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

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.”

“You need a vest.”

Clare blinked. “A vest? I don’t wear vests.”

“Kevlar,” he spat out.

She frowned. Even she, who didn’t watch crime shows, would know what that meant. “A Kevlar vest!”

Zach went to the side table with unopened water bottles. He wrenched the cap off one, drank it half down, gave it to Clare.

“I’m not budging on this,” he said. He needed to do more investigating, talk to the deputies in person in Fairplay, and he had an appointment with Tyler Jorgen to talk to him about Clare’s fall before the boy started work later this morning.

She wouldn’t want to stay in the room. Also, he figured either J. Dawson or she would wish her to visit his mine. What a mess.

“You should wear body armor. It’s the smart thing for you to do.”

“Really, Zach—” She scowled back at him, crossed her arms over her middle, her fingers spread instinctively to protect her ribs.

He pulled out his phone. “I can get a vest by tomorrow through Rickman and have it messengered up.” Then he slipped his phone back into his pocket, pivoted on his heel, his knuckles tight around his cane. “No. I’ll ask Desiree, as a trained operative, if she has one.”

“What?” Clare said. “No!”

But he ignored her, went to the door, opened it, and said, “Stay in here.” He left, locking the door behind him.

Clare simmered with anger. She wouldn’t be stuck in this room again all day long. How was she supposed to help J. Dawson move on just sitting in a darn room? So far, she’d had to be in a place significant for the ghost. Even though some of them could move around, the time and the place must be right.

Not for me
, J. Dawson said, appearing before her with a slight smile.
I am different.

“Different, how?” she asked.

And Enzo was there, too, looking especially doglike today with no hint of the Other, which was a relief.

I moved my bones around
, J. Dawson said proudly.

That makes a difference
, Enzo nodded in an exaggerated manner.
I, we, Sandra and me, never knew anyone who could move his bones around.
Enzo’s tongue came out as he panted.

“Probably never met anyone who wanted to do that,” Clare murmured.

But I would like to show you . . . and perhaps Mr. Slade, my mine.

Zach returned then with Desiree, who carried two vests—one was light colored and thinner, the other big and black and looked heavy.

“Hi, Clare. I’m happy to help.” Desiree smiled.

Clare studied her. “We are not at all the same size.” Desiree was petite; Clare was five foot seven, with a longer torso and more bust.

“They’re standard, not personally tailored to me, so I haven’t worn them too often.”

“I called Rickman and bought one for you,” Zach said.

Her mouth flattened and she stared at him. “How much?”

“They aren’t cheap. But if your gift is going to continue to stir up controversy in the present, you’ll need it.”

“Pretty much my last priority for spending my money,” Clare said.

“So I would imagine,” Zach said.

Desiree gestured to Clare to stand up. Zach set aside his cane, took the large black vest, and dropped it over her shoulders. He adjusted the shoulder tabs and the wide Velcro waist straps.