
She dressed in jeans and a thin long-sleeved cotton shirt in a pastel pattern and hiking boots. The jeans and boots would help with rough ground, cactus, any snakes. The shirt would keep her arms from burning at high altitude. She stuck a small blue bandana in her pocket and laid out a straw cowboy hat.
One last time, she studied the location of the former Overland Stage Virginia Dale Station on several different 3D world maps on her tablet, but they could only give her two dimensions for this out-of-the-way place.
What she wanted to do was call someone who belonged to the Virginia Dale Community Club to ensure that the gates would be open. If they were standard country gates they’d prevent cars but not people from going in. The place was on the historic register list, after all. She’d even found a site for people leaving small caches for others to find by GPS, so it was probably open to the public. Of course the building itself would be locked. The next event of the club wasn’t until September.
She didn’t recall ever driving up that way, off the interstate. Well, there was a first time for everything.
Enough of soothing paperwork. On one of her moving trips she’d dropped by a sporting goods store and purchased a sturdy camp shovel that she’d left in her car.
Now to prepare for the rest of the day. She began packing lunch in a small cooler: cold chicken strips, hard-boiled eggs, iced tea, and beer . . . just in case Zach wanted to come. She thought he might.
He clumped into the kitchen in his boxers. That she’d heard him told her he was still groggy.
“Coffee?” he grunted.
She’d put it on earlier, had gotten involved on the computer and hadn’t even had a cup, so she poured for two.
Zach let the taste of premium coffee lie on his tongue, really good, and Clare looked equally good, though her appearance as Cowgirl, or maybe Hiking Girl or Mountain Girl, was a new side of her.
Seven A.M. and she seemed to be heading out. He blinked at her. He’d hoped to have more time to think about this whole business, especially since she’d kept waking him during the night with her tossing and turning. The sex had been amazing, though.
But the whole woo-woo thing had ruffled his nerves, begun to wear on him. He knew she hoped he was joining her. He had the time, both of them knew that, but he sure didn’t think he had the desire.
She gulped her coffee, not treating the brew with the respect it deserved, and glanced at the kitchen clock. Yep, he’d noticed at least one clock in every room in this place, too. Didn’t think some of the rooms had previously had them.
“I’d like to get on the road soon, before rush hour traffic.”
Too late, but it would be easier once she passed downtown and headed north away from the influx into downtown Denver.
“Uh-huh,” he said. He could stand here and drink coffee with her, get some food from the fridge, or go back upstairs—by way of the elevator, though that smacked of running away from the decision. He didn’t have trouble with decisions and hadn’t ever had trouble disengaging from a lover before . . . before, when he was a different man.
He didn’t want to hurt Clare’s feelings. But he’d already hesitated too long.
She paled. “Are you going to come to Virginia Dale with me or not?”
He fumbled for an answer, let show his irritation at the whole screwed-up mess that had been scraping his nerves for days. Sending her a sharp look, he said, “Somehow follow a ghost somewhere to illegally obtain a grisly piece of human flesh?” Grisly to her, at least.
“Do you believe I can see ghosts, Zach?” She was steady: posture, gaze, voice. And quiet, a little too quiet, tipping him off that this was a vital question.
He would have liked to say, I believe you believe you see ghosts, but that was too wishy-washy, more lie than truth. And something that jerk Barclay might say. So his eyes met hers and he said, “Yes. You can see ghosts.”
“And you can see ghosts, too.”
“No!”
“Don’t give me that.” Her expression was all impatience. “You saw them! The cowboy outside the land office, Jack Slade.” Now her tone rose and Zach didn’t like it. He used his flat cop stare. It worked. She took a step back.
“I don’t see ghosts.” Flat voice to match flat stare.
Another step back. Her chin trembled.
He felt like he walked along a narrow shelf trail in the mountains that might crumble under his feet at any moment. Losing her, losing him, one of them falling beyond reach and hope. So he amended, “I can see ghosts when I touch you. This is about you, Clare, not about me.”
She said, “There’s been a congruency of lives intersecting here: me, Mrs. Flinton, and you. All of us with a gift—”
“No, Clare.” He repeated, “The gift is yours. I don’t have one. You’re deluding yourself. You just want to have company in . . . all of this.” He waved.
Her face crumpled for an instant, then tightened. She walked deliberately to the other side of the breakfast bar, flung stuff in her cooler, and zipped it shut. “All right then. Thank. You. For. Your. Former. Companionship. I won’t be a burden on you or on anyone else, emotionally or in any other way. I won’t inflict my ideas on you or anyone else. I won’t be with anyone who cannot give me respect.” She paused, swallowed. “And respect my gift.”
An emotional blow right to the middle of his chest. She was dumping him! That wasn’t what—
But she’d skittered around him and headed toward the big front door.
