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

by Keta Diablo

  "Dying?" I whisper.

  "Yes. Unless we can keep something in her, there’s little else I can do." Doc sighs and sits back, crossing his arms as he scrutinizes his patient for a long second. He must not have gotten the answer he wanted, because he gets up from his seat and shoos us out of the room. "It’s probably best to get away from her," he whispers. "Contamination and everything."

  "Where do you think she got it?" Mayor Beckham asks.

  Doc chews on his bottom lip, a nervous habit that I remember from when I talked with him earlier. "Who knows? We had that influx of those immigrants from Russia...."

  I feel sick at his almost-accusation of innocent people. No, this feels like something else. Something sinister. I can’t put my finger on it, but my head is thrumming in pain, meaning that we’re witnessing something otherworldly.

  I bite my tongue and look around Doc to see Maude’s restless form on the bed.

  Dying. From a disease out in the west. Contamination is not a concern of mine—after witnessing everything I’ve seen in my time, I’m no longer afraid of my own death, but I’m afraid of the hysteria that could arise from it.

  What would the other townsfolk of Carolina City think if one of their own had a highly contagious sickness?

  "We’ve also had a new visitor in Miss Hart," Doc adds quietly, averting his eyes.

  The mayor looks at me as if noticing me for the first time since he arrived.

  I scowl over at Doc Strom. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

  The man looks taken aback by my retort. "Nothing. It’s just you showed up a couple weeks ago and now Missus Benson is sick."

  The anger filters into my cheeks as I look at him, aghast. "You’re accusing me of getting her sick?" At the doctor’s non-response, I explode. "How?" I demand. "How could I have gotten her sick? I’m not even sick myself! I’ve seen everyone in this town and Maude is the only one to get sick."

  "Calm yourself, Miss Hart," Mayor Beckham chides.

  "Missus Benson was one of the first people that you talked to here," Doc tells him. His voice is stronger now when he glares at me.

  "And I was the first," Grant says, coming to my defense. "And I don’t feel sick. Let’s just assume that she caught it from another source." His eyes flick over toward me. "We’ll keep an eye on Miss Hart, but I doubt she’s the cause of this."

  "How are we supposed to protect the community, then, if we don’t know where Maude got sick?" Doc demands, his voice rising. "There’s a festival tonight, dammit!"

  Grant sighs and sticks his thumbs through the loops on his belt, considering Doc’s words.

  "If we cancel the festival, there will be a panic," Mayor Beckham mutters.

  "Maybe there should be a panic," Doc says darkly.

  "I will not have a mob in my town," the mayor says harshly. "The festival goes on as planned."

  Doc shakes his head. "I don’t recommend it."

  The mayor shoots him a cool look. "There are worse things that a bunch of people can do than get sick. Besides, we don’t know what Missus Benson has. It could be an isolated occurrence. I’d rather not cause a panic and everyone have a good time tonight."

  With the commotion I caused at the saloon, I doubt I’d be having a good time. If I went.

  Doc closes his eyes and then nods slowly. "All right. All right. But we need to wash before any of us go to that festival. Rid the contamination."

  "I don’t have to go," I say in my defense.

  In case it spreads any more, I don’t want to turn more of the residents here against me. Doc seems to be sure that I somehow infected Missus Benson, even with Grant coming to my rescue.

  There’s also nothing for me at the festival. If anything, I’d just want to research from the safety of my boarding room or maybe take my borrowed mule out for a ride. The poor thing has been languishing in the stables while I’ve been here.

  But Grant won’t have any of it. "No, after you made so many enemies at the saloon today—"

  "What happened at the saloon?" Doc cuts in while the mayor frowns.

  "—there may be some, ah, injured men who will want revenge." Grant looks at me, a decision crossing his features, and he nods sternly. "No, I’m not letting you out of my sight. And I’ve got to be at the festival tonight. Duty calls."

  I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow. "So what are you saying?"

  "I’m saying, you’re going to the festival with me."

  Chapter Six

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a social gathering such as this. Sure, there were plenty that I went to back when I was a saloon girl, but this is entirely different.

  I’m either here as a prisoner or as Grant’s companion. And I can’t decide which.

  After we left Maude’s room, Grant asked me to get ready for the festival, because we need to keep up the appearance that everything’s fine. If I said that I didn’t pick out my nicest dress to wear or carefully applied makeup, I’d be lying.

  I agonized over it.

  I wore my best dress, the one that hugs my curves and shows my breasts off to perfection.

  I made sure that my powder enhances rather than hides my face. Except for the scar—I powdered that to blend with my fair skin as much as possible.

  I want to be sure that I look good enough for Grant to take notice of me. Not as the stranger that came in from St. Louis, but as a woman. I know that has worked in the past with my other clients, but this feels different. It’s different when you care what he thinks about you.

  What’s wrong with me? I hate dancing. I hate being around so many leering people. My past catches up with me at events like this. So why am I trying to impress one US Marshal here?

  My nerves are shot. I have a hip flask filled with whiskey that I keep in the garter of my right leg. I keep sneaking sips of it to both calm myself and another raging headache. I took laudanum earlier, but it doesn’t seem to be helping.

  We’re in a barn on the opposite end of town, and everyone, it seems, has shown up for the town festival. Despite Maude’s state of health, Charlotte is here, and I’ve caught her dancing with a man whom I presume is Henry Earp. She’s sure smiling like it’s the case. There’s a four-piece band playing ditties, and the dance floor is full of everyone I’ve talked to over the past two weeks. From Mrs. McLaughlin to Stephen, the stable boy at the hotel. I’m glad for the respite it’s giving everyone.

  Unfortunately, though, as it’s a full-town affair, I’ve also noticed that Luke and a few of the other men from the saloon earlier today are here, glaring daggers at me from across the barn. A few are sporting some bruises and swollen cheeks; I take a bit of pride in the fact that I’m responsible for that.

  They deserved it.

  "You’re not dancing."

  I look up to see Grant take his spot next to me on the hay bale, his expression curious. He looks dashing in a fresh button-down shirt and a pair of Levi’s. His badge is pinned to his chest and he’s wearing his Stetson, even indoors at night like this.

  "No," I say. "I usually like to just watch people. I never was one for dancing."

  "Why not?"

  I swallow back the lump in my throat, memories pulling at me. "I’ve had a lot of bad men dance with me."

  I don’t want to go into it any further. Grant takes in my confession and nods slowly. "Do you think I’m a bad man?"

  I smirk. "I’m still figuring that out."

  "I guess that will have to do for now."

  He takes my hand, pulling me out to the dance floor. "What are you doing?" I hiss.

  He mocks innocence. "Showing a pretty lady a good time."

  I stiffen as he pulls me to him, our bodies lined up with one another. I feel the heat of his body through his clothes. But the real heat is in his gaze as he looks down at me, heavy-lidded. It starts to warm me and unfreeze my senses, and when the band strikes up for another song, I’m ready to join in.

  It’s a fast jig, and we’re whirling and joining with the crowd.
Despite myself, I find that I’m laughing and having a great time. There’s no pretense or favors being derived from this dance: Grant and I are just two people enjoying ourselves.

  To my credit, I still remember how to dance, and people take notice. Rather than their judgment, they now watch me with approval. It’s amazing how dancing can reunite a whole town like this.

  "Hooray, Hattie!" Charlotte whoops, passing by us as she whirls and twirls with her dance partner. I laugh and whip around the floor, my hands never leaving Grant’s. He’s laughing too, the act coming easy to his face.

  I can’t believe that I’m doing this. Having so much fun. Being normal. It feels nice. Like there’s hope for me yet.

  One dance turns to two turns to five. I lose track of time. My assignment is tucked away in the furthest corner of my mind, and I’m only Hattie Hart, an impure woman, but a woman no less, having the time of her life.

  Even my headache goes away. Bliss.

  "You are good at this!" Grant exclaims, as sweaty as I am.

  I laugh and wipe my forehead. My curls have come undone, and my corset is constricting my chest as I heave heavy breaths. "It’s because I have a good partner."

  "So what’s the verdict?"

  "What verdict?"

  "Am I a good man?"

  The corner of my mouth tilts up slightly, betraying my thoughts. "Maybe."

  "Too bad you’re not a good woman," a voice says in my ear.

  I flinch. Grant wasn’t the one who spoke those words, but I do recognize who said them.

  I turn and blink, seeing a ghostly Missus Benson glaring at me. I’m shocked that she’s here, but then I see the pallor of her face and the bluish rim around her body. Grant hasn’t looked her way, confirming what I feared most.

  "Oh, Missus Benson," I whisper. "I’m so sorry." She may have disliked me in life (and even in death, as it were), but she didn’t deserve to die. Not like this. I feel relief though, as I wasn’t there to witness her pass.

  There’s an ache in my chest, though—she didn’t go to the other side.

  And it is my duty to help her pass onto the next stage of her life.

  Grant blinks, obviously not seeing who I’m talking to. "Hattie—what—?"

  A gunshot rents through the air, causing both of us to whip our heads toward the door of the barn. The band wasn’t loud enough to mask the sound, and they quiet. Everyone stops and quiets, in fact. Like they’re waiting for what happens next before deciding to panic.

  There’s another shot, followed by a scream.

  It came from the town square.

  Maude snickers and points toward the door of the barn. She doesn’t say anything. She’s inviting me to go out there, and I understand why now. That familiar headache is back, sharper than before, and I recognize it. Someone was shot and is now dying. I was relieved too soon that I missed Maude’s passing.

  My belly threatens to heave up the beans that Grant made me earlier.

  I’ve watched a few people die in my time, and it’s never a pleasant experience for someone who sees ghosts.

  Fear twists my gut as I see Grant straighten his hat and take a deep breath. Panic becomes palpable in the barn, threatening to suffocate me, and he bellows, "Everyone, STAY HERE!"

  He starts to move, but I grab his arm. "I can help." I don’t want to, but I have a job to do. And if Nat has anything to say about it, I’d better follow through.

  Grant looks like he’s about to protest but then complies with a nod. "Stay close." He takes my hand while I hike up my skirts with the other to run out into the main street.

  The usually busy streets are empty due to the dance, but there is a lone figure lying in the dirt.

  I don’t recognize him.

  He’s on his back, clutching at a wound on his chest that is blossoming with crimson blood. I gulp as I kneel beside him.

  "He’s one of John Douglas’s gang," Grant mutters, taking his spot next to me.

  The man looks up at me, spluttering as blood spills between his lips. He’s hurting, terribly, as his soul passes on from this plane to another. His fuzzy-focused eyes fall on me.

  "You’re..." he starts, before a coughing fit takes over him, wracking his body with the movement. "You’re...not a haint?"

  "No," I whisper. "What happened?" Even though I know he may be a terrible man, I want to help his last moments pass without pain. "Who did this to you?"

  "Thought we saw...someone..." the man whimpers, not answering my question exactly, but offering up more puzzles.

  "Who?" I demand, feeling my rising fear at the situation.

  He grabs at me, pulling me to him with renewed strength. "A haint! We all did! And...and...someone fired at it...and..."

  And then he breathes his death rattle, passing as he falls back to the earth, dead. I sit backwards, my heart pounding in my ears. I suddenly realize that I’m covered with his blood, looking like I just killed him myself.

  That’s not the worst of what’s about to happen. Fear rises in my gut, especially since I know he is—was—a bad man. I missed this part with Maude, but I’m about to get a front-row seat this time.

  "Hattie," Grant says, his voice dimly heard in the midst of my turmoil. "Miss Hart...Hattie..."

  I swallow and, with trembling hands, reach forward and close the dead man’s eyes. He needs to pass on peacefully, or else he’s going to be stuck here.

  It happens the same way every time, from the most angelic child to the most terrible offenders out there. There’s no way for me to prepare for it.

  I watch as rays of light stream in from the night sky, illuminating the dark street. I learned a long time ago that only I could see. The rays of light, whether they’re from heaven or another spiritual plane, scatter down toward the man, brightening his face and coloring his cheeks, making it seem like he hadn’t just died.

  And then the ground underneath him cracks, splitting open like an earthquake is happening.

  I find myself chanting in my head, "Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t..."

  The man’s eyes flutter open, a much lighter blue than they were before. His whole appearance takes on a ghostly hue. It’s his ghostly self.

  "Wha—what?" he asks. His eyes go wild as he looks at Grant and me.

  "Shh," I whisper. "Just close your eyes and go where you belong." I don’t dare tell him that he just died. That has backfired before on me, and a man’s eternity was the price.

  His gaze falls on me. "What are you doing here?"

  "I’m here to help you," I say, telling him the truth.

  "Help me what?"

  I press my lips together, knowing exactly what he means.

  "Who did this to you?" I ask again.

  "I...I..." He starts breathing faster, his words punctuated by too-quick breaths.

  "You’ll be fine," I say. "Just tell me...who shot you? Why were you here?"

  "I..."

  It’s too late to get any further information from him.

  He blinks, as if noticing the rays of light for the first time, and he smiles gently. I try not to look at the cracked, scorched earth below him, but he looks anyways and realizes what it means.

  "No!" he shouts. "No, I’m not going there! I’m not!"

  I honestly have no idea if there is a heaven or hell—only that there’s a good place that brings you upward and a bad place that drags you into the earth. "You have to go where you’re supposed to."

  "No! No, I won’t!"

  As if to punctuate that fact, we both see hands rise from the dirt, scrabbling to get a hold of him and drag his soul deep into the earth. So that’s his judgment, as I suspected—Hell it is.

  He’s screaming, and after the first hand takes hold of his clothing, he thrashes about wildly, throwing the hand off him. He backpedals away from his dead, broken body, which only serves to compound his terror.

  He looks at me, desperate. "Help me! Help me, goddammit!"

  There’s nothing I can do. The crack
s in the ground spread, running toward him like a sentient beast. He screams again, getting to his feet. As soon as he turns tail and runs, the cracks stop.

  I close my eyes. His spirit is now bound to neither a heaven nor a hell—he’s just remaining, which is a far worse fate, in my opinion. He chose to remain as a ghost. Another job for another time if he decides that he’s not going to be a quiet ghost.

  I hate seeing this.

  I hate seeing a person die, I hate seeing their terror as their spirits goes to wherever it’s supposed to go, and I hate it worse when they decide to remain as a ghost, even if they didn’t know the implications of such a decision. As a ghost hunter who puts ghosts to rest, I should try to stop them more.

  Yet, as it is, I’m frozen in place by this sudden turn of events. First Maude, now this man. Tonight was supposed to be a change of pace, a time for me to forget that I am a ghost detective and have a bit of fun.

  Then this happens.

  I turn to my side and vomit, the half-digested beans spilling out onto the floor. I sit back on my haunches, feeling woozy.

  I hear Maude’s voice, both so close and so far away, taunt me: "You can’t help anyone, Miss Hart."

  I really can’t. Tears flood my eyesight, making everything go wishy washy.

  A hand steadies me, and I turn to see Grant’s kind face watching me.

  "Hey," he whispers. "Are you all right?"

  I lean into him and begin to cry, glad that, even though this is not meant to last beyond this moment, here and now, I have a shoulder to cry on.

  Chapter Seven

  Jack shows up shortly thereafter and deals with the aftermath of a dead body.

  Grant offers to take me back to the boarding house, but I don’t want to go there, not with Maude’s ghost hanging around and mocking me. Not with two deaths so close together. And not with my headache screaming, sending me teetering over the edge.

  "I don’t want to go back there," I whimper. "Not with Maude dead too."

  I’m somewhere in between shock and unconsciousness, and I cling to him for dear life. The world is vague and dim, and all I want is to get away from it, to curl up in bed and never have to worry about ghosts or the afterlife again.