Immortal Cowboy

by Alexis Morgan

  Before lifting the lid, she took time to drink a cup of tea and nibble on one of the cookies. Maybe some music would help. She reached for her iPod and turned it on. Better. Out of excuses, she removed the lid and set it aside.

  Inside, a stack of leather-bound books were nestled in a bed of wadded-up newspaper. A white envelope was stuck inside the top one with her name on it written in Uncle Ray’s handwriting.

  She left the books in the box and set it aside for the moment. Using the same knife, she slit open the sealed envelope and pulled out folded papers. They had ragged edges, looking as if they’d been torn out of a spiral notebook.

  As she spread them out, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Dear Rayanne,

  If you’re reading this, well, we both know why. Even before the war, I was never much good with words, spoken or otherwise, but I’m going to give this my best shot. I knew you’d accept the terms of my will although I figure your mom and dad probably gave you hell about it. Sorry about that, but they never did understand the mountain and how it called to you just as it did me.

  There’s a reason for that, Rayanne. This is no ordinary mountain, and Blessing is no ordinary town. I regret like hell how things went down on your last trip up here. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for letting you get caught up in something you were too young to handle. I tried to tell your folks, but they wouldn’t listen. No surprise there.

  But not all of the story is mine to tell. When Great-Aunt Hattie left the place to me, she gave me the bottom two books to read. The next one is mine. Read them in order, starting with the one with a brown cover, then the black one, and finally the blue one. I bought the green one for you.

  All that I would ask is that you not tell anyone about what you’ve read. First off, they’ll think you’re crazy. Secondly, the mountain likes to keep its secrets. You don’t want a bunch of crazy outsiders up here trying to prove you right or even wrong.

  Remember that I love you. Even if you decide to live down below, keep an eye on the place for me. When it comes time for you to pass the place on to the next generation, choose your successor well. I know I did.

  Love,

  Ray

  Okay, that was strange. But when she lifted the four books out of the box, she could have sworn she felt a jolt of energy that left her fingertips tingling. She set all but the brown one aside and opened to the first page. The lines were covered with a decidedly feminine handwriting that gradually grew more shaky toward the end of the old journal.

  Feeling as if she were about to take a step off a precipice, she turned the lamp up a notch and began reading aloud, her voice echoing through the cabin.

  “My name is Amanda Green, and I live here in Blessing in the state of Colorado. There’s not much left of the town now, but I have nowhere else to go. This is my home, and the people I love are buried here, my husband, William, and my son, Billy. The mine took William, and Billy died the day of the Great Incident. Someday I will sleep beside them out there on the side of the valley.”

  Rayanne read aloud until her voice grew hoarse; then she read on in silence. Even though Amanda had thought to live out her life alone, eventually she did remarry and start a second family.

  As interesting as that was, it was Amanda’s vague references to the Great Incident that kept Rayanne turning pages long after she should have been in bed. Details. She needed details even if she wasn’t sure how she felt about finding out that her great-great-grandmother had actually known Wyatt McCain.

  For sure, it was a relief to find out he’d been real, but she was also just a little jealous of Amanda’s relationship with the man. And wasn’t that a little bit crazy? Even so, for the first time she felt a real connection with the woman, who until then had only been a fading name in the family Bible.

  Finally, Rayanne set the book aside, her eyes too tired to make sense of the spidery handwriting. The lack of detail about the day Amanda’s son died was frustrating. Wouldn’t a day that significant warrant more than a handful of vague references? The passage in Amanda’s journal made it sound as if Billy might have been another casualty in the streets of Blessing the day Wyatt McCain had died.

  Tomorrow she’d pick up where she’d left off and see if the rest of Amanda’s journal held the answers to Rayanne’s questions. If not, perhaps Great-Aunt Hattie had been more forthcoming.

  Upstairs, Rayanne climbed onto her bed and opened the window to let in the night air. She stared up at the stars overhead. Reading the journal had left her both exhausted and yet too wired to immediately fall asleep. Sometimes making mental lists helped her to relax.

  She’d start off with the normal routine—shower, breakfast and getting dressed. Next, she’d head back to Blessing to map out another building. The old mining office should keep her busy for a good part of the day. Maybe she’d take the journals to read when she needed a break.

  Perfect. Having everything planned out, she snuggled down under the quilt and drifted off to sleep, secretly hoping she’d dream of a certain gunslinger with those startling blue eyes.

  * * *

  Rayanne was in town again. Evidently, she was done in the saloon because she’d spent the past hour or more poking around in the old mining office. Measuring out the saloon was a waste of time, but the mining office was even more so. Hell, the mine had been pretty much played out shortly after Wyatt had breathed his last. What possible use was it to her?

  Wyatt would be better off wandering in the woods than watching her from across the street. All it did was aggravate him, and he didn’t need that. From the way she kept wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, the weather must be hot. He couldn’t tell one way or another. No matter what the temperature was, winter or summer, he felt the same. Good thing, too, considering he’d been wearing his duster that last day.

  Rayanne stepped out on the porch and stared up at the sun. Once again, her attire had him wondering how modern men managed to keep their hands to themselves. She was wearing another one of those formfitting shirts with no sleeves and no modesty. But today, instead of her usual dungarees, she had on short pants. Very short pants.

  Were her shapely legs as smooth to the touch as they looked? Wouldn’t do him much good if they were, but a man had the right to wonder about such things when they were put on display like that.

  Now what was she up to? She’d dragged her pack outside and then sat down on the porch, leaning up against the side of the building. She pulled out a bottle of water and a sandwich, obviously her lunch.

  After the first couple of bites, she reached back into the bag and brought out a book. He frowned. It looked familiar. Before he could figure why, Rayanne opened it to somewhere near the back and read a short passage out loud as if to make better sense of it.

  “I hear voices sometimes. See shadows that should not be there. They move through the trees as if blown about by the wind, even though the leaves hang still on the branches above. Today I swear I heard my Billy calling for me.

  “That’s when I realized that it was that time of year again. I used to love the heat of the summer sun. Now it only reminds me of all that I lost on that hot August day. Does a mother’s love carry on beyond the grave? I think it must. That’s the only reason I can think of that would allow me to hear Billy’s laughter on the breeze.

  “I’ve learned to keep to myself in the safety of my cabin. Too many strange things happen here when summer draws to a close. I won’t speak of them here. Not yet. Not until I come to terms with what it all means. Could it be that they were all trapped here, just as I am even if I yet live and they don’t? For years my grief has consumed my every breath. Only now, with Billy’s laughter echoing in the woods, have I started looking beyond my own selfish pain and wondering about theirs. Is there nothing to be done to ease their burden and let them find peace at last? Could it be t
hat my grief keeps them anchored here? I shudder to think that could even be possible.”

  Rayanne’s voice carried well in the quiet, but then she went back to eating her sandwich and reading silently. That was all right. She’d read enough for him to realize who had written those words—Amanda. It had to be her journal, and the reason it looked so familiar was because he’d spent a lot of nights watching her write in it. He’d never wanted to pry enough to see what words she’d written on all those pages.

  Had she mentioned him? If so, it was doubtful that it had been anything good, and he was right sorry about that. Amanda had good reason to hate him, though, so he could hardly blame her. He ought to go wander around somewhere else but couldn’t resist trying to get a glimpse of Amanda’s words.

  But before he managed to slip close enough to peek over Rayanne’s shoulder, she closed the book. Damn. Now he’d never know what the book contained.

  She stuck it back in her pack and pulled out another book. It was probably Hattie’s. She’d been the first one to live on the mountain after the town had dried up completely. She’d gone about her daily chores without paying much attention to him. If she’d known he was around, she’d never said.

  On the other hand, after her first summer on the mountain, she’d packed up and left the mountain for two weeks every August. He had to think she’d known more about what went on in Blessing than she’d let on. Cantankerous old biddy, he’d missed her when she’d passed on.

  He settled against the wall and listened as Rayanne started reading aloud again.

  “My kin thinks me addled for living up here by myself. If I ever told them I was never really alone because a certain handsome man haunts these woods, they’d come drag me down to see some city doctor. But Wyatt’s here. I know it even if they don’t.”

  Well, damn, so Hattie had known he was there. Did she know about the others? The next sentence answered that question.

  “I know it’s cowardly of me to leave in August, but I watched Wyatt die once. I have no desire to do so again, not when I can’t do a thing to change what happened to him or Aunt Amanda’s first son. There are others around, but I don’t know their stories or why they’re still here.”

  The words hung heavy in the hot summer air. Rayanne slammed the book closed and scrambled to her feet, staring up and down the street, looking as if she’d seen a ghost. But then, she had. She’d probably convinced herself that the gunfight had all been a dream, a nightmare, something she’d conjured out of the clear mountain air. Then there was that first morning in the cabin.

  It had to shake her up some finding out that she wasn’t the only one in her family who’d seen that day play out again and again over the years. She thought it was scary seeing ghosts. How did she think it would be to feel your body torn apart by a hail of bullets only to wake up trapped in a never-ending hell?

  Disgusted with the whole situation and even more so with himself, he had to get away from Rayanne. Right now. Before he did something stupid like pulling himself together out here in the bright sunshine just to see if she’d see him this time.

  And what she’d do if she did.

  He didn’t really want to scare her again, not like he’d done before when she’d hollered out a warning at him from the belfry. She’d done her best to save his worthless life. Even though it hadn’t worked, he owed her for trying.

  As he moved off, she whispered something, a hopeful note in her voice. He tried to tell himself he’d misheard her, but then she whispered it again.

  “Wyatt? Are you here?”

  Should he answer? Even if he did, would she hear him? Before he could make up his mind, she laughed and walked back inside the mining office, shaking her head and muttering something about an overactive imagination and crazy talk.

  Rather than prove her wrong, he decided it was time to make himself scarce. More scarce, actually.

  He’d barely crossed the street, heading for the saloon, when he heard a crash followed by a scream.

  “Rayanne!” he hollered and charged back to the mining office, latching on to the blazing heat of the summer sun overhead to pull himself back together. By the time Wyatt hit the front porch, his body was rock solid and the sound of his boots landing on the old wood rang in the air.

  Old habits die hard, so he drew his gun as he charged inside to see what kind of trouble Rayanne had gotten herself into.

  Chapter 7

  Rayanne scrambled for something to hold on to, anything to avoid slipping any farther into the hole that had opened up in the floor. One of the old boards had shattered with no warning when she’d put her weight on it, sending her lurching to the side. Her foot slipped down the old wood to get wedged in the tangle of broken timbers and the floor joist below. If the ground was only a couple of feet down, she wouldn’t be worried, but there was a good eight-foot drop down into an old cellar.

  And something was stirring down there. She didn’t want to know what. At best, it was a varmint of some kind. At worst, rattlesnakes were known to seek out cool, shady places.

  Right now every move she made only made matters worse. Trying hard not to panic, she supported her weight with her arms as she considered her options, none of which were good. Finally, using her other foot, she kicked the broken board as hard as she could to loosen its hold on her ankle. Her first attempt failed, but the second one did the job and then some. Not only did that board give way, but so did the one she was sitting on.

  She yelped again as the floor beneath her collapsed, sending her slip-sliding down toward the jagged timbers below. As she toppled off the edge, her trapped foot came free, and she managed to brace herself long enough to stop her fall. Fear tasted bitter, and her pulse was running hot.

  What now?

  “Son of a bitch, woman!”

  A pair of strong hands grabbed hold of her arms just before another piece of the floor cracked wide open. With her heart banging around in her chest, she was left dangling over the gaping hole in the floor.

  The same deep voice growled. “Are your feet hung up on anything?”

  She wiggled them slightly to make sure. “No.”

  No sooner had she answered when the mystery man heaved her up and out of the hole, carrying her toward the edge of the room. From there, he dragged her through the door into the other room and then straight out onto the porch where he dumped her in an undignified heap. Not that she was complaining. Without his help, she could’ve been badly hurt or even killed.

  The mountain was unforgiving when it came to the careless or the unlucky. Her mysterious savior disappeared back into the mining office, returning a few seconds later to drop her things on the sidewalk beside her. He’d left her sitting, facing the street, and even now he stood in the doorway out of her line of sight.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She’d already done a quick survey. A few bumps, a bruise or two and a scrape on her knee. “Nothing serious. My ankle hurts, but all things considered, I’m not complaining.”

  He snorted in disgust. “That’s what you get for poking around where you don’t belong.”

  Okay, she was willing to cut the guy some slack for coming to her rescue, but who did he think he was to tell her she didn’t belong here in Blessing? She owned the place and had the paperwork to prove it. The land had been in her family for four generations now. Feeling decidedly at a disadvantage sitting on the ground, she gingerly pushed herself back up to her feet.

  When she turned around, the doorway was empty. Where had he gone? She hobbled a couple of steps to peek in, but the room was empty. She wasn’t about to go any farther inside, not with the floor as rotten as it was.

  “Mister? It’s not safe in there.”

  “Not for you,” he said in the same deep voice.

  She jumped when he answered from behind her. How had he gotten past her? Sh
e got her answer when she spun around to face him. For a brief second, her stomach lurched as if the sidewalk had just done a roller-coaster dive. Rayanne stumbled backward until her back was pressed against the side of the building. Locking her knees kept her upright, but just barely.

  “Who? You? How?”

  Okay, her babbling only made her rescuer even angrier. Rather than continue, she stared down at her feet and concentrated on taking a slow, deep breath and then a second one. Finally, when she thought she could string together a coherent statement, she looked up again and tried to put all the puzzle pieces together.

  There he stood, still wearing that same blue shirt, hat and duster he’d had on fifteen years ago. His steel-blue eyes stared right back at her, his mouth set in an angry snarl. Maybe if she hadn’t spent much of the past twenty-four hours reading Amanda’s and Hattie’s journals, she might have convinced herself that she’d knocked her head hard enough to scramble her brains.

  But if she hadn’t, though, then this was really happening. What had Hattie said? Something about once she let herself accept that it was possible, then it was. Once she believed Wyatt McCain haunted the mountain, he’d become real to her. Rayanne got that now as all the pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place. The why or how didn’t matter.

  It was easier to fall back on good manners than it was to ask for explanations. Especially when she wasn’t sure there were any.

  Rayanne drew a deep breath and stepped toward him on legs that still wobbled. She thrust her hand out toward him. “Mr. McCain, thank you for saving me.”

  He immediately backed away, his eyes flicking briefly to her hand and then back up to her face. Then the air crackled and shimmered as he faded from sight.