by Keta Diablo
Nonsense, Clorinda Burkhart Halstead. You're letting your imagination run away with you.
Burke James was a man, nothing more, nothing less, and as such, she wanted nothing to do with him. She worried too that he meant to take advantage of the Jamesons, which had prompted her to send a wire to Tremayne Psychic Specter Investigations in Denver asking about him. She hoped to get an answer soon.
* * *
While he waited for Ted to finish saddling his gelding, Burke decided to see if the boot from the Halstead grave would fit the imprint under Clori's window. It might have, if not for the missing bit. The owner wasn’t Clori's ghostly visitor.
"What are you doing?"
He rose and swung about to face her. "I, uh...." He waggled the boot. "I wondered if this boot would fit the track left under your window."
"That boot?" Clori stared at the footwear, her face a picture of horror. "Where did you find that?"
He didn't want to say. No telling how she'd react. But he had to tell her something and truth always proved to be the best answer. "At the Halstead house."
She backed up, her gaze glued to the boot, looking frightened now rather than shocked.
"Are you all right?" He tossed the boot aside. "Clori?"
She closed her eyes and her body shuddered. When she looked at him, the fear changed to anger. "I don't recall granting you leave to use my given name, Mr. James."
He found that so preposterous, he laughed.
Clori's eyes widened, then narrowed. "You're rude."
Spinning around, she started toward the back porch.
Dammit, he was tired of being treated like vermin. "Wait a minute!"
She kept going.
In two strides, he caught up and blocked her path. "Clori, I may be rude, but you are a snob. What have I done to harm you, that you hold such enmity toward me? I've never done anything but try to be friendly. And helpful. Can you deny that?"
The fire in her eyes died a slow death as if she hated giving it up. "You are right, Mr. James. I—"
"Burke."
She sighed. "Burke, please accept my apology. I have not meant to be unfriendly. I simply...." Her voice trailed off and she glanced away.
"You simply?"
Her gaze dropped to the hem of her long black skirt. Burke considered mourning an awful custom. Thank goodness that ritual had been tossed aside by 2016.
The color did compliment her olive complexion, though. ’Course, he figured she'd look good in anything.
"Look, Clori. I confess, I know your story. About Horace. I don't care. No one in this town appears to think badly of you for what you did, and I don't either. The bastard deserved that bullet. But don't hold his cruelty over my head. I'm nothing like him and never will be."
Her gaze clung to him a long time before a hint of a smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. "I admit you aren't like most men I've met. In some ways, you resemble Ted. He's a kind, gentle soul, no matter how tough a lawman."
"I take that as a compliment."
She did smile then, and his heart took a tumble. Were they going to find some common ground between them after all?
Those lips. He wanted more than anything to taste them, see if they were as sweet and malleable as they appeared. To avoid acting on that strong urge and ruining the rapport starting to develop between them, he stepped back. "Friends, then?"
Her head cocked as she studied him in a coy, almost flirtatious way. "Maybe."
"Clori?" Nellie's voice came from the back door.
"I'm here. I'll be right in."
There was that smile again. For him. He wanted to leap in the air and click his heels.
"I must go." She edged past him.
"I'll see you later."
"Yes."
He stopped her before she reached the porch steps. "Clori, why did the sight of that boot have such an effect on you? It seemed to shock you."
She hesitated, then said, "The last time I saw it, Horace was wearing it. The night I killed him."
Leaving him staring after her, she went into the house.
Chapter Seven
So Horace Halstead was buried behind the house. Clori’s identification of the boot confirmed the fact.
Too bad. After Clori's unwelcome midnight visitor, Burke wondered if maybe her husband survived the bullet he took and had decided to take revenge.
Ghosts didn't haunt just anyone and not without reason. They generally stayed close to the place where they died, especially if the death was a violent one. Or they stayed in a location special to them; their home, or the home of a loved one. Sometimes, in cases involving foul play, they haunted the perpetrator.
Clori needed protection.
Spook barked, demanding he throw the stick he'd dropped at Burke's feet. Burke obliged. Ruff joined in, and the two dogs fought over the prize.
Burke once investigated a case in which a family had lost a young son and the boy's dog refused to eat or leave the child’s room. They worried the dog would starve to death. It simply lay on the floor and stared at the bed. Turned out the kid loved that dog so much, he couldn't accept having to leave it behind. Burke called in a priest who blessed the bedroom. The boy moved on and the dog ran out to play.
If Clori had a ghost, it was bound to be Horace. Who else had a reason to hate her?
Spook returned with the stick but made Burke chase him to get it. They ended up tumbling about on the ground, Burke laughing and the two dogs barking.
Upstairs, the curtain at Clori's window twitched.
She must be watching him. Burke grinned.
From the first moment he saw her, he'd been taken by her and liked everything he'd learned about her since. She had a sharp, quick mind, a kind heart, and let no one walk on her. Shooting her husband proved a turning point in her life. She may have had a certain weakness before, where Horace was concerned, but no more. When she thought Burke wasn't watching, she played with Spook and fed him choice morsels while cooking. No wonder the dog adored her. Could a man ask for anything better than a woman who liked his dog? Well, and him, of course.
"Burke?" Ted's voice came from around back.
"Here," he answered.
Seconds later, Great-Granddad appeared carrying a gun belt.
"Figured you needed your own, now you're a lawman." Ted handed him the belt, a sixgun, and a tin star. "The Colt is a gift. The badge you’ll turn in when you quit the job."
A sudden image of what accepting that star could mean flashed before him. Responsibility heavier than any he’d faced before. Guarding the town, protecting folks. Did he really want to take all that on?
Actually, he did. Being a lawman opened doors that might otherwise stay shut. Allowed him to ask questions and roam the town.
Gave him the perfect right to guard Clori. And an opportunity to help people.
"Second thoughts?" Ted asked.
Burke shook his head. Was his great-grandfather wondering if Burke had it in him to handle such duties? When the outlaws attacked the stagecoach, he’d been frightened at first. Then he thought of the people inside, the woman who’d screamed, and knew he had to do what he could to protect them. He’d been less worried about being shot than failing to defeat the bandits.
"No." He took the belt and badge. " None at all."
"Good. Poke brought word we have trouble in town. Customer at the Dirty Devil nearly beat one of the whores to death. I don't care what women do for a living, I don't hold for them being hurt. You mind we take care of this 'fore you do your shopping?"
Burke shook his head. "Not at all. I hope you know I'm not a quick shot. I'm experienced with a rifle, but not a handgun like this." He fingered the weapon, familiarizing himself with the feel of it. The grip fit perfectly.
"Then it's time for you to learn."
Burke loved westerns when as a child and read everything he could find about gunfighters, outlaws, and lawmen. The iron he held now was a Colt Frontier Six-Shooter, .45 caliber. The name appeared etched on
the plain barrel, but he would recognize a Colt anywhere, with its plow handle and big front sight. Not fancy, this one. No pearl handle but Burke didn't care. What mattered was how it fired. In case he found himself in a shootout, he wanted a weapon that shot true. He strapped on the belt, fastened the buckle and let the weight of the shooting irons settle against his hips.
"We'll have a practice session when we can." Ted checked his own weapon. "Right now, we got other things need doing."
"My pleasure. I detest men who mistreat women, kids, or animals."
* * *
I detest men who mistreat women, kids, or animals.
Clori liked hearing that.
She didn't care for the idea of Burke being put in danger, especially if he didn't know how to use a sixgun. But, somehow, she felt confident he could handle any job he took on.
Stepping back into the kitchen, she replaced the wash pan on the counter. She'd gone outside to toss the dirty water and happened to overhear the men's conversation.
Which of the girls had been hurt? She did mending for some of the soiled doves. They were people, women, like her and Nellie, except they'd run into bad luck, usually thanks to some man. Clori pitied them. They lived hard lives and often died young. Laura Mae had died a few months ago in childbed. Baby died too. Breech birth. Doctor Lamb had been out of town assisting a miner's wife with her delivery, and none of the "good" women in town would help. They hadn’t asked Clori or Nellie.
Clori knew of no one in town who looked down on her for what she’d done, yet she felt more comfortable with the saloon girls as if they had something in common.
Would a man like Burke James be capable of caring about a murderer, or would he hold it against her? What would it be like to be held by him every night? To fall asleep in his arms and wake up to see his whiskered face next to hers?
Not for the first time, she wondered what kind of lover he would be, gentle or ham-fisted and rough like Horace? Hard as she tried to convince herself there would be no difference, she didn’t believe it.
"He's a fine young man, isn't he?"
Clori spun to find Nellie watching her from the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of her.
"I've no idea who you're talking about." She picked up a cloth and began drying the dishes she'd washed.
"Yes, you do. I've seen you look at Burke when you think no one notices." Rising, Nellie found another cloth and took a plate to dry. "Nothing to be embarrassed about. He's a good-looking man and single. You need a man, one who would be kind to you, and I think Burke has a good deal of kindness in him."
"That may be." Clori released a breath on a sigh. "But I don't need a man, and I certainly don't want one."
Nellie laid a hand on Clori's arm. "Listen to me, girl. You're welcome to stay with us the rest of your life. We enjoy your company, and I definitely appreciate all your help around the house, but you need a home of your own. Children to raise. And that means a husband. Burke James would make a good one."
Tossing the drying cloth onto the counter, Clori headed for the door to the hallway. Halfway there, she turned back and pointed a finger at the older woman. "Don't you dare interfere, Nellie Jameson. No matchmaking, understand?"
Nellie smiled. "I understand."
Clori rolled her eyes and stomped up the stairs to her room. Nellie understood, all right. Wouldn't stop her from meddling.
* * *
Nothing in the Dirty Devil Saloon was what Burke expected. He'd seen too many old photos of the fancy saloons in Denver and San Francisco. Through the mottled glass panes of the window, he saw a hard-packed dirt floor littered with trash, and scummy with spittle. No polished burl counters or fancy carved back bars here. Planks and barrels made up the counter, with similar construction along the rear wall. A cloudy mirror hung behind the mustachioed barkeep with his sleeve garters and long apron.
Filthy miners, just in from work, stood strung along the bar drinking whiskey or sat at tables playing faro. Tobacco smoke hung like L.A. smog, making the staircase on the back wall difficult to see.
Three girls with their breasts half-displayed sat on men's laps or served drinks.
"That's him over there," Amos told Ted, pointing through the window to a thin, pot-bellied miner at the far end of the bar. "Cruger Jensen."
The lawmen had met outside so the deputy could fill Ted in on what he knew about the incident. "She was giving him a...you know, a blow job, and he didn't like how she went about it so he knuckle-thunked her on the head. She didn't see it coming, and the surprise caused her to kinda bite down a little harder than Cruger liked."
"That could do it, all right." Ted's mouth quivered with the effort of avoiding a grin. "Doesn't take much to set that man off, and getting his pecker bit would rile him up good."
Burke eyed Jensen through a glass pane that had never seen Windex and relied only on rain to clear away the dust. The miner had one boot on a wooden rail, his elbow on the counter, a drink in his hand. Like most men of the day, he had a mustache, but he’d foregone the beard. Without a barber in town, he and about everyone else sported overlong hair. Some men wore vests and coats, but many simply dressed in shirts and baggy trousers held up by suspenders.
Jensen had a hard, mean look to him. Burke easily imagined him roughing up women for the fun of it. The bastard. "How do you want to do this, Ted?"
"Go to the bar, order a drink, and keep an eye on things so you’re ready to act. Amos, you go to the back as if heading upstairs. I'll talk to Jensen."
"Be careful—Boss."
Ted grinned at Burke's choice of words.
"All right, Amos, go on in. We'll wait here 'til you're in position."
The deputy sauntered in like he hadn't a care in the world. When he reached the staircase, Burke pushed through the short, swinging doors, went to the bar and ordered a whiskey. Ted followed after a few minutes and headed straight toward Cruger Jensen.
Halfway there, a girl in a dirty, low-necked dress waylaid Ted, latching onto his arm—his gun arm.
Watching, Burke cursed. This could ruin everything and get Ted shot.
"Marshal, you gonna arrest Cruger?" the girl asked. "He oughta be locked up fer good fer what he done to Mary Ellen."
At the word "marshal," Cruger straightened.
Burke cursed and laid his hand on the butt of his Colt. He pegged the man as a bully and that breed rarely risked getting hurt, but one never knew.
The miner set down his drink. His right hand disappeared under the counter.
Burke inconspicuously drew his Colt.
Ted gazed down at the girl hanging onto him. "Go upstairs, Letty. Tell Mary Ellen I'll be up shortly to talk with her."
Before she could move, Cruger turned and yelled, "Marshal! You looking for me?" His hand was tucked halfway behind his leg, but not hidden well enough from Burke’s point of view.
Burke stepped away from the bar. "He's armed, Ted."
The marshal shoved Letty away and reached for his iron, but Cruger already had his muzzle aimed at the marshal's head.
Great-grandfather Jameson was about to be gunned down.
Burke wasted no time. Blocking out the customers ducking for cover and the screams of the saloon girls, he focused totally on his aim and fired.
Cruger Jensen went down clutching a bloody thigh. His dark eyes blazed at Burke. "You sonuvabitch! You nearly shot my dick off!"
"Huh! Fancy that. I aimed at that big gut of yours." Burke took the man’s gun and shoved it in his own waistband.
Amos dragged him off to jail. No reading of rights, only dire threats if Cruger didn’t behave. No mention of fetching the doctor either. Times were definitely different here.
"You all right?" Ted asked.
"Fine. It was you he was gunning for."
"Yeah. Thanks for backing me up." Grinning, Ted told the barkeep to give a round of free drinks to the few remaining customers crouched behind overturned tables.
Burke and the marshal exited the saloon and amble
d toward the jail.
"You ever shoot a man before?" Ted glanced at him.
"Only the two outlaws who tried to rob the stagecoach."
"Not troubled by it, are you?"
"Might’ve been, if I’d killed one of them." They never had caught those men. Burke regretted that.
Hadn’t caught the food thief either. Sanderson proved to be innocent, having been in bed with the flux the past week.
Ted opened the office door. "Best get over that, Burke. Don’t know where you been living to be as green as you are, but here in the mining camps, life can be deadly if you aren’t willing to shoot a man. And I mean shoot to kill."
"Yeah. My dad always told me never to point a gun at a man unless I planned to pull the trigger." Burke knew both his father his great-grandfather were right, but he hoped it never came to that.
Life in 1881 was more exciting in some ways, definitely educational and interesting, but could he live here in Eagle Gulch forever? Die here with no way to let his loved ones in 2016 know what happened to him? Sure, Gabe could tell them where Burke ended up. That didn’t mean anyone would believe him, except the people at P.S.I., and even they might have doubts.
The Jameson house had indoor plumbing, which Burke appreciated, but he missed his shower, electric razor, and electric toothbrush. Shave cream. Toothpaste instead of powder. Deodorant. Tylenol. And a whole lot more. His pickup, for example. Television. Cell phone service. Computers. Cold beer in the heat of summer instead of the warm brew generally served here, and Friday Night Football.
He chuckled, picturing the expressions on the faces of the folks in Eagle Gulch if he told them about computers. And airplanes.
Yes, he would definitely miss the convenience life in 2016 offered.
But if he went home, would he ever find a woman who intrigued him as much as Clorinda Halstead?
Chapter Eight
A week passed, relatively uneventful.
During the day Burke patrolled the streets of Eagle Gulch and came to know many of the residents. Gabe remained in 2016 and spent his time running tests at Halstead House. Twice the equipment indicated a possible ghost, but nothing definite. He expressed frustration over not being able to join Burke. Couldn’t stand the idea of all he was missing out on.
