Under A Prairie Moon (8 page)

“Where’d you go next?”

“Abilene.”

“What brought you to Saul’s Crossing?”

“Nothing. I was just passing through. It was a peaceful little town, and I decided to stay awhile.” He grunted softly. “Biggest mistake I ever made.”

“What, exactly, did Russell Conley hire you for?”

“There was bad blood brewing between him and Burkhart, the owner of the adjoining ranch. Water rights, as I recall.” A smooth smile flickered over his lips. “Burkhart was making all kinds of threats, but he was all wind. As soon as he heard I was on Conley’s payroll, the fight was over.”

Kathy cocked her head at him. “That’s all it took? Just the mention of your name?”

Dalton nodded. “Pretty impressive, huh?”

“You killed one of Burkhart’s men though, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but it didn’t have anything to do with the fight between Conley and Burkhart. It was just between him and me.”

“How come I never heard of you?”

“Too many other fast guns running around, I reckon. Buntline was making Hickock and Cody famous. I wasn’t looking for that kind of attention.” He gestured at her yellow legal pad and grinned. “’Course, it doesn’t matter now. You can make me as famous as you want.”

Kathy grimaced. “Shoot, I’m no writer. I doubt if anyone will want to buy it even if I can figure out how to turn it into a coherent story.”

“Well, if you ever get the thing published, you’ll have to read it to me.”

“Don’t you want to learn to read?”

“What for? Doesn’t seem any point in it now.”

“Well, reading might help pass the time. I have a lot of books out in the barn.”

He shook his head. “Time isn’t the same for me as it is for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before you came here, I wasn’t really aware of time passing. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Well, try.”

He frowned. “It was sort of like sleeping, I guess. I’d drift off. Sometimes I’d hear voices and there’d be people here at the house and I’d come up and take a look around.” He shrugged. “When they left, I just went back to…drifting.”

“That’s too weird,” Kathy said. She stood up, stretching her back and shoulders, trying to imagine what it would be like to be caught between this world and the next. “I need a break.”

“It’s gonna rain tonight.”

Kathy glanced out the window. The sky was clear and blue.

“I don’t think so.”

Dalton nodded. “I can smell it in the air.”

“Uh-huh.”

He winked at her. “You’ll see.” He rose from the chair with effortless grace. “You gonna rebuild the barn?”

“I guess so, why?”

“Thought maybe you’d buy a couple of horses.”

“Horses?”

He nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. “I had a right fine buckskin mare. I sure miss her.” He slid his right hand down his thigh. “And my hardware.”

Kathy shook her head. He hadn’t mentioned missing any people, but he missed his horse. And his gun.

“I could rebuild the barn for you,” he said suddenly.

“You?”

“Why not? I’ve got nothing else to do.”

“I don’t know. I never thought about getting a horse. I’ve never even been on one.”

“No? Shit, I could ride before I could walk.”

“Well,” she said dubiously. “We’ll see.”

* * * * *

Later, after dinner, she hauled her computer into the house and set it up. It took a while, but eventually she found Dalton’s name on a web site that listed little known Western historical facts.

Crowkiller, Dalton (1844–1873). Born in Dakota Territory, Crowkiller gained notoriety when he killed Hager Whittaker in a gunfight in Virginia City.

Crowkiller is believed to have gunned down more than two dozen men in cold blood in his short career as a hired gun. He was hanged in Montana July 28, 1873 for raping the wife of Russell Wayne Conley, a prominent rancher. Conley’s wife, the former Lydia Camille Winston, later went insane from her ordeal at Crowkiller’s hands.

“What does it say about me?”

“How do you know it’s about you?”

“I may not be able to read much, but I recognize my name when I see it.”

She read the entry to him, felt her ears burn at the volatile oaths that flew from his lips.

“Two dozen men! Where the hell did they come up with that?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Literary license, I suppose.”

“Damn liars. Two dozen men in cold blood. I never shot anybody in the back, or anybody who wasn’t about to shoot me.”

“I believe you,” Kathy said. “Calm down.”

“Calm down! How would you feel if someone wrote a pack of lies about you?”

“Well, I guess I’d be upset.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re writing that book,” he muttered.

“Yes, well, don’t get your hopes up. I don’t know that anyone will ever want to publish it.”

“You’d better go close the windows.”

“Why?”

He grinned at her. “It’s raining.”

“Is it?” She listened a moment and then she heard it, the soft whisper of rain on the roof.

“I’d better find a bucket,” she said, pushing away from the table. “There’s a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in one of the bedrooms.”

He laughed softly. “Better find a big bucket.”

“Maybe I can cover the hole with some plastic,” she said, thinking of the plastic sheeting she used to cover the floor when she painted.

She opened a drawer and rummaged around until she found the hammer and a handful of nails.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going up on the roof.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I can do it.”

He shook his head as he took the hammer and nails from her hand. In his day, women had been content to act like women.

“Dalton.”

“Let’s not argue about this, okay? That roof’s gonna be slippery.”

“Well…”

“Besides, if you break your neck, I won’t have anyone to talk to.”

Defeated, Kathy blew out a sigh. “I’ll get the plastic.”

She spread towels over the carpet to soak up the water, then put a bucket under the hole in case the plastic didn’t hold. Even though she could have taken care of the leak herself, she was glad she hadn’t had to climb up there. She might not be afraid of ghosts and goblins, but she was afraid of heights. She glanced up as she heard the sound of hammering, imagining Dalton up there, hair blowing in the wind. The leak wasn’t quite as bad as she had made it out to be, but she was still going to have to see about getting the roof repaired or replaced.

“How’s that?” he called.

“Fine.” She picked up the wet towels, carried them downstairs and dumped them in the washing machine.

A few minutes later, Dalton came in the back door.

“I’ll get you a towel,” she said, and then stared at him. He wasn’t wet.

He grinned at her, then shrugged. “Don’t ask. I don’t know why.” The sun didn’t warm him, the cold of winter didn’t affect him, he didn’t get wet when it rained.

“Well,” she said, covering a yawn with her hand, “I think I’m ready for bed.”

“I’ll say good night then.”

“Good night. Thanks for taking care of that leak for me.”

He nodded, his mind filling with images of Kathy getting undressed, slipping between sweet-smelling sheets, her hair spread like dark silk over the pillow. He cleared his throat. “If you buy some shingles, I’ll repair the roof.”

Desire hummed between them. She had a sudden, inexplicable yearning to touch him, to run her hand over that wide muscular chest, to press her lips to his.

“Kathy?”

“What?” She stared at him, her mind blank. What had they been talking about?

He moved toward her, and she backed up, afraid he would try to kiss her. Afraid she would let him. The roof. They had been talking about the hole in the roof. “I’ll probably just have the whole thing replaced.”

He crossed his arms over his chest to keep from reaching for her again. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“Yes. Well, good night.”

“Night.”

He watched her leave the room, thinking it was too bad the rain had no affect on him, because he could sure as hell use a cold shower.

The next week flew by. She painted the upstairs bedrooms—one a pale sky blue, one a darker shade of blue and one white. Now, cleaning up the mess from the last one, she wondered idly what she was going to do with three empty rooms. One of them, the pale blue one, maybe, could be used as a guest room, in case her parents or her mother-in-law came to visit. She decided to set up her computer and her fax machine in the other blue one. And the third…maybe, she mused, with a grin, she could offer it to Dalton. Of course, since he didn’t sleep, he probably didn’t need a bedroom.

Dalton. He continued to come and go in her life, appearing and disappearing so frequently it no longer startled her. She liked his company, liked having him around. His presence kept her from getting lonely or bored.

He spent his days working on the barn. Sometimes it all seemed like a dream, though a very strange one at that, her inside the house, painting, and Dalton out in the barn, repairing broken-down stalls and putting new shingles on the roof. It was a good thing she didn’t get any visitors. She couldn’t imagine what people would think if they drove up and saw a hammer and shingles floating over the barn roof, apparently moving by themselves. As soon as he finished fixing the barn, they were going to paint it. She hadn’t decided what color, probably a dark traditional red with white trim.

They worked on Dalton’s life story every evening after dinner. He had led an exciting life, though not one that appealed to her. Always on the move, always looking over his shoulder, never knowing when someone would try to gun him down. He had won and lost an amazing amount of money on the turn of a card, boasted that he had once drunk Wild Bill Hickock under the table. He’d met Billy the Kid, played poker with Wyatt Earp and his brother, Morgan, traded insults with Doc Holliday.

She had brought her computer in from the barn and spent a part of each afternoon typing up her notes. She wasn’t sure if the writing was any good; she doubted if anyone would even be interested in reading it, but she found it fascinating, and it gave her a sense of purpose.

She had brought in the tv, too, much to Dalton’s delight.

He watched it while she cooked dinner, and she had taken to eating dinner in the living room to keep him company. A typical male, he liked to watch sports and the news, though why a ghost should be interested in either of them was beyond her.

Going into the kitchen, Kathy washed the paint from the roller and brush, glad that, for the time being, the painting was done.

She could see Dalton through the window. He was putting new hinges on the door of the barn. He had taken off his shirt, and she stood there, everything else forgotten, as she watched the play of muscles in his broad back and shoulders. A spider web of fine white lines stood out against the dark bronze of his skin. Souvenir of Russell Conley’s beating, she guessed. She experienced an unexpected thrill of excitement as she imagined what it would be like to run her fingertips over those rippling muscles…

“Stop that right now,” she muttered. “He doesn’t even exist.”

Oh but he did. He might be dead. He might be a ghost. But he definitely existed. And his very existence was playing havoc with her emotions.

As though he sensed her watching, he turned toward the house and waved. If it had been Wayne out there, she would have taken him a glass of lemonade, but Dalton didn’t eat or drink. And since she couldn’t think of any other excuse to go out there, she waved, then turned away from the window. Maybe doing the laundry would take her mind off Triple Bar C’s resident ghost.

* * * * *

It was Friday night, and they were watching tv, some old Western starring John Wayne and Montgomery Cliff. Dalton was sitting on the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of him, one arm flung over the back of the couch.

Kathy gestured at the screen. “Did you ever go on a trail drive?”

“Me? Hell no. Miserable, dirty work, driving cattle. Eating dust all day long.” He shook his head. “It’s even worse than they make it look.”

“Did you ever meet a whore with a heart of gold?”

He snorted. “Honey, there ain’t no such thing. I’m not sure most of them even had hearts.”

“Really?” she asked, wondering if he was kidding.

“Oh yeah. It was all business with those girls. They wanted their money up front, or you could forget it.”

“Did you…ah, consort with a lot of easy women?”

Dalton shrugged. “I had my share. Of course, there were some who wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Really?” Considering his raw good looks and sexy smile, she found that hard to believe.

“Yeah.”

“But why?”

“’Cause I’m a half-breed.”

She stared at him, not understanding.

“Some whores had their limits, I guess. Indians were considered less than human. I was just one step above.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she retorted, even though she knew it wasn’t. There was a lot of talk today about equality, but you couldn’t legislate people’s feelings and there was a still a lot of prejudice in the world. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I did all right.”

She could believe that. Even as a ghost, he exuded enough charm for ten men. It was hard to imagine him as a hired gun. He seemed more likely to laugh than shoot.

“I’m gonna go make some popcorn.”

Dalton nodded. He watched her leave the room, admiring the way her jeans hugged her body, the sway of her hips, the fall of her hair down her back. Just looking at her made him ache. He longed to hold her, to taste her, to feel her hands running over him. He wanted to take her hot and quick and slow and easy. He wanted…a harsh bark of laughter escaped his lips. Even if he could make love to her, it was doubtful she would let him. Even if she wasn’t still mourning her late husband, he was a ghost! Sometimes, when he was near her, when he was hungry for her, he forgot that he wasn’t alive anymore, that even though he had form and substance, he wasn’t part of her world. Hell, he wasn’t part of any world.

Frustrated with needs he couldn’t fulfill, he lunged to his feet and stalked over to the window. Staring out into the darkness, he wondered if maybe he should do as she had suggested and say he was sorry for the curse he’d put on the Conley spread. Maybe a little repentance was all that was needed to end this miserable existence. Except he wasn’t sorry. Damn Russell Conley. He’d had no right to string him up him without a fair trial. Fair trial! That was funny. He hadn’t gotten any kind of trial at all. But then, like a lot of big ranchers, old Russell had thought of himself as judge, jury and executioner, may he rot in hell.

He drew in a deep breath. Rage, anger, desire….they were wasted emotions in a ghost…and yet he was being consumed by them all.

He heard her footsteps in the hall and knew he couldn’t be near her and not touch her.

He was gone before she entered the room.

* * * * *

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. The first thing Kathy thought of when she woke was that she had a date with John Lawson. A date. That meant washing her hair, doing her nails, finding something to wear… A date. She hadn’t been on a date with anyone but Wayne for over seven years. She doubted she even remembered how to act.

She lingered in bed, her thoughts wandering, until hunger drove her to the kitchen. She decided on French toast and a glass of orange juice for breakfast.

She was standing at the stove, thinking about what she was going to wear that night, when a breath of cool air told her she was no longer alone.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Dalton sitting at the table. “Good morning.”

He grunted softly. “Morning.”

“Where’d you disappear to last night?”

He shrugged, then crossed his arms over his chest. “Nowhere.”

“Well, you weren’t in the living room when I got back.”

He quirked a brow at her. “Miss me, did you?”

She started to deny it, then looked away. She had missed him. Why couldn’t she admit it? She turned the bread in the pan, glad to have an excuse to look away from his probing gaze. She spent far too much time thinking about him. It made her feel guilty. Wayne hadn’t even been gone a year yet, and she was already mooning over another man. A man, hah! He wasn’t even real. For all she knew, he could be nothing more than a figment of her warped imagination.

She spread butter on the French toast and let it melt, then put it on a plate and poured a glass of orange juice. There was no place to sit but at the table. Feeling suddenly shy, she sat down across from Dalton. She felt funny, eating in front of him.

She sprinkled powdered sugar over the bread and took a bite, acutely aware of Dalton Crowkiller’s dark-eyed gaze.

“So,” she remarked, “how are you coming with the barn?”

“Fine. Why don’t you come out and take a look when you get finished there?”

“All right.” She had avoided going out there. She had a hunch that, when he wasn’t in the house with her, he stayed in the barn. Of course, it was just a hunch. Who knew where ghosts went? She remembered him saying he couldn’t leave the county, but did he ever go into Saul’s Crossing, visit other ranches in the area? For all she knew, he could be haunting every house in the county.

Dalton sat back in his chair and crossed his ankles. “I found a pretty little palomino mare for sale.”

“You did? Where?”

“Over at the Holcomb ranch.”

“Where’s that?”

“Down the road apiece. Used to be the Burkhart place.”

“Oh. You know, I’m not sure I want a horse. They’re so…big.”

“You’ll like this one.”

“I will?”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I wish you’d go take a look at her.”

“I guess if I bought a horse, you’d be more than happy to ride it for me.”

He smiled, like a little boy who’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

She put her knife, fork and glass on her plate, then carried them to the sink. “How much are they asking for this wonder horse?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, she’s worth it.”

She made a face at him. “We can go look this morning, if you want.”

* * * * *

The Holcomb place was located about twenty miles to the east. It looked like something out of a movie, with clean white fences, a manicured lawn, two big red barns and a long, low ranch-style house.

Kathy glanced from side to side as she drove down the long driveway. Horses grazed in lush pastures on both sides of the roadway.

Ray Holcomb met her at the gate. He was a short, rotund man with wavy brown hair and dark-brown eyes. He wore a dark-blue work shirt, jeans, scuffed cowboy boots and a Texas hat.

“Mrs. Conley? I’m Ray Holcomb. Welcome to the Circle H,” he said, extending a hand to help her out of the car.

“Thank you.”

“So, you’re in the market for a horse? Well, you came to the right place. If I do say so myself, and I do often,” he said with a shameless grin, “we raise some of the best riding stock in the state.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about horses.”

“That’s okay,” he said, slapping his thigh, “I do. I picked out a few I thought might suit. They’re in the barn. Ready for a look-see?”

Kathy nodded. Dalton walked a little behind her. She saw him so clearly, it was hard to believe no one else could.

The barn was enormous and spotless. Long narrow windows lined the walls above the stalls, providing cross ventilation and light.

“You said you didn’t have any experience,” Holcomb said, guiding her toward the back of the barn, “so I picked out some real gentle animals. This is Jocko.” He pointed at a dark-brown horse with a white mark on its forehead. “He’s ten years old and trail-wise. Gentle as an old dog.”

Kathy glanced at Dalton, who shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I was looking for a mare.”

“A mare? Hmmm. I’d recommend a gelding, especially for a beginner. Less temperamental. However, I do have a pretty little filly for sale. She’s over here.”

Kathy followed Holcomb to the other side of the barn.

“This here’s Taffy Girl,” Holcomb said. He ran a beefy hand along the mare’s neck. “She’s five years old. Good clean lines.”

“That’s the one,” Dalton whispered.

“I’ll take her.”

“Don’t you want to try her out first?”

“Try her out?”

“Well, sure. You wouldn’t buy a car without driving it, would you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“I’ll saddle her up for you.”

Holcomb entered the stall and threw a faded red blanket over the mare’s back.

Kathy walked a few feet away, then turned and looked at Dalton. “You didn’t tell me I’d have to ride her!” she hissed.

“You’ll be all right.”

“I’ve never even been on a horse!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

“Oh fine.”

“Here we go.”

She jumped as Holcomb came up behind her, leading the mare.

The horse looked bigger close up than she had in the stall.