A Willing Spirit, A Ghostly Romance

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tessa paced her bedroom floor, back and forth across the scrubbed floorboards until her legs ached. Every nerve felt rubbed raw. She jumped at the slightest sound and shivered at the merest breath of wind at her window.

  A hundred times she started to go to Micah. A hundred times she stopped before she reached her bedroom door. Oh, God, how long had Will been watching them? How much had he seen?

  She stuffed the edge of her shawl into her mouth to keep from crying out. The thought that her husband. . . or at least his ghost. . . had watched her make love to another man filled her with shame.

  Yet was it so wrong for her to want to be with a man she felt this attraction for . . . a man she had even come to love? She jerked the shawl from her mouth and hugged her arms under her breasts, shaken by the admission. She'd never meant for this to happen, never wanted to love again. But she might as well have tried to run from a tornado. "We can't go on like this, Will," she cried. "I can't have a normal marriage with a ghost, and you won't let me love anyone else."

  She listened, half-hoping for his answer, but if he was with her now, he was stubbornly silent.

  Exhausted, she sank onto the edge of the bed. What was she going to do? What if Will tried to hurt Micah?

  Now, strong on the heels of her shame, came a wild terror. Would Will go so far as to try to kill Micah, in the mistaken belief that he was saving her?

  She had to talk to him, to convince him not to make that mistake. But how did you argue with a ghost? Especially a ghost who was so sure he knew what was right?

  A knock on the door startled her. "Tessa, are you all right?” The concern she heard in Micah's voice brought fresh tears to her eyes. She stared at the door, unanswering, words knotting in her throat.

  "Open the door," he said. "Please."

  She wanted to see him, but fear paralyzed her. What if Will was still watching? If he saw them together again, would he do more than throw a pot of flowers this time? "I don't think you should come in," she said, her voice trembling.

  "I just want to talk.” He sounded tired, tired as she felt. "We need to talk."

  The truth of his words won out over fear. If they didn't discuss this now, it would loom even larger before them tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. "All right.” She started to unlock the door, then thought better of it. "I'll meet you downstairs."

  "All right."

  She waited until she heard his footsteps retreat, then she dressed. As if a few extra layers of clothing could change the things she and Micah felt for each other. But maybe the clothes would be a signal for Will, a way to let him know that this was an innocent visit, nothing more.

  Micah had put on the kettle and was measuring tea into two cups when she walked into the kitchen. He glanced at her buttoned-up dress and pinned-up hair, but made no comment. He looked the same as when she'd left him, shirt unbuttoned, hair tangled where she'd twined her fingers in it. A streak of dirt across his forehead reminded her again of the danger he was in. "Are you hurt?" she lifted her hand as if to brush away the dirt, but stopped short of touching him.

  He felt his forehead, then wiped away the dirt himself. "No. I ducked in time."

  The kettle began to steam. She moved past him and added water to the cups, then carried them to the table. He held out a chair for her, then took his usual place across from her. Everyday actions, charged with meaning by what had taken place between them only a little while before. "We need to talk," he said again. "About Will."

  She stirred sugar into her tea, avoiding his gaze. "What about him?"

  "He was the one who threw the flower pot at me, wasn't he?"

  "What makes you think that?"

  "He came to me this afternoon and told me to keep away from you."

  She wrapped her hands around her cup, hiding the trembling in her fingers. "Yes. I think Will threw the flowerpot. He's. . . very protective."

  Micah leaned over the table and grabbed her hands. "Tessa, who is he? What is he?"

  His face was pale, his eyes wide, as if he'd seen. . . a ghost. "Wh. . . what do you mean?" she stammered. "He. . . he's just a friend. An old hermit. Maybe he's a little crazy."

  Micah fell back into his chair. "Maybe I'm the one who's crazy."

  "What happened? Did you see Will just now? Did he say something to you?"

  He let out a groan. "I challenged him to a fight."

  "Micah! He's an old man."

  "He's an old man who interfered one too many times.” He shook his head. "Maybe I shouldn't have done that, but I was so furious I couldn't think straight. I wanted to teach him a lesson. To make him leave us alone."

  She took a deep breath. "What happened?"

  He stared out across the kitchen. "He just stood there and let me hit him.” His voice dropped to a whisper. "I swear, my fist went right through him."

  She tried to take a drink of tea, but her hands shook so badly it sloshed out of the cup, down the front of her dress. Micah turned to her. "Tell me I'm not losing my mind."

  She set the cup down and pushed it away. "You're not losing your mind."

  He rubbed his hand across his face and slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Tell me."

  Where should she begin? It was all so unreal she had had trouble believing it herself at first. She would go back to the beginning, and start there. "Will was my husband."

  "Your husband.” He sounded numb. "I thought. . . “ He stared at her. "You told me you were a widow."

  "I am."

  "But. . . how. . . ?"

  "The Will you saw. . . he. . . he's a ghost."

  "A ghost?"

  She spread her hands flat on the table in front of her. "I don't know why or how it happened, but a few days after he died I had what I thought was a very vivid dream. Will came to me and told me he didn't intend to leave me alone, that he would look after me."

  Her eyes filled with tears at the memory. She'd been so grateful then, so glad to know that a part of him would be with her forever. But now. . . it seemed wrong, that he should be suspended in time like that, not truly dead and yet not truly alive. . .

  "But it wasn't a dream?"

  She shook her head. "He came to me again a few months later, while I was wide awake. I was afraid at first I was losing my mind. But gradually, he convinced me he was real -- or as real as a ghost could be. I know it sounds strange, but after a while I just. . . accepted it."

  "I've never believed in things like ghosts."

  "Neither have I, until Will. Haven't you noticed how cold he always is, if you're near him?"

  He rubbed his wrist. "Like ice.” His eyes widened. "The first day I met him, when I thought the barn was cold --?"

  She nodded. "You should be flattered. He seldom appears to anyone. Even me. He says it takes too much effort."

  He looked thoughtful. "So he was much older than you?"

  "Almost twenty years older."

  "And you were how old?"

  Young. So very young. "Eighteen. Seventeen when we met.” She smiled, remembering. "He was the blacksmith in our town. He bought my box at a school box supper and we were together ever since.” He'd been so strong and handsome. And a little exotic. A little dangerous. She'd been dazzled by him.

  Micah studied her over the rim of his cup, as if he were trying to picture her as that fresh-faced girl. "What did your family think?" he asked.

  Her smile faded. "They were furious.” Those were the memories she shied away from: her mother's tears and pleading, her father's angry words. "They told me if I married him, I should forget that I was their daughter."

  Micah winced. "But you married him anyway? In spite of that?"

  She shrugged. "I loved him.” At eighteen, her choice had been that pure and simple, untarnished by logic or experience. "I was so young. I didn't know what it would mean to isolate myself from everyone that way."

  Micah bowed his head, his gaze focused on his teacup, as if he could divine the future th
ere. Or maybe he was just struggling to understand the past that had brought them to this point.

  "That's why he's so protective," she said softly. "He married a girl and now he doesn't know how to deal with the woman I've become. He's not used to letting me make my own decisions."

  Micah didn't say anything for a long time. And she had no words left. She wondered if he would leave her now. Would he rise from that chair and walk away from a woman crazy enough to attract the protection of a ghost?

  "So what are we going to do now?” He raised his head and looked her in the eye. The determination she saw there made her weak with relief.

  "I don't know. I've tried to talk to him, but he won't listen.” She paused, then added. "He really means well."

  Micah's expression hardened. "Not for me, he doesn't."

  "Only because he's trying to protect me."

  He looked at her intently. "Do you think I mean you harm?"

  The question stunned her. "I know you don't."

  "And yet I could harm you."

  She leaned forward and touched his shoulder. "No! Don't say that."

  "It's true.” He looked away. "Old Will was right. You're starting to make friends in town, to be a part of the community. I could ruin it all."

  She wanted to protest that none of that mattered. But the lie died bitter on her tongue. Micah had never promised her more than a few nights' pleasure. How could she trade that for a return to the isolation she'd grown to dread? He had never claimed to love her, only to want her. The difference between those words weighed heavy in her mind.

  She started to pull away from him, but he reached out and covered her hand with his own. They sat like that for a long moment, their bodies touching, their thoughts traveling the same path. The dregs of desire still hummed between them, tempered by a blanket of regret. Cold logic had moved in where blind passion had once held sway. Never again could they act on their feelings without weighing the consequences.

  Micah was the first to break the silence between them. He stood, releasing her hand, pushing it gently away. "We'd both better get some sleep," he said softly.

  ithout so much as a glance back at her, he left the house. The door clicked shut behind him, a heavy, final sound that sent a shiver up her spine.

  #

  Micah lay on his bunk, nerves too stretched to sleep. He stared at the underside of the barn roof and absently rubbed his wrist, which still ached from the burning cold of Will Bright's touch. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, half-hoping that this time he would wake up with the knowledge that this was all a horrible nightmare, like the sweetgrass dreams of the Indian shaman.

  But no, it was all horribly real: Tessa and Micah and the ghost of her husband, who had not been content to die and go on to his reward, but insisted on staying on to take care of a wife who no longer needed looking after.

  He sat and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. Tessa didn't need Will; she didn't need him either. He saw everything so clearly now, as if the minute his hand sank into Will's face, a veil had dropped from his eyes. He'd been foolish to believe he could do anything but bring trouble to this place. The sooner he left, the better off Tessa would be. Her arm was almost healed. In the meantime, she could hire someone else to work for her. Someone more respectable. Someone with a wife perhaps, who wouldn't fall in love with her.

  He couldn't bring himself to say those words out loud. Just the thought of them stung like a whip. He'd heard it preached that the truth was an avenging sword. In this case he felt its blade pierce him to the heart. He'd fallen in love with Tessa, a woman who could never love him in return. How could she, when loving him meant losing everything else -- her friends, her place in the community she'd fought so hard to reclaim?

  He'd heard the regret in her voice when she spoke of being rejected by her family, as if now, older and wiser, she might have made a different choice.

  Quickly, before emotion could change his mind, he stood and began gathering his belongings. A new shirt, a winter coat, a wooden chain he was carving. Spreading his saddle blanket onto the bed, he tossed these into it. He picked up the bison-horn cup Sun Bear had given him. The smooth horn fit perfectly in his hand. He remembered the night they'd spent with the Indians --- was it really less than a week ago?

  Sun Bear had invited him to stay, to come and live as an Indian again. Could he find a place there? Could he go back to a life he hadn't known since childhood?

  He put the cup in the blanket and began rolling it into a bundle. He didn't yet know what he would do, where he would go. He only knew he couldn't stay here, loving a woman who could never love him in return.

  At first light, he was ready to go, his saddle at his feet, blanket strapped across his back. He could have taken a horse. He had enough pay saved up to buy one. But he thought it best to leave the way he had come, on foot, taking nothing to tie him to this place.

  He paused at the end of the drive to look at the ornamented gate one last time. How could the man who had attacked him with the flower pot last night be the same person who made this work of art? The Will Bright he knew as a grumpy old hermit was also a gifted artist, who loved his wife enough to scorn death and return to her.

  How could Micah Fox, half-breed wanderer, stand a chance against a man like that? As he pulled the gate to behind him, his hand brushed against the welded antlers of the deer. He recognized the scene now, as the first man and the first woman in the Garden. Only Will had depicted Eden as right here, on the Texas plains. Now that he knew Tessa, Micah couldn't argue with that vision of paradise.

  The steady cadence of a horse approaching at a fast clip made him turn around. As the rider neared, he recognized Reverend Deering. "Good morning, Mr. Fox," Deering said, reining the bay in beside him. "You're up and about early."

  "I could say the same for you, Reverend."

  "I confess, I couldn't sleep. I'm anxious to get started."

  "Started?"

  The preacher rested his hands on the saddle horn and grinned. "On the mission. I've managed to raise funds to buy lumber. I thought today we could select a building site."

  Micah nodded. "I'm sure Tessa will be glad to help you."

  "Yes, but you're the man I wanted to talk to this morning."

  He glanced at the saddle on the ground, as if seeing it for the first time. "Am I interrupting you? Are you going somewhere?"

  "Just into town," Micah lied. "What did you want to see me about?"

  "I need someone who can help oversee construction. Someone to keep an eye on things when I'm away."

  Micah avoided the preacher's sincere gaze. "Why don't you ask Tessa?"

  "Oh, I intend to. But I'm sure she'll be able to spare you for a few hours every day. Besides, I need a translator for services."

  "Tessa can do that for you, too."

  "Tessa doesn't know Comanche. You do."

  Micah shook his head. "I'm sorry, I won't be able to help you."

  Deering leaned forward, scrutinizing him. "Why not? Of course I intend to pay you."

  "It's not that.” He fixed his gaze on the saddle at his feet. "I won't be around here much longer."

  Deering looked alarmed. "Has something happened? Has Mrs. Bright fired you?"

  "No. It's just time to move on."

  Deering looked at the saddle again. "You're leaving today, is that it?"

  Micah said nothing.

  Deering dismounted and came to stand in front of him. Worry lines creased the preacher's brow. Up close, he looked older, more care-worn. Less like an avenging angel and more like a shepherd, Micah thought. "I think you're making a serious mistake," Deering said.

  "I don't see that it's really any of your concern, preacher."

  "Mrs. Bright has come to depend on you. Her arm is still in a cast, isn't it?"

  "Yes.” Guilt pinched at him. "She's managing fine with it. It comes off in a week or so."

  The preacher's voice was gentle, coaxing. "Where are you goin
g in such a hurry that it can't wait a few more days? Especially when you're needed here?"

  Would it hurt so much to wait until he'd fulfilled his promise to Tessa? Wasn't he man enough to stay here a few more days? Reluctantly, he nodded. "All right."

  Deering smiled. "Ride with me over to the creek. I'm thinking that's where I should build my chapel."

  Micah opened the gate and waited for Deering to mount up, then shouldered the saddle and followed the preacher down the drive. The thought came to him that a more religious man might have believed God had sent the preacher to stop him from leaving. As it was, Micah still wasn't sure why he'd let Deering persuade him to stay. Perhaps it was only that he'd had little enough experience in his life with being needed. He couldn't afford to pass up the opportunity to savor the feeling a while longer.

  Deering led the way past the house, back to the barn. "We won't bother disturbing Mrs. Bright this early," he said. "Soon as you saddle up, we'll ride out and have a look. We can tell her about it later."

  Micah unfurled his saddle blanket and dumped its contents on his bunk, then went out to the corral to catch up the roan mare. He was just as glad not to see Tessa. He wouldn't know how to explain what he'd been doing at the end of her drive with his saddle, or how or why Reverend Deering had changed his mind.

  #

  Tessa woke to bright sunshine and ringing silence, a silence that was out of place at this late hour. Micah must have overslept, too. After the night they'd had, it was no wonder they were exhausted. She still felt drained, and the question of what they would do about Will, and about their relationship to each other, weighed heavy.

  She dressed and pinned up her hair, then went downstairs to start coffee and biscuits. As she worked, she listened for the sounds of Micah awakening -- the creak of the barn door opening, the splash of the pump as he washed his face, his steps on the back porch. But only birdsong and the occasional restless whinny of a horse disturbed the morning stillness.

  When she could stand the emptiness no longer, she poured a cup of coffee and carried it to the barn. Her hands shook as she worked the latch on the door, and she hesitated outside the tackroom. This was his bedroom, and the very act of coming here seemed to suggest so much. Would he think she had come here to finish what they had begun last night? If he pulled her to him, there on his bed, would she be able to deny herself again, even in broad daylight?

  Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door, and waited for him. No answer came, no sound of movement on the other side. "Micah?" she called, and knocked again, but only the shuffling of a horse in the box behind her disturbed the stillness.

  Heart thudding in her chest, she grasped the latch and tugged it, pulling the door to her.

  A single window, high in the wall, cast a pale light upon the solitary bunk and a tumble of blankets and belongings. She stepped inside and remembered the last time she had been here, the night of the major's party, when she feared Micah had left her.

  She frowned at the heap of belongings on the bed. Of course, he hadn't left her yet. He had promised he would stay until her cast came off. She rubbed the graying plaster and frowned. Only another week, the doctor said. Too little time.

  She plucked the horn drinking cup from among the folds of blanket, souvenir of their visit to Sun Bear's camp. Micah had said he could never live with the Indians again, but did he really mean that?

  A sudden chill swept up her spine and the door slammed behind her. She whirled around, anger rising. "Will!" she shouted. "Answer me. I know you're here."

  Suddenly, he was before her, a faint image hovering against the door, growing more solid as she stared. "Looking for your lover?" he asked.

  "If you've done something with Micah, so help me, I'll --"

  He scowled. "I don't know where he is. I don't care."

  "Promise me you'll leave him alone," she said. "That you'll leave us alone."

  "Nothing is settled yet.” Will moved closer, enveloping her in a chill. "You still need a husband. A man to run the ranch. Fox isn't that man."

  She bowed her head. "I know."

  He pulled a blanket from the bed and swept it around her shoulders. "You're shivering.” His voice softened. "I lost my temper last night. Something I didn't think I had anymore. I'm sorry."

  His tenderness touched her. She pulled the blanket closer about her and looked up at him. "I know you mean well, it's just --."

  "You want to make your own decisions. I know.” He sighed. "Until things are settled with you, I can't rest easy. But I will promise to honor your privacy. With Fox, or Deering, or whoever you choose. Whatever. . . physical that might happen between you, I promise not to interfere."

  "Or to watch."

  He faded, then grew brighter again, so that she could clearly see the offended expression on his face. "Of course not."

  "That's all I want.” She smiled and stood to kiss his cheek, but before her lips could touch his icy flesh, he'd vanished.

  #

  The two men rode eastward, toward the narrow ribbon of water that divided Tessa's ranch from the Clear Fork reservation. This time of year the creek was little more than a trickle, reduced to an expanse of damp sand in places. Deering rode up a small rise and faced the reservation. "I like this spot. We'll erect a small white building, with a large wooden cross. They'll be able to see it for a long way off as they approach."

  Micah thought of the Indian camp, with its cluster of tepees in the bend of the river. "Sun Bear and his people would probably feel more at home in a simple brush arbor," he said.

  Deering shook his head. "No, I want a building. Something permanent. A sign of our faith."

  Micah wondered if anyone but Deering had faith in this scheme, but he kept silent. He dismounted and picked up a large rock. "Show me where you want it and I'll mark the corners."

  Deering followed him around as he stepped off the boundaries for a building some thirty feet square. "I believe you're right that we should have some accoutrements to make the Indians feel more at home," the preacher said after a while. "Are there any elements of their beliefs we might incorporate?"

  "Every tribe believes different things.” Micah stopped and considered. "Each Comanche usually has his own guardian spirit, so to speak, where he gets his power. It's usually some kind of animal. But they don't go in much for organized religion."

  "What about your people? What do they believe?"

  Micah hesitated. For years, he'd been discouraged from even thinking about his father's people and their beliefs. But like his mother's memory of the books of the Bible, which survived sixteen years of captivity, there were some things he could never forget. "Kiowas believe in a lot of different gods," he said after a moment. "The sun is the most powerful."

  In Micah's tenth summer, his father had taken part in the sun dance. It was considered a sacred honor to be one of the dancers, fasting and dancing nearly round the clock for four days in the medicine lodge constructed for the festivities. Micah had watched with other spectators, and had been filled with pride at his father's performance.

  "That will never do.” Deering's words pulled him back to the present. "Obviously, Christians don't believe in more than one God, or more than one Spirit, either," the preacher said. "We'll have to find something else."

  "What about ghosts?"

  Deering paused. "Do Indians believe in ghosts?"

  "Some do.” Micah hefted the rock in his hand, and thought of Will and the flower pot. "I've met white people who believe in them too."

  Deering looked disapproving. "The church does not sanction belief in ghosts."

  "What about exorcism? Isn't that what they do when a house is haunted, to drive out the ghosts?"

  "I believe that's for evil spirits. In any case, it's not a Protestant ritual.” Deering added a rock to a corner marker. "What about pews? Would the Indians be more comfortable seated on the ground?"

  After an hour they had four stone cairns marking the corners of the fu
ture chapel, and lines in the dirt designating a future bell tower and well. Deering smiled approvingly. "In my mind's eye, I can see it already.” He turned to Micah. "Let's go tell Mrs. Bright."

  As they rode, Micah only half-listened to Deering's plans and instructions for building the chapel. Thoughts of Tessa, and what he'd say when he saw her again, filled his head. He began to wish he hadn't let the preacher talk him into staying.

  Tessa met them at the door, her smile doing little to mask the anxiety in her eyes. "I was wondering where you'd gone off to so early," she said, ushering them inside.

  "We've been out marking the site for my new chapel.” Deering removed his hat and took a seat at the table. "Mr. Fox has agreed to oversee construction for me."

  Tessa glanced at him. "I'm glad to hear that.”

  "Then you won't mind sparing him for a few hours every day?" Deering said. "I know it's a lot to ask --"

  She shook her head. "No. That's all right."

  "I thought maybe you could manage without me," Micah said. She would have to learn to eventually, anyway. And perhaps a physical separation would help him sort out the conflicting feelings that wrestled within him.