Under A Prairie Moon (4 page)

September 5th.

His image haunts me. I cannot escape him. I see his face everywhere I look, see him everywhere I go, staring at me through dark haunted eyes. What can I do, what can I say, that will put his soul, and mine, to rest…

Chapter Four

Kathy sat back, stunned by what she had read. It explained so much, she thought. No wonder the woman had gone mad. No wonder people believed the land was cursed. And maybe it was. A year after Dalton’s death, Lydia had given birth to a son and then gone quietly insane. The next year, a drought had wiped out most of the Conleys’ cattle herd. The following year, a fire had destroyed the barn and part of the house.

Kathy stood up, stretching the kinks out of her back. She had never believed in curses, yet bad luck had dogged the Triple Bar C Ranch, just as Dalton Crowkiller had promised.

With a yawn, she glanced at her watch, surprised to see that it was after midnight.

Rising, she put the diary in the top dresser drawer, then went downstairs to fix a cup of hot chocolate. She was almost through painting the downstairs. She would tackle the library tomorrow, the dining room on Friday. Saturday, she would drive into town and look for furniture. The first thing on her list would be a new bed. The old brass one she was sleeping in looked quaint, but the mattress was soft and lumpy and smelled musty.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, she began to make a list:

1. New bedroom set, sheets, bedspread, curtains, pillow, ceiling fan

2. Living room set—oak/blue print

3. Bookstore—look for Ashley’s latest novel

4. Buy groceries. Don’t forget toothpaste

5. Rugs & shower curtain, for bathroom

She looked over her list. Filling it would take up most of the day. But that was good. She liked being busy. When it was quiet, like now, she had too much time to think of things she didn’t want to think about.

Finishing the last of her hot chocolate, she put her cup in the sink. As she was turning away from the counter, a movement outside drew her eye. She leaned forward for a better look, gasped as what she had thought was a shadow coalesced into the shape of a man.

Curtains, she thought. I’ve got to get some curtains for the windows. Mesmerized, she stood there, staring at the dark silhouette. It was the same man, she thought frantically, the same man she had seen before. She was sure of it.

As though feeling her gaze, he turned toward her. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but she could feel his gaze seeking her out, knew he could see her clearly with the kitchen light behind her.

She backed away from the window as he started toward the house. With a cry, she ran into the bedroom and grabbed the gun from beneath her pillow.

“You won’t need that.”

She whirled around, screamed when she saw him standing in the doorway. How had he gotten into the house so fast? Why hadn’t she heard the back door open?

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“If I told you, you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

Kathy clutched the gun tighter, hoping it would give her some much-needed confidence.

“I know how to use this,” she warned, annoyed because her voice was shaking almost as badly as her hands.

“Yeah.” He laughed softly. “I can see that.”

He wasn’t the least bit afraid of her. And not only was he not afraid, he had the unmitigated gall to laugh. Out loud! She held the gun in both hands, the way she had been taught, but she couldn’t seem to stop trembling. Her gaze moved over him. Tall and lean, he was dressed all in black. Long black hair fell past his shoulders. A thin white scar bisected his left cheek. No, it couldn’t be…

He rested one shoulder negligently against the door jamb. “You gonna use that thing?” he drawled, his dark eyes filled with wry amusement.

“If I have to.”

He lifted one brow. “You ever killed a man?”

“Of course.”

He laughed again, a deep rich masculine sound that made her toes curl. “Now why don’t I believe you?”

She lifted her chin. “All right, maybe I’ve never killed anyone.” She took a deep breath, some of her panic ebbing. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

“True enough. I admire your grit, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” she said, and then blushed. Why was she thanking this intruder? “Don’t move,” she said. “I’m going to call the police.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Transferring the gun to her right hand, she reached for the phone. It was an old rotary one, surely an antique. She’d have to remember to buy a new one when she went to town. She glanced away from the intruder just long enough to dial the operator.

When she looked up again, he was gone.

“Operator. May I help you?”

“What? Oh, no, thank you.”

Replacing the receiver, the gun still clutched in her fist, she went to the doorway and glanced up and down the hallway. He was nowhere to be seen.

Shoulders sagging, she went to check the back door. It was locked, as was the front door. So how had he gotten in? Returning to her bedroom, she sat down on the bed and slid the revolver back under her pillow.

It was him. It had to be him.

Dalton Crowkiller.

* * * * *

In the morning, sitting at the kitchen table with the sun pouring in the window, the happenings of the night before seemed like a bad dream. She didn’t believe in ghosts. But if he wasn’t the ghost of Dalton Crowkiller, who was he? How had he gotten into the house so quickly last night, and left without making a sound, without opening a window or unlocking a door?

Brow furrowed, she stared out the window, the cup of coffee in her hands slowly going cold.

“Smells good.”

She jerked around, coffee spilling over the edge of the cup to splash on her hand and over the table. “You!”

He was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking much the same as he had the night before. She stared at him, noticing that there was a faint shimmer around his form that she hadn’t been aware of last night; other than that, he looked whole, solid. Real. Handsome as sin, with his dark eyes and roguish smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No?” She put the mug down, wiped her hand on her robe, then folded her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. “I thought that’s what ghosts did.”

He smiled faintly. “Guess it comes with the territory.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“I never did either.”

“You don’t look like a ghost.”

He lifted one hand, studying it as if he had never seen it before, and then shrugged.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” she murmured in disbelief. “Dalton Crowkiller.”

He nodded. “You’ve heard of me?”

She stared up at him, her heart racing. He was every bit as devastating as Lydia had claimed. “What do you want?”

He laughed softly, bitterly. “Lots of things. A cup of that coffee. A cigarette. My life back.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Do to you?” He studied her thoughtfully for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Is that why you think I’m here, do you some kind of harm?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met a ghost before.”

“Well, that makes us even. I’ve never been a ghost before.”

“I don’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

He grinned at her, a totally disarming expression that made him look younger, more vulnerable. “Me either. I can’t remember the last time I talked to anyone.”

“Why me?”

“Because you can see me.” He shook his head. “No one else has.”

“Except Lydia.” According to the woman’s diary, she had seen his ghost, and it had driven her insane. Kathy was beginning to understand why. She was feeling a little crazy herself.

His eyes went hard and cold, and his whole being went still. “What do you know about her?”

“I found her diary.”

He frowned a moment. “A diary? She kept a diary? Where is it?”

“In the dresser. Upstairs.”

She blinked, and he was gone. She sat there for several minutes, too frightened to move. She wanted to believe she had imagined the whole thing, or that she had fallen asleep for a few minutes and dreamed it. People didn’t see ghosts in the light of day, did they?

She was trying to gather enough courage to go upstairs when he appeared in the kitchen again, Lydia Conley’s diary in his hand.

He dropped the book on the table in front of her. “What does it say?”

“You can read it for yourself.”

“No,” he said tersely, “I can’t.”

“You can’t read?”

“Only what little my ma taught me. By the time I figure out all those words, you’ll be as old as I am.”

Reaching for the book, Kathy opened it and began to read, acutely aware of the tall man who paced the floor beside her, his expression hard, as he listened to Lydia’s account of what had happened.

With a sigh, Kathy closed the book. “Is it true, what she says here?”

“Most of it.”

“So Russell Conley really did hang an innocent man.”

“Innocent of raping his wife, anyway.”

“Were you really a…a…gunslinger?”

He nodded. “Yeah, and a damn good one too.” He laughed. “I always thought some young gun would take me out. I never thought I’d get hanged for rape. Shit, I never took a woman by force in my life.” He swore softly. “Rape! I could have had her a thousand times.”

“I can’t believe she let them hang you for something you didn’t do.”

“Just proves that you didn’t know her.”

“I saw a picture of her once.” The photograph she had seen had been in old-fashioned sepia tones. Lydia had been sitting on a straight-backed chair, looking directly into the camera, her expression solemn. Apparently people hadn’t believed in smiling for the camera in those days. “She was very beautiful.”

“So’s a mountain lion. But you don’t want to take one to bed.”

She couldn’t help it, she laughed, the sound dying in her throat as he reached toward her. Instinctively, she drew back.

His hand curled into a fist, and then he lowered his arm.

“Afraid of me?”

She wanted to deny it, but something in his eyes compelled her to tell him the truth. “Yes. You can’t be real.”

Dalton blew out a sigh and turned away from her. She was lovely, warm and alive, and he had a desperate urge to touch her, to feel living flesh, to see if he could touch her. In times past, he had tried to touch those who had stayed in the house, but to no avail. He knew they sensed his nearness. He had heard them speak in hushed voices of feeling “something” in the room, a “presence”, a whisper of cold air. But this woman saw him. Could he then touch her, and be touched in return?

“So, what do you want from me?” she asked.

He blew out a deep breath, then turned to face her once more. “Your name?”

“Kathy. Kathy Conley.”

“Conley.”

She heard the hatred in his voice, the bitterness. “I was married to Russell Conley’s great-grandson.”

“Were?”

“He died recently.”

He grunted softly. “Is that why you cry?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was killed in a car accident.”

Dalton nodded. He knew what cars were. Loud, smelly conveyances that had replaced the horse and buggy. He had even ridden in one once, for a short while. If he’d been alive at the time, it would likely have scared him to death.

“How long have you been a widow?”

It was an ugly word, she thought. “Ten months, two weeks, three days.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.” Needing something to do, she stood up and poured herself another cup of coffee.
I must be hallucinating
, she thought.
This can’t be happening.

She sat down, the mug cradled in her hands. He sat down across from her, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. She recalled that he’d said he would like a cup. “Do you want some coffee?” she asked.

He opened his eyes, his gaze intense. “More than you can imagine.” He raked a hand through his hair, obviously agitated. “But I can’t drink it.”

“What’s it like, being a ghost?”

“It’s like being in limbo. I can see people, but until you came along, they all looked right through me.”

“Have you really been haunting this place for a hundred and twenty-five years?”

He looked stunned. “Has it been that long?”

“Yes. I guess time doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?”

“Not really.” He had no concept of time any more. Hours, days, they meant nothing to him now.

“Why are you still here? Why haven’t you gone on to whatever it is that lies beyond the grave?”

“I’m not sure, but I think, when I damned Conley, I damned myself as well.” He snorted softly. “Hell, I never thought anything would come of it. Who can think clearly when they’ve got a rope around their neck?” He massaged his throat. “Hell of a way to go, hanging.”

Kathy nodded. “Is there a heaven, and a hell?”