Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2) Read online

  “I definitely need to start out with the resources here in Denver. I’d imagine many materials made it here after Curly Wolf dried up,” Zach said.

  “Or are in the Park County Archives,” Clare said. She wanted to delay, but there was no reason to, and Enzo appeared on her chaise lounge near the balcony doors as if to remind her of that.

  “I’ll take the job and be up there before noon,” she said to Rickman. “I’ll sign the contract, scan it, and e-mail a copy. Zach can bring you the original.”

  “Right,” Rickman said. “Later, Clare.” He sounded as if he moved on to the next item on his list . . . his next case.

  “C’mere,” Zach said, patting the bed beside him.

  Just his glance made her hot, hot, hot, and giddiness swept through her.

  She studied him, let her appreciation of him show in the dawning light. He stacked his hands behind his head and let a smile linger on his lips as she strolled toward him. The ruby-colored sheet over his lower body rose a trifle and heat slipped hotter through her veins.

  She ran her hands down her sides, letting the plush of her expensive robe tingle her palms, ratchet up her sensuality another notch. Her fingers stopped at the belt and slipped open the knot, let the belt hang and her robe open.

  Zach’s chest went up and down faster with his breathing. That pleased her. She was always surprised that she excited a man like him. At the foot of the bed, she slid the robe off and laid it down, then circled the footboard to his side and stood before him, nude. Reaching down, she flipped off the sheet and scrutinized him head to foot, slowly. His eyes dilated as he stared at her, and she made sure that he noted her gaze lingered on his scarred leg, especially under his left knee. He had to know that she found him sexy just as he was.

  Then, of course, her gaze focused on his shaft, so strong, so vital. Her knees loosened. He put a hand on her upper thigh and her brain went to mush and she didn’t care. She moved onto the bed and over him, caressed his erection briefly, closed her eyes at his moan, before she took him inside her.

  For a moment they stayed there, quiet, connected, neither of them moving. Then he brushed her nipples with his fingertips and her lashes flew open, her gaze latched on his dark, fierce one. His hands cupped her breasts and he angled up to taste her. She gasped at the dual sensation of his kisses and movement inside her.

  She closed her eyes and set her hands on his chest, felt the crinkles of his light hair against her sensitized palms. She heard her own breathing, louder than the pounding of her pulse in her temples.

  Slowly she lifted until she could barely feel him, then plunged down. A sound ripped from him, and his hands went to her hips. She leaned back, batted them away, and took control of the lovemaking. She set the pace, slow and tortuous so she could feel him slide all the way in and out of her, experience how he thickened more to fill her.

  His hips rose and she matched his thrusts, hurried the beat of bodies moving together until the dizzying peak was close, closer, there! She cried out, felt him pulsing within her, then she subsided on atop him.

  His hands fell from her. “We haven’t talked about protection lately.”

  She stiffened and propped herself up on his chest to stare at him sternly. “Since twelve days ago?” Her words came out clipped and she didn’t mind. “Did you sleep with anyone else?” She leaned to roll away and his arms clamped her to him.

  EIGHT

  “NO, CLARE. I didn’t sleep with anyone else. Yes, I can still give you my latest health records if you like. I saw my doctor in Montana. I’m clean. So did you sleep with anyone while I was gone?” His big hand stroked her head, played with her hair.

  “No. I had no urge to sleep with anyone else.”

  “Ghosts keep you busy?”

  She relaxed on him. “Not so much. This house did.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I can give you my latest blood work, too.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “And I remain on birth control.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Good.”

  “Yes. I am so not ready to have children. Though, unlike many women, I have enough financial resources to be a single mother easily. I wouldn’t ask for any support, Zach.”

  He yanked her hair. “Get this. If something happens and we make a baby together, I want to be part of the kid’s life.”

  She shivered at the thought that she might have a child she’d pass her gift on to. That certainly gave her pause.

  “Clare?”

  “I like you, Zach. I think you’re a good man. Of course I would let you share any mythical child’s life.”

  “’Kay. We got the topic covered?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Let’s hit the showers. Separately this time or we’ll never get out of here.”

  “Yes.”

  But he rolled over so she was under him, fully aware of his body. His mouth touched hers, his tongue demanded entrance, and she let him in, joined with him that way. Let sexual attraction sweep her away again.

  He broke the kiss, and angled up so their glances met. A smile hovered on his lips. “I’m not nearly done with you, Clare Cermak. Just started, in fact.”

  She nodded, mind still fuzzy.

  His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Good.” He rolled off her, and off the bed, made a wide gesture for her to head into the master bath. He didn’t want her to see him walk, then. She swallowed a sigh and got off the bed with less grace. She stopped in front of him and pulled his head down for a quick, claiming kiss, her blood stirring. Then she sashayed away.

  • • •

  After showering and dressing in a pair of new jeans and a long-sleeved silk blouse, Clare read and signed the short contract with Rickman to be an independent consultant for one job only. The terms with him were fair. The minimum fee and the hourly rate sent a balm to her accountant’s heart.

  It wasn’t the fee that her great-aunt Sandra could have commanded, but it was more than respectable for the trip and stay and stopping J. Dawson Hidgepath from doing more damage.

  The cost of sending the apparition on to his next destination couldn’t be calculated. Those horrible moments when she had to initiate contact, sink into him, see whatever he—or the universe—needed her to see, then free him with whatever words came to her chilled mind and frozen lips.

  She shook off the memory of helping her first major ghost, and e-mailed the contract to Rickman, then left her “ghost business” office to pack a bag, and looked around her home.

  Zach had dressed and kissed her jawline, then turned her and slid his mouth on hers, darted his tongue inside so she tasted him. One last glorious pressure of lips on lips and he stepped away. “I like your new digs, Clare.”

  She sighed. “Yes, I love this house.”

  “And it looks good on you, wealth,” Zach said.

  She shrugged and his hands came up to curve around her upper arms. “You won’t waste it like your parents. You’ll shepherd it.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But you’ll enjoy it, too, like your great-aunt Sandra did.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’m staying here in Denver to hit the library and the History Colorado Center for whatever they might have,” he said reluctantly. “Shouldn’t take more than a day, do you think? You’re the historical research expert.”

  She grimaced. “I’m getting there, aren’t I? But I’ve got a feeling Mr. Laurentine was right. We won’t find any solid, original source material on J. Dawson, especially down here in Denver. I think most everything will be in Park County.”

  “Good.” He kissed her. “I’ll be up in a day or two.”

  When she finished packing a large bag, Zach said, “Don’t forget J. Dawson’s box.”

  “You think I’ll need it before you come up?” She hoped she wouldn’t.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She fixed breakfast and they ate. Then she gave Zach her resource list for Western history in Denver, a
nd had no more reason to linger. As it was, she’d be leaving during rush hour. She double-checked her route to avoid ghosts lingering around the car and obscuring her vision. She was getting better at ignoring the stray one or two while driving.

  After a last, sizzling kiss with Zach, she departed. Enzo popped up in her passenger seat before she got down the block.

  He panted cheerfully. As usual, strings of ghostly drool hung down from his muzzle. Whee! WE ARE GOING TO THE MOUNTAINS!

  “I know. I’m driving.”

  I have never been TO THE MOUNTAINS!

  “I guess not. You’ll find it cooler.” Would he notice? “It’s coming up on autumn, though I don’t think the aspen leaves will quite have turned gold yet.”

  There will be MOUNTAIN GHOSTS.

  “Yes, a lot of them.” She wondered if she dared visit some of the towns. They’d be as thronged with ghosts as downtown Denver. “Many people lived in the mountains during the time period I’m sensitive to. Miners, prospectors, and everyone who could make money off of them.”

  This will be FUN! Enzo stared out the windshield.

  “It will be business.” She hesitated. “Did Great-Aunt Sandra enjoy her business?”

  Mostly. Enzo turned his head. Sometimes helping ghosts is sad.

  “I’d imagine so. Thank you for coming with me, Enzo.”

  You are welcome. I am your companion helper.

  “Uh-huh.”

  With traffic, there was no fun to be had until they hit Turkey Creek Canyon and the sun was at her back.

  Enzo stuck his head out the window. WHEEEEEE! Thank you for taking me to the mountains! You are THE BEST! He didn’t just stick his head out; he put his paws on the sill and stuck his body out. Not a hair on him moved, but he appeared to feel the wind and his expression was pure bliss.

  The winding trip was lovely, and Enzo commented on the tall walls of the canyon, the steep grade, the rock faces, and the stream. Clare didn’t stop until she reached the scenic overlook atop the hill before descending into South Park.

  Enzo shot through the door and past the paved parking lot through the wire fence to the scrubby bushes near the edge of the drop-off. Since he lifted his leg, and something seemed to come out of his nonexistent bladder, she stared. This was the first time he’d done that.

  She left him to whatever strange ghostly business he might have and took in the view. As always, the huge open space of the geological basin that had once been an inland sea made her catch her breath with its beauty. It was early September, and the green from the summer afternoon rains had transformed into dry yellow, which would stay until the deep snows.

  Standing and breathing the lovely air, she welcomed the soft rays of the sun in the thinner atmosphere. For a moment she toyed with the small notion of buying a place here . . . but there were so many gorgeous places in Colorado . . . and she’d just bought an expensive home . . . and . . . maybe . . . someday . . . she and Zach . . . She was afraid she wanted too much from him, too quickly. She didn’t want to be dependent on him. That was no way for a relationship to work . . . being more dependent on a man than he was on you.

  She glanced at her wristwatch. She was ahead of schedule, but anything could happen between here and the DL Ranch. The main road was paved and two-lane, but went up and down over hilly ridges, and she had no idea what the road to Mr. Laurentine’s estate was like. Her navigation system showed him atop a low rise on the outskirts of a mountain, neighboring a state wilderness area.

  With a mental call to Enzo, she did a last stretch and got back into her car.

  Clare, it WAZZZ WONNERFFUL! Enzo hopped onto the seat.

  She glanced at him sharply. He sounded odd, almost if he were a person, drunk. The dark mist of his eyes swirled and showed more glitters than usual. Starting up the car, she said, “Enzo, are you all right?”

  New place, Clare! New sights and smells and ENERGIEEEZ all around. Animalzzz I don’ know, old, old spiritzz who don’ wanna talk.

  Clare figured those would be Native Americans. She thought the Mountain Utes had used South Park as a summer hunting ground.

  “All right,” she said. “The GPS says we should be at the DL Ranch in under a half hour. You know that Curly Wolf will be there, just down the hill from the main house.”

  If possible, he perked up even more, ears lifting. Hooray! More ghosts like J. Dawson!

  “Hooray,” Clare said unenthusiastically. She listened to classical music as she wended her way through South Park. She passed Fairplay and the road up to the original site of Curly Wolf, then drove another thirty miles or so to a county road. There she turned onto the private drive leading to the DL Ranch over a cattle guard—a steel grid over a ditch with bars too far apart for animals to walk over.

  Tall iron gates with fence posts strung with barbed wire on either side stopped her progress. The gates showed the fancy encircled DL initials at the top and a little brick guardhouse just beyond. Slowly they opened and she drove through and across another cattle guard.

  We are here! Enzo stood with paws propped on the dash, phantom tail whisking back and forth. He turned his head and his eyes appeared almost natural. This is very nice! Better than the lake with Sandra!

  As always, the thought of how she’d ignored her great-aunt stabbed through Clare. She forced a smile so she wouldn’t dim the dog’s enthusiasm and waved a hand. “Go, explore. Chase all the ghost and real wildlife you want.” She hesitated. “You might check out the property for ghosts of my time period.” The uprooted town of Curly Wolf would sure hold some.

  Enzo leapt up to the dash, his claws scrabbling at the narrow ledge, and through the windshield.

  She gave her name and handed her ID to the uniformed security guard. Something in his eyes or the way he looked at her reminded her of Zach, and she thought the guard might be an ex–deputy sheriff like her lover.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded and gave back her driver’s license, “Have a good time, Ms. Cermak. The house is just past the town of Curly Wolf, up on the hillside.”

  “So he can look down on his treasures,” she murmured, but obviously not softly enough because the man pokered up.

  She wiggled her shoulders, trying to release some of the tension that had settled in her back. “I don’t have to drive through Curly Wolf, do I?”

  “No, ma’am. Just follow this road.”

  “Thank you.” She drove on the asphalt road just under the posted speed limit of fifteen miles an hour, knowing the guard’s eyes were on her since she’d be the only threat around.

  There was a turnoff leading to a historic-type gravel and dirt road to Curly Wolf, then the main road climbed and finally ended in a parking area at the west side of the mansion.

  She’d never seen anything like the luxury Western-style log house . . . or maybe she had at one of the National Parks . . . Yellowstone or the Grand Canyon or Glacier. The appealing dark honey-colored wood seemed to radiate comfort and welcome. A house . . . home . . . that contradicted its cool and calculating owner. In any event, the sprawling building appeared to be a modern rustic style and hopefully held no other ghosts besides J. Dawson Hidgepath.

  The A-line front indicated a two- or maybe three-story great room with a lot of glass that even thermally treated would be an energy sink in the winter, though she could see Dennis Laurentine being arrogant enough to put a lot of glass in a high mountain house just to impress. He might only spend a few days here in the winter anyway, for winter sports.

  As she exited her car, a man paused by the door of his own high-riding dusty black pickup. Then he crossed to her. He wore a cowboy hat, weathered jeans, a plaid shirt, and a bolo tie with a small silver disk slider. He looked like the real deal, an actual rancher, or maybe the manager of this ranch.

  She went around to her trunk and again fumbled with the fob close to the lock, then jumped as a beep sounded from another car in the lot.

  Opening the trunk, she grabbed the handles of her suitcas
e when stronger, older hands nudged hers aside. “Let me take that, ma’am,” the man drawled.

  “Sure. Thank you.” Clare stepped aside, watching as he easily lifted the bag. It contained clothes, a couple of reference books, and her laptop and tablet computers. She was a sucker for backup. The cowboy stood a few inches taller than she at about six feet, and was lean with a creased and tanned face and hands that showed he spent a lot of time outdoors. She judged him to be in his mid-sixties, older than Mr. Laurentine.

  Putting out her hand, she said, “I’m Clare Cermak, from Denver, working on a project for Mr. Laurentine.”

  He shook her hand with the one that wasn’t firmly holding the handle of her suitcase. “Baxter Hawburton, Bax.” His smile showed deep lines around his eyes. “I’m a neighbor, was just consultin’ with Dennis myself.”

  Clare studied him. “I think I recognize your surname from, ah, the Curly Wolf Cemetery.”

  Now he grinned. “Probably. My family has been here for a while.” He jerked his head toward Curly Wolf. “One of the buildings down there held my great-great-grandpa’s store. Pleased to see it restored.”

  “You don’t look as if you followed the family business.”

  He chuckled. “Nope. We diversified. Used the money from the store to buy land and started ranching.” He winked. “Like a lot of folks, did a little gold panning and placer mining on the side in the early days.”

  “Ah.” She saw Enzo in the distance, felt a gentle tug from him for her to head down to the ghost town, but she’d postpone that as long as possible. Still, she stopped and looked at the view of Curly Wolf.

  “Are you a historian?” he asked as he gestured toward the house and began walking, carrying, not rolling, her suitcase.

  “I do a lot of historical research,” Clare said, which was all too true. It was a good thing she’d always loved Western history.

  “You’ve got a lot in common with Dennis, then.”

  “Some.” She fought to keep the cool note from her voice, stuck in some warmth and self-deprecation. “Of course, I don’t have the money to be a serious collector.”