"Think about it, Rachel," he went on, his breath hushing against her ear. "You could have a daughter as pretty and smart as you. She maybe might be a doctor." Though privately, despite what Lesley had said, Jackson doubted that any woman would make a good sawbones. Heck, everybody knew that a woman was too delicate to deal with blood and such. No female would be able to dig out a bullet… or set a busted leg. Not to mention the fact that no man in his right mind would let a woman go poking and prodding at him. At least not in a doctor's office.
But obviously Rachel didn’t have the slightest problem imagining a female doctor. Her eyes shone and glistened. He could almost think she was tearing up.
"My daughter," she whispered to herself. "A doctor."
"Why not?" he asked, keeping his voice soft, urgent. He inhaled deeply and unwittingly drew the soft scent of her light, floral perfume into his lungs. Lordy, she smelled good. Shaking his head, he told himself to get back to business. "Then maybe you could have a boy or two, just for good measure. Why, Rachel, there's likely all kinds of fellas who would just love to be those children's daddy."
Well, there could be, he thought. If she'd learn to hold onto her temper and try to keep from sharpening that tongue of hers.
The light in her eyes slowly dimmed. Swiveling her head until she was facing him, she said, "No, Jackson. I'm through with dreams and idle speculation. There aren’t going to be any daughters or sons. Not for me."
Disappointment rose up in him like an incoming tide. Slowly, steadily, it lifted until it had drowned every one of his hopes for a quick end to this assignment.
"Dammit Rachel, you’re just not trying!"
She stepped back and glared him into silence. "What possible difference can it make to you either way? I haven't seen you in fifteen years. You don’t even know me."
"The hell I don't." He snorted and shoved both hands into his pockets. "I saved your life, didn't I?"
"When I was a child," she reminded him. "But I'm all grown up now. Jackson. And I don’t need an angel or a ghost or — for all I know — a lunatic, telling me how to live my life."
He blinked. Lunatic? "You think I'm crazy?"
"It's certainly one explanation."
"Not the right one." Dammit all, it was one thing arguing with him about every little thing. But it was damned insulting for her to think of him as a drooling loon. "I'm not crazy. Rachel. I'm just a ghost sent here to help you fix your life."
"By getting drunk and passing out on my floor? Or by endangering my reputation until the only thing that can save it is a lie?" She shook her head. "No, thank you. Besides, as I have already said a dozen times, I don’t need your help with my life."
"Seems to me you haven’t been doing any great shakes on your own," he pointed out.
"Is that so?"
"You’re not married. You got no kids. No family." He waved one hand at her. "Hell, Rachel, look at yourself. You go all cold and frosty just talking about a man. What kind of life is that?"
"Mine."
"If you ask me, it's nothin’ to be proud of."
"I didn't ask you, if you'll remember."
"Yeah, but—"
"I answer to no one. I have my store and my friends. I'm a part of the community."
"But nothing else."
"What else is there?"
"There’s love, Rachel."
She looked as if he'd slapped her. He didn't even know what had made him say it. It wasn't as though he'd been a big believer in love when he had been alive. At least where it concerned him. But dammit, even he knew it existed.
What she had said about her life was all true. Rachel had the things around her that most folks clamored over. But she didn’t have somebody to talk to and laugh with. She didn’t have somebody to warm her feet against on a cold winter night. And blast it all to hell and back, if she didn't get herself a goddurn man and find herself pregnant, he was going to be in a sore amount of trouble.
"Love?" She chuckled to herself, but the sound wasn't a pleasant one. Grabbing hold of one of the tall timbers nearest her, she leaned against it. "I used to want that." She sent him a long, slow look over her shoulder. "I always believed that there was someone for everyone in this world. One special someone. I even thought that I had found him and all I had to do was wait for him to come back to me."
He ducked his head to avoid her eyes.
"But then," she went on, turning back to look out across the land, "I grew up. Love belongs in fairy tales, Jackson." She sent him a hard, quick glare. "I don’t believe in fairy tales anymore. I don’t believe in angels. Or ghosts."
She pushed away from the beam and started walking toward the back of the house. "In short. Jackson," she said calmly, "I don't believe in you."
Oh, she wanted to. There was nothing Rachel would like more than to believe again. To believe in all the magic she had once blindly trusted.
She heard his footsteps as he followed her to what would one day be her back porch. Briefly, she allowed herself to remember the girl she had been. Memories drifted in and out of her mind like the faded fragrance of a dying rose. She'd been so sure, then. So positive that he was the one she was meant to love. All she had to do was grow up. And even after living with the Heinzes she had still believed. She had had to believe that he would come back. That he would rescue her. Again. Rachel had continued to look for him, to wait for him, and to dream about him long after she should have given up. Because she had had to.
She shuddered. That was all past though, now. She didn't need his help anymore. It was too late to rescue the crushed dreams of a little girl who had loved an angel. The same little girl who had discovered that people were not always what they seemed. It was a hard lesson, but she had learned, the first time her foster father had taken a strap to her, then locked her in a closet.
Inhaling sharply, she curled her fingers around the fabric of her skirt and squeezed.
"I thought of something that might convince you." Jackson said as he stepped up beside her.
"Please don’t start that again."
"Can’t help it. It'll be easier all the way around once you believe me."
"I believed you once before," she said and walked past him, down the steps onto the grass. "When you said you would be back."
"Here I stand," he countered.
She glanced at him over her shoulder and shook her head. "Years too late."
"Look." He took the steps then crossed the grass until he was standing beside her. He gripped her elbow and turned her to face him. "I didn't come back earlier because I couldn’t. I'm dead. I don’t get a choice in what I do or don't do."
She pulled her arm free and looked up at him. " For a dead man, you seem fairly lively." Before he could argue, she held up one hand to stop him. "And if you’re going to tell me your ghost stories again, don’t bother. Unless you're willing to prove they're true."
"I think I can," he said, shoving one hand into his pants pocket. "But first, let me ask you something."
"What?"
"You said yourself that I looked the same as I did the last time you saw me."
"Yes?" She knew where this question was leading and wasn’t at all sure how to answer him."If I'm not a ghost, how do you explain it?"
That question had been bothering her, too. The simple truth was she didn’t have an explanation. But that didn't mean there wasn't one. After all, the last time she'd seen him, she had been a frightened little girl. Memory was a tricky thing at best.
"I can't," she said at last. As she saw a victorious gleam light in his eyes, she added quickly, "But I don’t have to explain it. For all I know, you come from a long line of people who simply age well."
He smirked at her. "That's the best you can do?"
"As I said, I don’t have to explain it."
"Fine," he grumbled. "Hardheaded, stubborn female." He pulled his hand out of his pocket. Uncurling his fingers, he held a single gold coin on the flat of his palm. "Then look at this. Maybe then you'll bel
ieve me."
"A twenty dollar gold piece?" She lifted her eyes to his. "That's supposed to prove that you’re a ghost?"
"Look closer," he insisted, placing the coin in her palm. As he watched and waited, she turned the gold coin over and over in her hand.
Even before she held it close to her eyes, Rachel knew this was no ordinary coin. Its edges were irregular, not round. The surface of the gold gleamed and shone like nothing she had ever seen before. And most telling of all, she thought with a start, there was none of the ordinary Mint imprinting on either side of the coin. No E Pluribus Unum. No eagle. No dead president. No date.
Instead, one side of the coin held an image of a five-pointed star and the other, a sculpted quarter moon.
Something inside her turned over. Her throat tightened, and a ribbon of worry snaked its way through her bloodstream. Still, it wasn't proof. For all she knew, he might have filed down the normal imprinting and had this made up just to frighten her. Squeezing the coin between her thumb and forefinger, she noticed something else. Something more disturbing than the coin's appearance.
The gold was warm. Not the kind of warmth one would expect from a coin that had been recently handled. But a heat that seemed to come from the metal itself. An indistinct energy of sorts hummed along her palm and simmered up the length of her arm.
"Where did you get this?"
"Lesley."
"Leslie who?"
"I don’t know what his last name is," Jackson snapped. "Or I’ve forgotten."
Lesley, she corrected mentally. A man. Why that should make her feel better, she didn’t know. But it did. Her thumb smoothed over the gold surface, and she could have sworn invisible sparks of heat jumped from the coin.
Her fingers curled around the gold tightly, and she looked up at him. "What are you supposed to do with these coins?"
"Hell if I know." He tipped his hat back farther on his head. "Lesley gave me six of them, told me that if I needed to, I could use them to help me out."
"Help you do what? And how?"
"You’re probably not supposed to know this," he muttered, more to himself than to her, "but hell, if I don’t convince you to believe me, I'm going to need more than coins to get this job done."
"What job?"
"Never mind." He pointed at her closed fist and the coin within. "Lesley said that all you have to do is hold that coin and say out loud what it is you want."
"You’re telling me these are magic coins." Sarcasm dripped from every word.
"I guess magic’s as good a word as any."
She laughed shortly. Magic. Ghosts. Gold coins that felt hot and humming with energy. How could any sane person believe any of this? And yet, the coin in her palm continued to radiate heat.
"Six magic coins. Sounds like the name of a bedtime story."
"Well," he said, "only five, now." He shifted his gaze from hers as if he didn’t want to talk about the missing coin.
Rachel wasn’t going to let go that easily. "Five? What happened to the other one?"
He scratched his jaw, pulled in a deep breath, and spoke. "Shames me to admit it, but I might as well get it all out. I traded it to a man last night."
"Traded it? For what?"
He glanced at her guiltily, then looked away again. "A bottle of whiskey."
"Whiskey!"
He grimaced at the memory.
"Who did you give this magic coin to?"
"I don't know his name." He shrugged as if sloughing his actions off his shoulders. "Just some prospector." In his own defense, he added, "But I warned him about the coin. Told him to go carefully with what he said."
"Your story gets more complicated and less believable every moment."
"Why would I make up a story like this?"
"I don’t know," she said thoughtfully, "but there’s really only one way to test what you're saying."
"Huh?"
"It's very simple really," Rachel went on. "And then I’ll know for sure if you're telling the truth or not."
He looked at her sharply, then, reading her intention in her eyes, he said, "Don't do it, Rachel. I've only got five of those left and I might need—"
She squeezed the coin tightly, closed her eyes, and said clearly, "I want Jackson Tate to disappear."
"Shit !" Rachel opened her eyes an instant later, and he was gone. Startled, she took a half step forward, then stopped and turned in a fast circle, letting her gaze sweep across her surroundings. But he was nowhere nearby. He hadn't had time to run. There were no hiding places close to the house. Eyes wide, she shook her head and looked down at her palm. As she watched, the coin shimmered, glowed brightly, then faded completely away.
It was gone.
Just like Jackson.
"Oh, my God." She staggered backward a step or two, then fell to the ground, landing on her rump with a solid jolt that rattled her teeth. "He was telling the truth. He really was a ghost."
"Well," a familiar voice said, as if from a great distance, "Glory Hallelujah!"
"Jackson?" she breathed.
Directly in front of her, the air seemed to thicken. Throat tight, eyes wide, her heart hammering in her chest, Rachel watched as Jackson Tate slowly began to take shape. At first, he was no more substantial than a shadow. But as the seconds ticked past, he began to solidify, until finally, he looked exactly as he had just before she’d made her hasty wish.
He looked down at himself, patted his thighs, then his chest, as if making sure he was completely back. Lastly, he reached up to shove his hat down more firmly on his head. "Dammit, Rachel, I told you not to do that. I might need those coins, you know."
"It's all true," she whispered and shook her head in denial even as she said it. "All true. You are a ghost."
Her heartbeat skipped, staggered, then went on beating as if nothing had just happened. But it had. She looked up at him and let the wonder of the moment sink in to her brain.
"Isn't that what I've been telling you all along?"
"But, why?"
"Because I died."
"No." She swallowed past the knot in her throat. "Not why are you a ghost… why are you here?"
"I told you that, too." He hunkered down on one knee. "I was sent."
"By Lesley."
"There you go."
"Why?"
"To help you, Rachel."
"This is impossible."
"I think," he pointed out unnecessarily, "we’ve already taken care of proving that."
True. She had seen it with her own eyes. There was no denying it any longer. Jackson Tate was a ghost. Had been a ghost fifteen years ago when he'd come to her rescue.
She had spent most of her life in love with a dead man.
"Oh, Lord." She rubbed a spot between her eyes tiredly. Her head ached, and her heart still felt as though it would beat hard enough to fly through her chest. After several deep, calming breaths, she finally risked another question.
"How did you come back?" she wanted to know. "I wished for you to disappear."
"Yeah," he said and dropped to the ground beside her. Shooting her a wry look, he pulled a handful of grass up and began to twirl it in his fingers. "Pretty sneaky."
She reached out one hand and laid it on his forearm, touching him to reassure herself that he was, indeed, back. Real.
"I’m solid again."
"How?"
One dark brow arched. "You only said you wanted me to disappear."
"Yes?"
"You didn’t say forever."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Silly of me."
"Although," Jackson went on and slowly let go of the handful of grass, one dark green blade at a time, "I have a feeling that even if you had said 'forever,' I would have been back."
"Because of this job you have to do?"
"Yeah." He braced his forearms on his upraised knees and squinted into the distance.
"Are you going to tell me what that job is?" she asked hesitantly, not really sure if she wanted to know or not.
"You won't like it."
"Now I definitely want to know what it is."
Slowly, he swiveled his head until he was looking directly at her again. Their gazes locked and for one heartstopping moment. Rachel felt herself drawn into the depths of those green eyes she remembered so well. Then he spoke, and the moment was shattered.
"I'm here to get you married, Rachel. And I'm not leaving until I do."
Chapter Six
Married?
Her heartbeat quickened, her stomach churned, and even drawing breath seemed suddenly too difficult a task. This is why, she told herself. Why Jackson had talked so much about marriage. He'd only been softening her up in hopes of marrying her off to someone.
Rachel hurried her steps, trying to outdistance the man running to catch up with her.
She didn't even remember jumping to her feet and heading for town. She had just known that she had to move. To walk. To escape the ghost with the knowing green eyes.
"Rachel," he called out from well behind her.
No. She wouldn't stop. She wouldn’t talk to him. Wouldn't listen to him.
"Dammit, Rachel," he yelled again and his voice was closer. "Wait just a dang minute."
"We have nothing to say to each other," she called back over her shoulder and gasped when she saw him gaining on her. Blasted skirts and petticoats. She yanked the yards of fabric out of her way. Holding the mass up above her long stockings, she started running. But it was too little, too late.
Jackson caught her after only a few more steps. Grabbing her upper arm, he turned her around to face him. "What in the hell came over you?"
"Nothing." She dropped her skirts again and tried to regain some of her usual composure. But it didn't work.
She heard the quaver in her voice when she finished, "I simply have to get back to town."
He cocked his head to one side and eyed her warily.
She licked dry lips and willed her voice to steadiness. "I told Hester that we would only be gone a short while, and I'm sure she's more than ready to go home by now."
"Rachel…"
"No." She shook her head fiercely. "I don't want to talk about something that isn’t going to happen, Jackson."
Still Close to Heaven Page 6
