The Good, The Bad and The Ghostly ((Paranromal Western Romance))

by Keta Diablo

Satisfied she had everything she needed, she took a deep breath and fought back the tears. Even though Papa had hurt her, both physically and emotionally, she still loved him and she wished it could have ended differently.

  But he’d backed her into a corner and she had to look out for herself. He sure wasn’t going to do her any favors.

  Annabelle had made the decision to leave last week when Papa had come home and told her that, come Monday, she was going to marry Paul Cheever, the town undertaker who was nearly twice her age. She’d refused, fought him, but in the end, he’d issued a threat that she couldn’t ignore. If she wouldn’t marry Cheever, Papa planned to lock her inside the house until she changed her mind. For every day she continued to defy him, he’d kill one of her hens.

  Her hens, the only constant companions since she’d moved to Virginia City, were more important to her than anything else. Even though she knew her father would kill them after she left, the thought of hearing them being butchered was more than she could bear.

  Leaving was her only choice.

  "But screw your courage to the sticking place and we'll not fail," she whispered to herself. Her mother had loved Shakespeare and had read to Annabelle from the large embossed book nearly every night. She’d never understood the meaning of those words until tonight.

  At the last minute she slipped her mother’s gold band onto her finger and she slipped out the front door, being careful to make sure the screen door closed without a creak. She didn’t look at her chicken coop, preferring to imagine her hens, fat and happy, pecking the ground for bugs.

  On the way to town, she pulled her hat down on her head. It was late for a woman to be out alone on the street. On the other hand, nearly everyone in Virginia City knew her father and because of that most of them treated her like she was a leper. Hopefully that meant no one would ask any questions.

  Annabelle made it to the Virginia Truckee Depot without having to speak to a single person. It wasn’t until she got to the window that she realized she had no real plan. Getting out of town was as far as she’d thought.

  "Help you, ma’am?" The station agent asked without looking up from the newspaper he was reading.

  "One ticket to. . .," she paused and looked up at the board. "Reno," she said.

  * * *

  Reno, 1881

  Cole Swanson was taking a rare day off from work. As a Tremayne P.S.I agent, he worked whatever hours were required to get the job done and the case solved. He’d had a busy week and he should be at the office filing and taking care of administrative duties but instead he was in his room at Mrs. Stampley’s rooming house reading the newspaper.

  Since he’d opened the Reno office last month, he’d had a steady string of cases that were either too easy or too boring, like the farmer who wanted him to exorcise the vegetable-stealing demons from his fields, a two-hour job that could’ve been completed by the local padre.

  Solving the case didn’t take anything more than camping out on the edge of the field on a full moon. When the "demon" arrived, it was nothing more than an unwed woman, a sleeping baby tied to her chest with a tattered rag.

  "You don’t have to steal food," he’d said, stepping out of the shadow.

  She jumped backwards, her eyes as wide as jackrabbit’s. She placed both hands on the child. "Sir, I’m hungry."

  "I know you are. Take this." He handed her a paper bag he’d filled with leftovers from his supper at The Lick Skillet, a restaurant down the street from his office. By the way she grabbed it, he knew she was telling the truth. "Twice a week, you stop by my office. I’ll have a bag for you."

  "I’ll pay you. When I can."

  Cole shook his head. "Save your money for you and the child."

  When he’d cashed the check from the farmer, he’d put his share in a plain envelope in his desk drawer. Twice a week, he filled a bag and just like clockwork, the woman picked it up. He never asked her name, never made a personal connection with her. He knew himself well enough to know that if he did, he’d only wade too deeply into the waters.

  A single man in a new town, especially when he was representing the Tremayne Agency, needed to make sure no one had a reason to doubt his motives. Just like the training manual said, "Reputation is everything."

  His reputation would be much improved if he had a bride, but he was too busy solving cases and reading dime novels to find a wife.

  Reno was nothing like St. Louis and Cole was beginning to doubt the wisdom of opening a satellite office in this one-horse town. The boss, the mysterious Nat Tremayne, was sure that Reno would grow into the Chicago of the West and had wanted an established office before it happened. Tremayne had offered Cole a promotion, a hefty raise and an office of his own in Nevada on one condition: he had to stay at least twelve months before requesting a transfer back East.

  Only thirty-eight days into the arrangement, Cole wasn’t sure he’d make it.

  There was only one out in the contract. If, during his stay in Reno, his wife or child, of which he had neither, got ill and required treatment, he could request a hardship transfer.

  In other words, he was stuck.

  The lure of the East, with its endless green lawns, lazy creeks and towering trees, pulled at him more strongly every day but there wasn’t a darn thing he could do about it.

  He’d flipped back to the front page of the newspaper when there was a knock on his door.

  "Agent Swanson," Mrs. Stampley called in her company voice. "You’ve got a visitor in the parlor."

  That was unusual. He hadn’t made any friends, not ones who’d visit him here. "I’ll be right down," he said through the door. After smoothing his trousers and slipping into his jacket, he walked down the stairs and into the parlor.

  The man waiting for him was too large to sit on any of the delicate pieces of furniture favored by Mrs. Stampley. He rose when Cole entered the room, towering over him by six or eight inches.

  Cole extended his hand. "Agent Cole Swanson."

  The man’s hand was nearly twice the size of his. "Stump," he said. "Mrs. Busbee would like to see you."

  Katherine Busbee, the madam at The Blade. He’d never been to the place but it was the biggest, and the wildest, saloon in Reno.

  "Why?"

  Stump shrugged his shoulders. "She’ll meet you at your office in fifteen minutes." Without waiting for an answer, he walked out the front door.

  Cole wanted to be offended. Who did she think she was? Commanding him to meet her on a Sunday afternoon? He was an agent of the Tremayne Agency. Not one of her lackeys.

  On the other hand, it was sure to be a hell of lot more interesting than reading the newspaper for a second time.

  He headed out the front door and down the street toward his office.

  Nothing more than a two story shanty at the corner of 3rd and Sierra, it was nothing like the office back home at Headquarters. Every time the wind blew, it whistled through the holes in the walls, bringing in yellow dust that stuck to every surface like glue. It had come with an upstairs apartment but he’d decided to board with Mrs. Stampley so that he didn’t have to cook for himself.

  Cole unlocked the door and tucked his keys back into his pocket. His second-hand desk sat in the middle of the room with a table along one wall and a bookshelf filled with well-thumbed Beadle’s Dime Novels and Tremayne’s training manuals on the other. The only other piece of furniture was a sofa where clients could sit.

  To add insult to injury, he didn’t even have a proper clerk.

  Anyone who walked into the office could see that right away. Mountains of paper covered his desk. He had days’ worth of filing but no time or motivation to get the job done. And then there was the dust. It covered every surface and caused him to sneeze all the time.

  He had to hire someone. Yesterday.

  Cole wished he’d stayed in St. Louis and made do on the smaller weekly salary. With his family and friends fifteen hundred miles away, he had nothing but the tiny room he rented from Mrs. Stampley and
the office, a two-minute walk from one to the other.

  Cole had expected the Wild West to be wild. Instead it was as engaging as watching paint dry.

  Maybe Katherine Busbee was going to change that. It couldn’t hurt to hope.

  As soon as he finished straightening the papers on his desk into several neater piles, the door to his office creaked open.

  "Mr. Swanson?" The voice was soft, cultured, and he was surprised it belonged to her. Having grown up on the banks of the Mighty Mississippi River, he’d become astute at recognizing accents. This woman was Southern. He’d put his money on Alabama or Georgia. "May I come in?" She peered into his office.

  Judging by the way she filled the door frame, the woman was probably only a couple of inches shy of his own six feet. With hair so black it shone blue, she had large brown eyes and olive skin. Her waist was impossibly small in the expensive red and black gown she wore. While it wasn’t as provocative as the ones he’d expect to see in a brothel, it wasn’t a dress a refined lady would wear either. She could’ve been beautiful but about a fourth of an inch above her upper lip, she had a scar that made her look harsh. She was famous in Reno for having the prettiest girls and the hottest temper. Rumor had it that she got the scar in a knife fight with a customer who roughed up one of her girls.

  She employed muscle, men like Stump, but she rarely needed their assistance. She wasn’t afraid to get her own hands dirty.

  He tossed his hat onto the corner of his desk and rose. "I’m Agent Cole Swanson," he said. "How can I help you?"

  "I see that Stump conveyed my request to meet with you." She removed one glove and extended her hand. "I’m Mrs. Busbee and I need to engage your services." Her eyes darted around the room. "Is there anyone else in the office?"

  Cole shook his head and walked around the desk and helped her settle her bustled dress onto the small sofa. "I work alone."

  "Good. I expect complete and total privacy. I have a delicate matter to discuss with you and after exchanging telegraphs with Tremayne, I was assured that you can handle the job."

  He’d known that she was well-connected but no one knew the mysterious Nat Tremayne well enough to exchange telegrams directly. "I appreciate the confidence from headquarters."

  "According to the main office, you’re one of the best agents in the field and you just happen to be right around the corner from The Blade."

  "I’m glad to be here, ma’am." He hoped she didn’t hear the lie. He couldn’t think of a place he’d hate more than Reno. "How can I help?"

  "I need your word that you’ll treat this matter with absolute discretion."

  He sat in his chair. "You have my solemn promise."

  She stared at him a moment, sized him up. "You look young. I’d like to trust Tremayne but I still think headquarters might have to send a more experienced agent. After all, this case has the potential to cost a lot of people a lot of money. My job is to keep folks happy and I intend to do that."

  "I’m twenty-four," Cole said, more sharply than he intended. His baby face made him look younger than he was and he wished he could grow a decent beard but it always looked scraggly, like he was trying too hard. "I was trained at the home office in St. Louis where I worked for three years. Tremayne promoted me and sent me to open this office. I assure you I’m well-qualified."

  "How many cases have you solved?"

  "Counting the ones I worked on while I was in training, twenty-seven." He pointed to a long stick mounted on the wall behind his desk. "I make a notch for each one."

  Katherine giggled, sounding more like a teenage girl than a jaded madam. "You’re the only man I’ve ever met who uses notches to keep up with work. You may be the right person for the job after all."

  * * *

  By the time Annabelle found a seat on the train, her heart was pounding so hard she tasted iron in the back of her throat.

  She had no idea what she’d find in Reno but it had to be better than what she had in Virginia City. She patted the bag she carried and reassured herself that her money was safe. The money she’d made from selling eggs, butter and the tea she made from Butterfly Weed was enough to keep her in food and lodging for a few days.

  The way she saw it she had two choices: keep riding trains eastward until she got as close to Kentucky and her grandmother as possible or stay in Reno, find employment and build up her savings.

  Neither was ideal.

  According to the infrequent letters she received from Granny, her health was declining fast and unless Annabelle could find a way home quickly, she might never see the woman again. Her heart squeezed at the thought.

  She had to get there in time. Familiar tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

  Scared, both of what she’d was leaving behind and what awaited her when she pulled into the station in Reno, she took a deep breath and reminded herself that a crying woman on a train might look rather suspicious. She could weep when she got to Reno.

  "Is this seat taken?"

  She looked up to see an older man standing in the aisle. He was dressed in a fine suit, tailored perfectly, and he wore a bright blue brocade vest. In one hand he held a gold watch, attached by a delicate chain. She’d never seen him before but he had a kind face.

  "No, please have a seat."

  He smiled and sat in the aisle seat. "Augustus Wemberly, attorney at law. I traveled out from Reno to take care of some business. They have to pay extra on Sunday," he said with mischievous grin. His accent was refined, nothing like most of the miners she’d met in Virginia City or in the rest of the West.

  "Anna Laurens," she said, the false name rolling off her tongue as smooth as silk.

  "Pleasure, Mrs. Laurens." He glanced at the gold band on her ring finger. "Going to visit family?"

  "Yes, sir. My sister had her first child a few days ago." She looked out the window and prayed that the train would leave the station soon. If it didn’t, she might forget what lies she’d told before they reached Reno.

  "Share the newspaper?" Wemberly unfolded a copy of the Territorial Enterprise. "The only part I read is the Tall Tales. I liked that Mark Twain fella, wish he’d stayed." After taking one page, he handed her the rest. The paper was published six days a week and distributed all across Nevada. She begged her father to buy a weekly subscription for a quarter but he always refused. Sometimes her neighbor, an older man who’d been a Confederate officer, would give her one that was a few days old but it never matched the excitement of holding a newspaper that was still warm from publication.

  "Thank you," she said.

  The locomotive led out a low mournful whistle and she felt the pistons begin to pump beneath her seat. She’d gotten out of town without her father realizing it. A wave of relief washed over her and for the first time since she’d planned her escape, she took an anxiety-free breath.

  The Territorial Enterprise was filled with stories about investments, mining, and lurid crimes. The gossip column provided a little amusement but even though Annabelle knew some of the people mentioned, she’d been too busy cooking and cleaning to be part of the Virginia City social circles, not that Papa would’ve allowed it anyway.

  The only people he wanted her to know were potential suitors, chiefly Paul Cheever. She shivered at the thought of the man. Papa had been hell-bent to force the marriage. Even if Papa had been an angel, the prospect of having to sleep beside the undertaker, a man who was small in stature and in character, was enough to make her run.

  Annabelle looked out the window at the landscape passing by the windows. Tiring of that, she banished all thoughts of what she’d left behind in Virginia City and tucked into the newspaper. The best part was the side margins which were filled with advertisements. She loved them because they promised everything from restored health to goddess-like beauty.

  The sun began to fade, the high Sierra fading to a grayish-blue blur. The fear of the prospect of pulling into Reno after dark with no place to go had faded and she felt strangely exhilarated.


  Wemberly dozed off right after Franktown and after a few minutes of fiddling with her knitting and making no visible progress, she picked up the newspaper again.

  At the bottom of the third page, in very small type, was a classified ad that intrigued her.

  Agents Needed.

  Psychic Specters Investigations

  If you’re able to communicate with the departed, find lost items using only your mind, or soothe restless spirits, we’d love to talk to you.

  Good pay, easy work. Lodging provided. Widow women considered.

  Contact Agent C. Swansby, 3rd and Sierra, Reno, Nevada

  Was it possible that she might be able to make a living using the dreams?

  Annabelle looked at the ring on her finger. She’s already lied about her identity once and gotten away with it. Why couldn’t she do it again?

  But it was going to take guts to lie to a psychic detective.

  She repeated Shakespeare to herself again. "But screw your courage to the sticking place and we'll not fail," she said under her breath.

  * * *

  Cole had agreed to meet Mrs. Busbee later the same night at the saloon. After a dinner and a few pages of the latest dime novel, he’d walked down 3rd all the way to Virginia and made a left. The saloon stood on the corner. As one of the largest buildings in town, it was a two-story wood frame with a deep front porch. After cataloging his observations, he stepped inside.

  "Welcome to The Blade," Katherine said. Tonight she was dressed in a simple prairie dress made of blue calico. In the dress she’d worn to the office, she’d been incredibly attractive but hard, all sharp angles and edges. In this softer dress, she looked younger and prettier. Her face was clean-scrubbed, free of the garish red lipstick she’d worn earlier.

  "You’re the only man in town who’s seen me without my makeup," she said. There was laughter in her voice. "But why get all dressed up if you don’t have anywhere to go?"

  "The blue looks good on you." He learned early in the detective game that giving a woman a sincere compliment was the best way to build a good rapport quickly.

  "Thank you, honey. Sure is more comfortable than most of the things I wear." She winked at him and he knew he’d hit the mark.