Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2) Page 21

  Turning, Zach planted himself between her and the sliding glass doors.

  J. Dawson drifted in, though his legs moved as if he thought he was walking. I was not finished looking at the view, J. Dawson said.

  Clare nodded and watched him float through the curtains and glass and out onto the balcony. Her brief flash of energy was fading. She finished her food and pushed the plate aside, stood stiffly.

  “I’m going to change into my nightgown,” she said to Zach, wanting the comfort of soft, long flannel. She didn’t even feel up to taking a bath or shower . . . She rose stiffly.

  Zach’s brows rose. “J. Dawson?” he asked.

  She gestured to the balcony. “He’s out there. Can you help me undress?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  A chuckle escaped her and the warmth of affection simmered within her, though she didn’t think much lust was in her future.

  Between them, they got her undressed and into her nightgown, propped against all the pillows of the bed.

  “Huh,” Zach said.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t protest my hands that had touched bones, touching you.”

  “I’m getting over that,” Clare said. “A good thing, I think.” She frowned.

  “What?”

  “No Enzo,” she said, missing him, wondering what he was doing, or if he was still the Other. Whom she never liked seeing.

  Zach came and sat beside her, stretching out his legs. He looked at her, then began to unfasten his special shoes and leg brace. She stared in the other direction since he’d gone tense beside her.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Shall we call J. Dawson back in?”

  “Yes, I feel him hovering outside.” J. Dawson? she sent mentally.

  When he emerged from the curtain to stand at the end of the bed, he wore his work outfit.

  Zach clasped her hand, turned his gaze in the direction Clare was looking.

  “Hi, J. Dawson,” he said.

  The ghost nodded, then went back to looking at Clare. She sighed, but said, “Time for some questions, J. Dawson, if you can handle them.”

  Of course. He ran his right hand up and down his suspender.

  “What’s the last thing you remember in your life?” Zach asked.

  The ghost seemed to think, then his expression—all of him—lightened. “The day before, I found a new mine close to my old one. I’d just hit a huge vein of gold! I had a big nugget in my pocket!”

  Zach stared at him.

  “Uh-oh,” the ghost said. “That’s why I was murdered?”

  “The sheriff’s report stated you had nothing in your pockets.”

  ROBBED as well as murdered! No! He winked out.

  “It’s all about money, isn’t it? Greed and money,” Clare said.

  “Looks like,” Zach said.

  Clare stared up into Zach’s eyes. She thought she knew what his gift was now—glimpses of the future, how odd and fascinating. He’d known about the wedding before the announcement.

  He raised his brows. “What?”

  No, she wouldn’t speak of his precognition—was that the word? Her mind ticked down to the next topic. “You have more to say than what you just told J. Dawson, or what you told Mr. Laurentine earlier.”

  “You’re getting able to read me,” he said noncommitally.

  But she lifted her own eyebrows. “Zach, I am usually able to read you.” As soon as she said it, she knew the statement to be true, though she tilted her head and made a moue. “Rather, I should say that I can usually read you as long as it doesn’t pertain to our relationship.”

  “Glad I have some secrets,” he said.

  “Lots.” She relaxed a little, sinking back into the pillows, and smiled. “I’m still getting to know you, though I think one of the reasons we, uh, clicked so fast was that we could read each other.” She frowned. “I know that we have generally matching worldviews.”

  He reached out and sifted his fingers through her hair. His touch almost reconciled her to its being so curly.

  Tugging at a lock, he said, “Pretty much.”

  “So what else did you find out about J. Dawson that you haven’t said?”

  With a grimace, he refocused on her. “His body was a mess.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “Yes, I think Mr. Laurentine said something about that.”

  “He fell—”

  “Was pushed,” she corrected.

  Zach nodded. “Was pushed off a rocky trail, more like a cliff side. The sheriff said the body was seen because of his pale skin and the puddle of red blood around him.”

  Clare swallowed.

  “Major head trauma, so scalp wounds that bled freely. Quite a few broken bones.”

  “He was found the same day he died?”

  “That’s what the sheriff said, though . . .”

  “Though?”

  “The sheriff was out of town at the time. His deputy took the report of the ‘prominent’ citizens who found him and brought his body in.” Zach’s forehead creased. “No other report of the crime scene. And the group was divided about what he was doing, gathering wildflowers for a lady, or prospecting in his mine.”

  “And no gold was found on him.”

  Shaking his head, Zach stood and opened the curtains and door, paced the balcony looking at the distant peaks. “No gold was found. And though the sheriff checked out his mine—”

  “J. Dawson’s old mine. He just said he’d found a new one.”

  “Right, old or new, the sheriff didn’t leave any information as to where it was. Nor is there any record of the exact location of J. Dawson’s mine or his claim.”

  Clare frowned. “He would have made a record, though.”

  “Yes. Any prospector would have done that, but the records are missing. Not surprising after such a long time. Even the best records have gaps.” Zach shifted. “It was July, he was buried immediately that night, before the sheriff returned, so he didn’t see the body. Everyone said the fall was accidental.”

  “But someone knew it wasn’t.”

  “That’s right. Since there’s no record of his mine or his claim, we don’t know if someone continued to work it.” He paused. “We don’t know if the mine is still producing gold, is still viable today. I looked at new claims but didn’t see any filed in the Mount Bross area for several years after.”

  Clare joined Zach, but craned her neck to look north for Mount Bross, a futile endeavor. “A lot of the land around Mount Bross is national forest. The rest is owned by big mining companies.”

  “That’s right . . . and, say, if someone is operating a secret mine on national land, still getting gold out of it, that could be a strong motive for . . .” Zach rolled a shoulder.

  She spoke a dark truth. “If, perhaps, someone thought a ghost might reveal the location of a secret mine to, say, me, they might want to prevent that.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That would mean someone believes in ghosts and in me and my gift and in me being able to talk intelligently with J. Dawson Hidgepath.”

  “Take a breath, Clare.”

  She did, but tasted a bit of bile again. “Can I have some water, please?”

  “Sure.” Zach got up, went to the bathroom, and snagged an unopened bottle on the counter, twisted the top, and gave it to her.

  Drinking, she considered the new information. “Despite everything, I don’t think most people here really believe in my gift. I might have been putting on a really good show in Curly Wolf.”

  Zach shrugged. “Why take chances? And it may be why the attempts against you have been so half-assed.”

  “Oh.”

  “They might have just been trying to scare you off. Or he or she might have wanted your injury and death to look like an accident . . . trip and fall, fatal shooting by a hunter.”

  “That doesn’t explain the poison.”

  “You think anyone except me would have pressed for tests of that water?”

  “I don’
t know.”

  At that moment Enzo slunk into the room, tail down, head low.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ENZO! CLARE SAID.

  The Lab tilted his head. You are glad to see me, Clare? If you aren’t glad to see me, I have to go away and only the Other will come when it believes you need guidance. It thinks you are too dependent on me. That I am not doing my job right.

  Clare opened her arms and braced for the shock of cold. “I’m glad you’re here, Enzo. I don’t know what I would do without you.” Ooops. “I mean, I’ll try harder to work on my, ah, studies, for my gift. I’m not dependent on you, we just have love between us.”

  YES! YES! YES! That is it! I love you and you love me.

  So simple, a dog’s love. “Yes.”

  Chasing his tail, Enzo barked with joy. Clare slid a glance toward Zach. Since he had a hand on her leg, he could see the dog. His half smile was amused.

  Then Enzo hopped onto the bed, plowed clear through her, and the headboard and the wall, pulled back, and slathered her whole face with icy ghost doggy licks.

  “You’re a team,” Zach said.

  “Yes,” Clare said.

  Enzo said YES! at the same time. We are ALL a team. Clare and Enzo and Zach. Enzo and Zach and Clare. Clare and Zach and Enzo. Zach and—

  “Got it, dog.” Zach reached out to rub the Lab’s head, but his hand sank through it.

  “I’ll get started on learning more right away,” Clare said. “Zach, can you hand me the volume of Great-Aunt Sandra’s journal I brought with me, please? It’s on the desk.”

  You see! You SEE! Enzo hopped up and down. It was WRONG. You ARE learning. You brought a journal with you. It didn’t think you had. It was WRONG and I will tell IT so!

  “Good dog,” Zach said. He circled the bed, then handed her the journal.

  Clare scrunched, opened the book to the pages where the leather bookmark was, and began reading the looping handwriting—again, a long and rambling story. She fell asleep.

  Zach took the journal from her hands.

  His phone rang, but didn’t wake Clare. It was the deputy he’d spoken with earlier. She stated that they’d found tire tracks behind the general store in Curly Wolf that looked like the ones near the break in the fence, the same pattern with the nail head. The first tracks he’d seen weren’t there anymore because they’d been driven over by another car.

  He asked if he could drop by and discuss the matter. The deputy agreed. He checked the locks on the sliding glass doors, put on his shoes and brace, and stroked Clare’s head while he looked at Enzo.

  Much as it creeped him out to do so, he sent a mental order to Enzo. You watch her. If any person—good smelling or bad to you—comes here, you run to me FAST.

  The dog gave him big, sad eyes. She is sick. He licked her face, and Clare shivered. I was not there. IT was not there. IT made me go away and Clare got sick. A halfhearted twitch of his tail.

  Some of the simmering anger Zach had reined in at the dog’s failure to warn them vanished. This time he spoke aloud. “I guess you didn’t sense any bad thoughts toward Clare.”

  Enzo shook his head. I didn’t.

  “I guess the guy did it cold-bloodedly. Or since he or she isn’t being efficient about this, maybe it was just a dispassionate experiment.” He shook his head. “If anyone comes, dog, you run to me right away.”

  I will. I PROMISE. And IT can’t make me break my promises.

  “Good job.”

  Enzo nosed Clare’s shoulder. She will be fine.

  Zach hoped the spirit was right. Clare would be fine. This time. He had to ensure there was no “next time.”

  On his way out, he asked Desiree to keep an eye on Clare’s room and she agreed.

  He joined the deputy behind the general store, took more pics with his phone. Yes, the anomalies in the truck tracks behind the general store where the water had been kept were the same as those by the break in the fence. Clearest was the fact that the right rear tire had picked up a nail.

  As he walked back to the house, he checked out every truck on the way, and parked in the lot on the west side of the house. No tread matches.

  When he reached the house, Mr. Laurentine made a point of telling Zach that one of his ranch hands had shot a coyote that morning when Clare and Desiree were up on the ridge . . . and he’d left a message on Clare’s phone.

  Zach nabbed a busy Tyler Jorgen briefly and set up an appointment to speak with him the next day.

  Once in their room, Zach studied Clare as she slept. Hadn’t done that too often in their . . . he counted back mentally . . . sixteen days together. Wow, so short a time, so powerful and profound a relationship.

  Yeah, he stared at the beauty of her, and everything in him, gut, heart, cock, tightened at the thought of losing her. He couldn’t. Just. No. Not right now . . . maybe when the relationship lightened up, lost its shine and hot passion, whatever, maybe then. But not now.

  The red rage he kept battened down—at the loss of his brother years ago to a gang shooting, the loss of his career and his disability a few months ago—surged at the thought of hurt to Clare. He wanted to beat the perp to a pulp until the red block of anger, of vengeance, eased. And that wasn’t acceptable cop thinking. But he wasn’t a cop . . .

  No. Don’t go down that road. He believed in the rule of law because it was the closest humans got to justice. Big gaps, sometimes, but he and Clare had spoken of honor, of their own rules. His honor and rules would not let him beat someone bloody for personal reasons, much as he wanted to. He had to make sure he never let that rage inside him blow.

  He sat on the bed, slid his fingers through the curls she wasn’t taming anymore. He wanted to whisk her back to Denver, stash her in that elegant old house of hers, and protect her, turn it into a fortress against any threat.

  His previous reasoning held true. Clare might be easier to kill in Denver. Right now Zach was on the job and close to Clare. In Denver, Rickman might have an urgent case come up that would tear Zach’s loyalties. He could always say no, of course, but how long would Rickman put up with that?

  A hunch at the top of his spine spreading tension between his shoulders told him if they stayed, the case would break, he’d catch the guy hurting his woman soon. If they left . . . maybe not, even if Zach or Clare discovered who killed J. Dawson and connected that with someone in the present.

  Clare awoke and Zach ordered a simple meal to come to their room. They ate, but she remained drowsy, so they didn’t talk of anything in depth.

  He spent some time looking at tire treads in a database, brushing up on identifying a vehicle using the tires, by figuring the turning radius, the vehicle stance, and the wheel base. He thought he narrowed the heavy-duty truck down to one manufacturer. A brand that Laurentine didn’t use for the ranch vehicles. He copied his calculations and his findings to the sheriff’s department as the locals were more likely to know who drove such a vehicle, but unless the deputy on duty tonight was interested or bored out of his or her skull, he didn’t think his email would be opened.

  When he settled down, curving around Clare, he simply let out a long, quiet breath of gratitude that she was safe in his arms before sleep ambushed him.

  In the morning, Clare moved even more stiffly than the day before and looked more fragile than Zach had expected or liked. They rose at seven, ate breakfast by themselves in the empty dining room, and then Zach paced as Dr. Burns checked her out. Once again the doctor muttered she’d been very lucky. If she’d drunk more of the solution, or faster . . . He just shook his head.

  Zach escorted her back to their room, where he wanted to put her back to bed.

  “No.” Clare sank into one of the chairs by the table. “I am not going back to bed.”

  Her eyes showed a hint of rebellion, which he knew would flare into a full-fledged argument shortly. He was braced and ready.

  “It doesn’t appear that the shot yesterday morning was aimed at me,” Clare said.

 
She was still too pale for Zach’s comfort, and he wasn’t about to lose this battle with her. He’d failed to protect her from the poisoning, from the fall before.

  He scowled at her and she shifted a little, reacting to his cop look. Eventually she wouldn’t. She was toughening up fast . . . and he sort of admired that even as he missed the softer aspects of her personality.

  “One shot wasn’t aimed at you yesterday,” Zach stated in a hard tone. “That doesn’t mean a shot couldn’t be aimed at you today, especially since it looks like our perp did a copycat thing with pesticide poisoning.

  “Now I believe J. Dawson Hidgepath was murdered for a large gold nugget he took from his mine, that was not reported being on his body when it was found. I believe the person who killed him kept the mine secret, perhaps hid it, and passed the knowledge down to his or her descendants. And I believe that one of those descendants knows you can speak with J. Dawson and discover the mine. You think that’s wrong?”

  She was quieter for longer than he liked, stared at the curtains over the sliding glass door that blocked the balcony and the view. Safer for her.

  Zach softened his voice but pressed on. “I want you protected. The easiest way, the most logical way, to kill you is in a ‘hunting accident.’ Especially if he or she is so squeamish that he or she’s botching the murder attempts—the fall, the poison.”

  She went another shade of white beneath her golden skin, which had picked up more tan in the September sunshine at high altitude.

  Then her shoulders straightened. “You’re pushing me, Zach.”

  “I’m doing my job, protecting you.”

  Her head tilted. “I don’t consider that your job.”

  “I do and you’re in danger and I am talking about taking reasonable precautions.”

  “Staying in bed, in the room, all the time. I’m not sure that’s reasonable. Especially when I have a job to do. I can be careful.”