Still Close to Heaven

by Maureen Child

  "Rachel, I said I was here to get you married — not sent off to prison!"

  "Marriage without love would be a prison, Jackson." She turned her back on him so he wouldn’t see how deeply all of this had shaken her. Married. The man she had fallen in love with as a child had come to see her married to someone else. Well, it wasn't going to happen. He couldn’t force her into a marriage. And she certainly wasn’t going to enter into one willingly.

  "Hell." He released her, and she turned toward town again. This time, she walked more slowly, despite the urge to run.

  As they neared the road, Rachel's labored breathing finally evened out. Her corset felt too tight, her feet hurt, and strands of her hair now hung limply along her face. Calmly, she tucked them back behind her ears.

  She chanced a quick look at the man walking beside her. The disgusted expression on his face didn’t cheer her. Her gaze moved quickly over his features and in response, something twisted and tightened in her chest. Despite her efforts to deny it to herself, those old feelings she'd carried for him still existed.

  "Jackson," she said and stepped over a fallen tree branch, "if the only reason you’re here is to see me married, you might as well leave now." Please, she added silently, please leave before those old wants and emotions became strong enough to hurt me again.

  "Leaving's not up to me."

  Rachel felt her hopes drain away.

  He tilted his head back to stare up at the gray clouds scuttling in off the ocean. "I didn't come here to hurt you, Rachel."

  Maybe not, she thought. But she had a terrible feeling that pain would be the result, anyway. She tore her gaze from him to look straight ahead. "I won’t cooperate with you. I won’t marry just because you — or someone else — wants me to. Without love, there is no reason for marriage."

  "Rachel, love can grow over time, you know."

  "If the seed is there," she countered. "Without that seed, the only things to grow are resentment and bitterness."

  His gaze shifted from the coming storm to the walking storm beside him. She wasn't ready for any of this, Jackson thought. He could tell from the stiffness of her posture. From the way she avoided looking at him. Well, he’d done a hell of a job so far. He should never have told her why he was there. Why he'd been sent. With that hard head of hers, she'd be fighting him at every turn, now. And with the snarling and snapping going on, how would he ever get some nice young fella to fall in love with her?

  He shot a quick, disgusted glance at the sky. Lesley might have given him a few tips on how to go about this job, he thought. But no, he just hands over some magic coins and says, "Go do it." Hell, nobody knew better than Lesley just what a miserable failure Jackson was at this ghosting business. But then, he'd been a failure at most everything when he was alive, too. Frowning, he waited for inspiration. When none came, he started talking again, hoping that he would say the right thing.

  "Rachel, remember what you said about that one person for every other person?"

  "Yes."

  He winced. Her voice sounded tight, strangled. But he couldn't quit now.

  "Well, the man who sent me here, Lesley? He says that's hogwash."

  "He's wrong," she said quietly.

  Jackson ignored her argument. "Lesley says folks can find happiness with lots of other folks."

  "I'm already happy."

  "But you’re not married."

  They walked a few more yards before she answered him. "And I'm not going to be. Jackson."

  "Rachel, this doesn't have to be so hard."

  She laughed shortly. "Hard? Hard was waiting for you for ten long years before I finally gave up. Hard was living with Mister Heinz."

  "What do you mean?"

  Something in her eyes tugged at him.

  "Nothing." She waved one hand and shook her head as if dismissing what she’d said. "Just know this, Jackson. I will never marry anyone, unless I'm in love."

  "That's what I'm saying," he pulled his hat down lower over his eyes. "We'll find you somebody to love, Rachel."

  A sheen of water glistened in her eyes. But if they were tears, she refused to let them fall.

  "I don't want to be in love, Jackson. Not again."

  He knew what she meant and despite himself, he felt a ripple of shame. But it hadn't been his fault that she had imagined herself in love with him long ago. Hell, she’d been nothing but a kid.

  "Rachel, you’re all grown up now. That was —"

  "Love, Jackson. That’s what it was." She cut him off neatly. "Just because I was a child, that doesn’t make the feelings any less strong. Or the disappointment any less brutal."

  There went that thread of shame again.

  He looked into her clear blue eyes and tried to see the shadow of the child she had been. But he couldn’t. That little girl was gone forever. In her place was a pretty, independent woman with eyes that held no welcome for him. Strange, but he almost missed the worshipful gazes she’d sent him when she was a child. Though it had been downright annoying at the time, it was certainly better than the cold, fish-eye look he was getting now.

  Still, she'd grown up all right. She held herself arrow straight, her shoulders back, her chin lifted at a defiant angle. Jackson caught himself admiring her. Not just her looks, which went without saying. But there was more to Rachel Morgan than just being pretty.

  There was strength. Determination. And the brass to live her own life just the way she wanted to. It didn't seem right that he'd been sent there to take it away from her.

  A strange, skittering sensation started low in his belly and traveled downward at the same pace his gaze moved over Rachel. Lordy, she was a fine looking woman, he admitted silently. Too fine for the likes of him, even if he had been in a position to do anything about it. The flicker of desire that leapt into life inside him, he explained away as being the result of too many years without female company. Jesus, you would think that being dead would take care of those kinds of feelings. Those wants. Needs.

  Jackson dragged his gaze upward until he met hers. As he looked at her, he knew that it had been a mistake, his being sent here. This woman was never going to trust him again. Dammit, if it was so blasted important that she get married to some poor fool, then Lesley should have sent somebody else to deal with the problem.

  Somebody she might listen to.

  He’s supposed to know so much… hadn't he known how Rachel would feel about Jackson reappearing in her life?

  "I don't suppose my asking you to leave again would do any good?" she whispered.

  He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. His fingertips brushed the edges of his remaining coins and his resolve strengthened on the spot. "No, it won’t."

  "Then I won’t bother saying it."

  "Rachel !"

  They both turned to look up the road leading from town. A dark-haired man with saddlebags tossed across his shoulder hurried toward them.

  "Who's that?" Jackson muttered.

  "Sam Hale," Rachel said with a smile.

  He sneaked a quick look at her and noticed the shine in her eyes. Apparently Sam Hale was enough to cheer her right up. Scowling, he turned back to study the man approaching. A few inches shorter than Jackson, the man had brown hair, brown eyes, and skin tanned from long hours in the sun.

  "Rachel," he said as he came to a stop in front of her. "The woman at the store told me where to find you."

  "Hester," Rachel nodded.

  "I wouldn't know," he admitted. "She hardly spoke above a whisper and never did look at me."

  "She's a bit shy."

  He grinned and glanced at Jackson for the first time. "Hello," he said and held out a hand. "I'm Sam Hale."

  Reluctantly, Jackson took the hand and shook it. "Jackson Tate."

  Clearly, Sam wasn’t interested in talking to him. His gaze shifted immediately back to Rachel. "I was wondering if you still needed someone to work on your new house."

  "I certainly do," she said eagerly.

&nbs
p; Jackson scowled at the change in her manner. Apparently, she’d already forgotten all about him and their argument. His gaze shot back and forth between the two friends and as he did, he realized that a hard knot of anger had settled in his belly. Stupid, he thought. He should be pleased that she was smiling again. But dammit, it would have been nice if he had been the one to chase off her bad temper.

  And just who the hell was this Sam Hale, anyway? Why did the man look at Rachel like she was a nice, cold drink after a long, hot day? But most importantly, why was Jackson upset that these two friends seemed to get along so nicely? This was his big chance. Obviously, Rachel already liked this fella. How difficult could it be to ease liking in to loving? Jackson scratched his cheek thoughtfully and ignored the simmering resentment inside him.

  "The last man I hired," Rachel was saying, "walked off the job after two weeks. He wasn't nearly as good a worker as you were." She reached out and laid one hand on Sam's forearm.

  Jackson flinched. "Are you the one who put in the support beams?" he demanded.

  Sam looked over at him in surprise, as if he’d forgotten someone else were there. "No," he answered quietly. "Why?"

  "Because whoever did it, didn't know a damned thing about building."The two men's gazes met and locked. Like two big dogs meeting in the street, they took each other's measure. Rachel looked from one to the other of them and back again.

  She had no idea why Jackson looked so fierce. Sam, though, probably just as confused by the other man’s sudden challenge, apparently had no intention of backing down.

  Well, she wasn’t going to stand by all day and watch the two of them bristle and snarl at one another. But just as importantly, she wasn’t going to risk losing Sam's expertise in carpentry over Jackson's unpredictability.

  "You’re hired, Sam," she said and noted that he barely tore his gaze from Jackson’s long enough to nod at her. Her ghost, on the other hand, shot her a look she didn't even want to try to interpret. "Jackson, my, uh, cousin, will be supervising the job."

  "You know anything about carpentry?" Sam asked.

  "A sight more than the last fool she had working on the place."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake," she murmured. "You two work out the details. I'm going back to town."

  #

  If she hadn’t been so caught up in worrying about Jackson and his plans to marry her off. Rachel would have seen the man in time to avoid him. As it was, she nearly bumped into him as she crossed the street and headed toward the store.

  "Miss Rachel-" A deep, smooth voice as dark and rich as molasses spilled over her, and she instinctively stiffened.

  She lifted her gaze and looked into the almost black eyes of a man she instinctively disliked.

  "Hello, Mister Lynch," she replied courteously and tried to step around him. He moved with her, blocking her escape.

  "It's good to see you again, Rachel," he said and reached out to touch her arm.

  She shifted.

  He noticed the rebuff and let his hand drop to his side. "Ah," he sighed, "I had hoped that my absence would, as the saying goes, make your heart grow fonder."

  Quickly, she countered. "I assume you have also heard the saying, Out of sight, out of mind?"

  His features tightened for an instant before relaxing into the genial pose he normally assumed. But it was too late. She'd seen that flash of annoyance.

  Rachel's gaze swept over him thoroughly. Dismissively. He wore a beautifully tailored gray suit with a white shirt and a red vest. His black string tie was knotted at a perfect angle, and the shine on his shoes dared dust to land on his feet. He held a black planter's hat with a wide brim in one hand and with the other, dug a gold pocket watch out of his vest. When he popped the gold case open, she heard a slight tinkle of music before he snapped it shut again and slid it home.

  He smiled, but the action only affected his lips. There was no trace of good humor anywhere else on his handsome features.

  Dark, empty eyes watched her. His neatly trimmed hair, gently sprinkled with gray at the temples, was combed straight back from his forehead. A patrician nose wrinkled as if at a disagreeable odor.

  For some reason, he chose to ignore her snub. "It is almost supper time. Would you care to join me in a meal?"

  Incredible, she thought. Two men. One alive, one dead, and neither of them paid the slightest bit of attention to anything she said.

  "No, thank you," she said quietly and stepped around him again. This time, he allowed it. "If you'll excuse me, Mister Lynch, I left Hester Sutton minding the store for a while and I'm sure she’s more than ready to go home by now."

  "Of course," he swept her past him with an elegant wave of his arm. "Until later," he added.

  Rachel's shoulders stiffened in response. There was something about the handsome gambler that bothered her, she just wasn't sure what it was. She had never been able to pinpoint anything specific that repelled her. Yet at the same time, she hadn't been able to get past the unpleasant feelings he aroused in her.

  Ever since moving to Stillwater two years before, Noble Lynch had wormed his way into the town's good graces with benevolent acts of charity. Rachel's fellow citizens at first had been loath to accept money from a professional gambler. But Noble was also a man of impeccable manners. Somehow, he had convinced the townspeople that he had nothing but goodwill in mind with his donations to the town.

  She should have been pleased with the new schoolhouse and the organ he had donated to a church he never attended. Yet, instead, she found herself watching him, wondering when his true nature would reveal itself.

  As a child, she'd learned to read expressions very well. Her foster father's anger was quick to flare, and her ability to see it coming had saved her more than a few whippings.

  As an adult, she recognized the same quicksilver temper in the elegantly dressed, well spoken gambler.

  "I look forward to our next meeting. Rachel," he said and tipped his hat.

  She nodded, and he stepped back into the crowd of people milling about the street.

  Rachel paused for a moment to look after him. Then she shook her head, dismissing Noble Lynch from her mind completely. She had to deal with more than enough trouble already.

  #

  Jackson and Sam walked back into town side by side. The noise and bustle of the crowded street surrounded them. A hundred or more yards away, stood the Mercantile and through a break in the mob of people, Jackson spotted Rachel, standing just outside her store.

  "Who is that?" he asked Sam, straining to look for the man he’d just seen standing much too closely to Rachel. Something about the fellow had seemed oddly familiar.

  "Who are we talking about?" Sam asked.

  "There was a man in front of the store. Talking to Rachel."

  He shrugged. "She's a pretty woman."

  Jackson shot the carpenter a quick look. Soon after Rachel had left them on their own, knowledge of Sam Hale and the kind of man he was had filled Jackson’s mind. It was damned unsettling, this all of a sudden knowing a person he'd never seen before. But at least he could be assured that Hale was a decent man. Except for his tendency to drift whenever the mood struck him. But a good wife could cure him of that.

  "Yes, she is," he said cautiously. "Makes a body wonder why no man has thrown a loop over her yet."

  Sam nodded, then glanced at the man beside him. He laughed, held up one hand and shook his head. "No sir, don’t start getting any ideas in that direction:"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I’ve seen that look before," the carpenter added, a good natured smile on his face.

  "What look?" Blast it, Jackson thought. Too long dead, that was his problem. He'd even forgotten how to bluff.

  "That one that says my sister — or in your case, cousin — needs a husband. How about it?"

  He started walking again, still shaking that shaggy head of his. "Well, no thank you. Rachel's a fine woman. And if I was lookin' for a wife — which I'm not — she’d be a
good choice. If a man was willing to overlook that hard head of hers."

  He couldn’t very well argue with that, Jackson told himself wryly. He'd come up against it real often himself lately.

  "But me," Sam went on with a sigh, "I'm a drifter and I like it that way. No ties. No wife and kids. Nothing to hold me into one town longer than I want to stay." He glanced at the man walking beside him. "Sorry, boss. But if that's what you've got in mind, you might as well forget it straight away."

  Honest too, Jackson told himself as he and Sam headed for the blacksmith’s to see about ordering some metal braces for the support beams at the new house. Yessir, Sam Hale ought to do just fine as a husband for Rachel.

  Jackson stuffed one hand into his pocket and touched one of the golden coin s. With a little help from him, ol' Sam would fall right in love with Rachel and sweep her off her feet before she had a chance to fight it.

  The two men threaded their way through the late afternoon crowd, and Jackson told himself that everything was going to work out fine. Rachel would have a husband to love her and give her those babies she was supposed to have. Sam would have a home instead of blowing around the countryside like a tumbleweed. And he would get whatever reward it was he had coming to him. Things were finally coming together.

  So why was there a small, niggling sense of doubt tugging at his insides?

  By the time he left Sam at the boarding house where the man had taken a room, it was growing dark. Jackson tugged his hat down low and told himself to speak to Rachel about maybe borrowing a coat from the store for the length of his stay. Of course, she probably wasn't in the mood to be doing him any favors, he thought grimly. Disgusted, he kicked at a warped board that jutted up from the walk.

  Lamps lit against the coming night spilled islands of soft, golden light into the street. The few people out and about looked to be in a hurry for home and Jackson felt a sharp stab of envy. Fools, he thought. He'd be willing to bet that not a one of them realized how lucky they were.

  Not just to be alive. But to have a home to go to. People who cared. Maybe a woman sitting in the parlor, staring at the front door as she waited for her man.

  He scowled to himself and rubbed one hand across the back of his neck. Something was wrong, here. He didn’t remember wanting any of those things when he was alive. Why now, when he was dead and gone? Was it Rachel, doing this to him?