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

by Keta Diablo

  The girl gives a short laugh. "You want some breakfast?"

  "Please."

  She heads over to the pot near the fireplace and spoons out some porridge into a bowl and adds a piece of bread to my meal. Not the most exquisite of breakfasts and it doesn’t smell great, but as soon as she sets it in front of me, my stomach growls, and I try to pace myself as I tear into the meager meal.

  She raises an eyebrow. "Coffee too?"

  "Yes please," I say between mouthfuls. The food tastes like it’s been on the pot for too long, but I’ll supplement it with some beef jerky I brought with me.

  "So where are you from, sugah?" she asks as she pours some coffee from the kettle into a mug.

  "St. Louis."

  "Missourah?" She looks impressed. "Must be exciting, big city and everything."

  She sets the mug in front of me, and I pick it up, hoping it will cure my headache. I take a sip out of it and nearly choke.

  The girl laughs again. "That’s Missus Benson’s special blend. It’ll put some hair on your chest."

  "It’s..."

  "Awful?" She nods. "Yeah. Everyone thinks that too. You don’t have to drink it to be polite, sugah."

  I set it down and shove it away, glad for the reprieve. That coffee tastes like oil and tar mixed together, along with some dirt for a gritty texture.

  "I don’t believe I caught your name," I ask, hiding my cough into my hand.

  "It’s Charlotte Freeman."

  "I’m Hattie Hart of the Tremayne Psychic Specters Investigations Agency."

  "Oh, yeah. I got an earful ‘bout you from Missus Benson last night," Charlotte says. She winks at me. "But don’t worry. I don’t think her assumptions are correct."

  "What assumptions are those?"

  "That you’re trouble."

  "I’m actually here to try to stop trouble. Of the ghostly variety."

  She leans against the counter so she can stage-whisper to me. "So those’re real? Ghosts?"

  "I sure hope so," I say mildly. "Otherwise, I’ll be out of a job." And into an insane asylum. "Say, tell me..." I take out the copy of the newspaper and set it on the counter. "Is your newspaper usually ten years off?"

  Charlotte squints at the newspaper. "That’s strange. But ol’ Bill Barnett at the newspaper is getting up in his years."

  "So it’s not usually 1878 in Carolina City?"

  She laughs. "Nope, ‘fraid not."

  "Good." 1878 wasn’t a good year for me. That was when I started working as a saloon girl and learned how depraved life can be. I was way too young.

  It’s a good thing that I’m now twenty-seven and out of that world. Even if everyone considers me to be an old spinster.

  "Maude mentioned that you were here looking for some sort of haint or two?" Charlotte asks, wiping down the counter.

  "Indeed. A missing US Marshal and a man named Kurt Bonneville. Have you heard about either of them?"

  She frowns and shakes her head. "’Fraid I haven’t."

  This is going to be a harder assignment than I thought. No one seems to know who or what I’m talking about.

  So I decide to change tactics to try to glean any information about the town that I can.

  "Marshal Madsen’s only been here for a short while, hasn’t he?" I ask.

  "Oh yeah." Her cheeks blush. "Nice man, him. He’s done a lot of good here. Mayor Beckham and him get along real good."

  I’m sure the "lot of good" she’s talking about is the fact that he’s incredibly good-looking. I stifle a smile. "Who was the marshal before him?" I prompt.

  She thinks for a moment. "Chuck Patterson. Died a few months before Marshal Madsen arrived."

  I tuck that information into the back of my mind. It may be good to know about him for my debriefing when I return to Virginia City to catch the train after all is said and done.

  I spoon some of the broth onto my slab of bread and flinch as the crack of gunfire sounds. I instinctively duck while Charlotte puts a hand on her hip and sighs. "Well, hell. John Douglas and his gang are up to it again."

  "Who?" I ask, every nerve on alert.

  "The John Douglas Gang." She says it like I should know exactly who she’s talking about.

  I turn back to her and manage to just blink when another couple of staccato pops ring outside. "Never heard of them." Granted, I am a psychic investigator, not an officer of the law, so I’m not up to date on all of the lawless gangs out in the west. But some, like the Cochise County Cowboys, have already made their way into legend and I’ve heard of them.

  Charlotte frowns. "Yeah, they arrived a while ago, stirring up trouble, trying to stake their claim in the silver mines. About the same time that Marshal Madsen arrived. He’s had his hands full with them. They’re trouble."

  I smirk. "But I thought Maude says that I’m trouble."

  "That she does."

  I smile to myself as I get to my feet and make my way to the window. There’s something to be said about the stupidity of getting closer to a gun fight, but I have to see who these men are. Plus, if there’s any chance of me catching a glimpse of Marshal Madsen, then I’m willing to take the risk.

  Through the warped, bubbled glass, I see Carolina City’s main street and a dozen men on horses riding and firing off their revolvers. Some are holding flasks and whisky bottles and riding their horse on a drunken tilt, which is impressive as it’s only morning. Maybe they never stopped drinking from the night before.

  I watch them, trying to commit their faces to memory, as I want to make sure that I’m prepared in case we ever cross paths.

  There’s one big man with a handlebar mustache in a red bandana. He’s yelling and directing the gang of men. He also seems to be drunker and more fired up than the rest of them, but they’re all listening to his orders.

  He must be John Douglas. I already don’t like him.

  The streets are empty as the residents hide in order to avoid being caught by a stray bullet, giving the whole place the appearance of being a ghost town.

  I hold my breath watching them, wondering where the marshal is. The pops of gunfire make me wince.

  CRASH.

  I freeze, feeling the breeze from a bullet as it blasts through the window, narrowly avoiding me. My brush with death is so close, I want to thank my lucky stars that I wasn’t an inch more to the left.

  I’d’ve had a bullet through my eye socket.

  Charlotte’s shrieking in terror as the bullet hit the bar and bottles are crashing and spilling onto the floor. Luckily, it didn’t hit her.

  My heart pounds in my ears as I turn back to the street, crouching in the corner so that no one can see me. The gang doesn’t notice that we’re in the Grand Hotel nor that they even shot the window. They hoot and holler to each other, blasting their revolvers, not a care in the world.

  Then, ridiculously, I see Marshal Madsen emerge from the shadows of the jailhouse about thirty yards away. He walks out, his badge over his breast, his thumbs looped through his belt and holster. His eyes are trained on John Douglas, not even saying a word. There’s another man, a younger one, watching from the jailhouse. That must be Jack Shepherd, Marshal Madsen’s deputy. He’s staying in the shadows of the jailhouse, out of trouble. Smart man.

  Can’t say the same about Grant.

  The big, burly man locks eyes with Grant, and for a moment, I think he’s going to shoot the marshal. But the horse rears back suddenly, and John has to grab the reins and hold on for dear life. All of the other horses spook as well and rear backwards, throwing one of the gang members to the hard-packed earth.

  The horses’ screams are unearthly. It sets my teeth on edge.

  John shouts something, and they get their horses under control enough to turn tail and run away from the town center and out to the foothills of the mine. The man who was spilled onto the ground manages to get to his feet in time to pull himself up on a comrade’s horse and ride out of town.

  Leaving Grant frowning after them. He spits toward t
heir retreating backs.

  There wasn’t an exchange of words, no threats exchanged, no big standoff.

  Through the now-cracked window, our eyes meet, his incredibly dark eyes piercing my soul. The heat rises in my cheeks in response.

  Who is this Grant Madsen? And why does he hold this kind of sway over me?

  Despite Charlotte’s yell after me, I grab my skirts and run out into the street.

  "What the hell was that?" I demand, storming up to Grant.

  He tips his Stetson to me, giving me an easy smile. "Good morning to you too, Miss Hart."

  "Don’t give me that. What just happened?" I gesture wildly to where the gang has run off.

  He regards me for a heartbeat before shrugging. "Just a wild outlaw being put in his place."

  "But you didn’t do anything. Or even say anything."

  "Miss Hart, that group of men out there," he says, pointing toward the hills, "is a bunch of very dangerous fellows. You’d be a fool to think that this is the first time we’ve crossed paths. I just showed them that the law is still present here."

  "And you’re not going to arrest them? Or follow them or remind them who the law is around here?"

  "It’ll only cause worse problems," he says dryly.

  "Doing your job will cause worse problems?"

  "Doing what you’re saying will cause worse problems. My job is to keep the peace. Consider this peace kept. Trust me, Jack and I know what we’re doing."

  I look at him like he just told me that his trousers were on fire. He smirks at me coolly, as if sensing my thoughts.

  The heat in my face is back as well as the heat pooling in between my legs. All at once, I can’t figure out if I want to smack him upside the head for not arresting those idiots or if I want to kiss him. It’s maddening, really.

  "We do things differently in Carolina City, Miss Hart," he says. "If you’re going to stay here for any amount of time, you’d better get used to our ways around here."

  He turns away and starts to walk away from me. I stare after him, dumbfounded by this turn of events. My headache is back, and I take a few drops of laudanum to calm it, not even worrying that I am trying to stop.

  If there’s one thing that is true, I need to figure out what my mission is here and get out before I get myself killed.

  Or worse: before I fall head over heels in love with a man who is a mystery to me.

  Chapter Four

  I spend the next two weeks hungry.

  I don’t know what it is. Maybe my stomach is upset from such rigorous travel, or maybe it’s because my headaches seem to be getting worse, but the food is barely palatable and everything tastes off. Even water tastes stale.

  It seems like the only thing that I can keep down is the meager supply of beef jerky that I brought for the road. It takes every ounce of self-control not to devour the entire thing in one sitting. I’ve been nibbling on bits and pieces at a time, trying to pace myself, but the small portions aren’t giving me the sustenance I need.

  I can see it in mirrors and in my reflection; I’m losing weight. I was already a slight girl, but my inability to find decent grub here in Carolina City has me looking gaunt and skeletal, almost like the ghosts I hunt.

  The irony is not lost on me. Ghost hunting has always taken a toll. My very first assignment with the Tremayne P.S.I Agency nearly killed me as a vengeful spirit was jealous of me being in her territory. Luckily, I helped her see the light. But not before she nearly hanged me.

  Starving like this is completely different, though.

  It’s the darnedest thing, and I shift uncomfortably as my stomach growls as I talk to Terry McLaughlin, the general store owner. Mr. McLaughlin is a wealth of useless information, and he prattles on and on about the locals here. Nothing about a missing US Marshal or anything about ghosts. The man is as ungifted as a rock when it comes to the psychic world and ghosts.

  He's also giving me another headache talking about a town festival tonight that everyone has been excited about for weeks now. Charlotte’s been excited about it and has been talking my ear off about it, as she hopes she’ll catch the eyes of one Henry Earp. There will be lots of young couples courting each other there from what I gather.

  I won’t be one of them, of course. No one is interested in a former saloon girl, especially one who talks to ghosts and works out of St. Louis.

  I haven’t been paying much attention to the excitement around the festival because of that. Charlotte keeps inviting me, saying that a certain US Marshal will be there.

  But I can’t hope for anything with him. Especially after our confrontation where he chased off the John Douglas Gang.

  Still though, Mr. McLaughlin keeps talking about the festival, when all I want to talk to him about is my assignment.

  Coming to my rescue, my empty stomach protests loudly, cutting the old man off mid-sentence about who’s going to be at the festival tonight. He blinks in confusion at the rumble.

  "Apologies for that, Mr. McLaughlin," I say. "Now, can you tell me more about any US Marshals that may have been stationed here?"

  Mr. McLaughlin gives me a patronizing smile. "Are you talking ’bout that new Grant Madsen? He ain’t missing, darlin’."

  I fake a smile, as this is a common question.

  "I’ve talked to Mr. Madsen," I say. "No, I’m looking for a marshal who has either gone missing or died in recent years. His name may or may not be Kurt Bonneville, but if it’s not him, then I am looking for him too."

  I take out the telegram and hand it to him, and he squints down at it through his spectacles. The man had been talking so much since I first came in, this is the first time I’ve been able to talk to him about why I’m here.

  He reads it slowly before looking up at me with renewed curiosity. "And what did you say you do again, darlin’?"

  "I’m a psychic investigator for the Tremayne Psychic Specters Investigations Agency."

  "Uh-huh."

  "It means I investigate and hunt for ghosts."

  His eyebrow rises. "And you think you’re looking for a ghost? A US Marshal ghost?"

  "That and a man named Kurt Bonneville. At least, that’s what I can gather from my boss." I take the proffered telegram back and put it back in my breast pocket. "As you can see, I don’t have much to go on. So if you have any information, I’d love to hear it."

  I hold my breath. Everyone else I’ve talked to had no answers, and in fact, they only raised more questions. Carolina City doesn’t have a Western Union, so I’m half tempted to take a carriage back out to Virginia City and send Nat a telegram asking for clarification. I’d have done that already if my last attempt hadn’t been unsuccessful.

  But there is a thing called wasting your time, and I have half a mind to see if anyone in Virginia City knows what I’m talking about.

  I can see the thoughts running through Mr. McLaughlin’s face as he regards me curiously. He means well, and I wish I wasn’t the queer girl walking in and asking strange questions. Most people don’t believe in ghosts or the spiritual. Even less take you seriously when you say you work for a ghost-hunting agency.

  He averts his eyes to the right, and he clears his throat, as if glad for a distraction. "Can I help you, girl?"

  "I’m here looking for my sister."

  A shiver runs through me, and I turn to see Mary Ellen standing next to me. She grins up at me in her ghostly way.

  "Honestly, Hattie," Mary Ellen sighs, "you have to get better about being able to tell a ghost from a living person."

  "What?" I ask, narrowing my eyes, although I know exactly what she means. The sinking feeling in my gut confirms it even before she does.

  "Don’t you think it’s strange that he can see ghosts?" my little sister asks. "Especially when he didn’t believe you before?"

  I look back to Mr. McLaughlin. "You’re a ghost," I whisper, almost accusingly. It would explain my headache.

  He watches both of us coolly, expressionless. I feel sick with what little
food I’ve been able to force into my stomach.

  "Oh!" From behind the counter in the back room, I hear a woman’s voice cry in surprise. "Sorry I didn’t see you there! Give me one moment, and I’ll be right out there with you."

  Mr. McLaughlin and I watch each other in a standoff before he winks at me and vanishes without a trace. My heart is pounding in my head as I glance back at Mary Ellen, who puts her hand over mine.

  "You need to open your eyes, Hattie," she whispers, before she, too, disappears. "Open your eyes and see what’s there. Not what you want to be there."

  And I’m standing alone in front of a counter while an old woman comes out and greets me.

  "Hello there!" she says, beaming down up at me through the wrinkles in her face. "Welcome to McLaughlin’s General Store."

  All right, so I’m not completely crazy. When the other townspeople told me to check out McLaughlin’s, I had no clue who owned it. Here, looking at this old woman, I realize that she’s Terry’s widow.

  With shaking hands, I take out my telegram again and begin my story again.

  * * *

  When I leave the general store, I close my eyes and take a deep breath of air. Mrs. McLaughlin didn’t have any further information about the missing US Marshal or Kurt Bonneville, but she was incredibly nice, so I’m glad to have met her.

  The headache is still there, and I take some laudanum and sigh. It pushes back the headache, but only just.

  I take in a shuddering breath and debate my next move. I’m out of people to interview right now, but I could go back to my room and research some more of the town based on newspaper clippings I picked up from Bill Barnett, the printer.

  Then again, I don’t feel like going back to the boarding house. Maude still treats me like scum, and she hasn’t been feeling very well. It has made her even more irritable to my presence.

  So I time my appearances at the hotel for those hours when Charlotte is working. She and I have gotten closer over the last fortnight, but I know she’s not manning the hotel at the moment.

  I suppose I can go for a walk to clear my head. If nothing else, the time to myself will allow me to regroup and figure out what I have to do next. After all, I’m not getting anywhere with my investigation. I still have no idea who I am looking for, why he’s missing, and what this has to do with the spiritual world.