Deep in his heart of hearts, Joseph believed in ghosts. It wasn’t something he’d ever talked about with anyone, but the belief was there within him. To his way of thinking, he couldn’t very well believe in God and life everlasting without believing in spirits. So far, he’d never come nose to nose with a ghost, thank God, but there had been times in his life, like right now, when the hair on his arms had stood up.
He hurried to the end of the hall, his nerves leaping when Buddy suddenly growled. He tried to remind himself that Buddy always growled, but this was different, not a conversational sound but more a snarl of warning. What looked like a large sitting room opened to his right. Swinging the lamp high, he saw that some of the furniture was missing. It looked as if someone had absconded with the sofa, at least one chair, and a couple tables.
As Joseph moved on, his shoulder brushed against the wall, and a picture tipped sideways. The scraping sound startled him, and his skin felt as if it turned inside out. When he reached to straighten the frame, light washed over the photograph. A beautiful young girl stared back at him. Covered from chin to toe in dark muslin, her hair a cloud of light-colored ringlets around her thin shoulders, she looked to be about ten years old. She sat primly on a hassock, her folded hands resting on her lap. She had delicate features and large, expressive eyes, which he guessed to be blue given the lightness of her hair. Rachel Hollister, possibly? The younger daughter had never lived to see her sixth birthday.
Lamp still held high, Joseph stepped through an archway to his left and finally found himself in the dining room, which Darby had told him adjoined the kitchen where Rachel Hollister lived. A large window, which once looked out over the side yard, had been boarded up from the inside, the lace curtains over the planks gone dingy with age. A Louis XV sideboard graced one wall, the elaborate grape motifs on the doors reminding Joseph of the furnishings he’d seen as a boy in San Francisco. Surrounded by ten high-backed chairs, a long, marble-topped table, dulled by a layer of grime, sat at the center of the room. The ornate silver candelabra that had served as a centerpiece was draped with cobwebs, the once white tapers leaning this way and that.
Buddy scampered ahead of Joseph, his paws leaving prints in the film of dust on the fern-patterned burgundy carpet that stretched almost wall to wall. Clearly, the Hollister family hadn’t lived a hand-to-mouth existence. This peeling, weather-beaten house had been a pretty grand place.
Joseph lifted the light higher. In the middle of the north wall was a boarded-over archway. He guessed that Rachel Hollister’s hideaway was on the other side. After setting the lantern on the table, he tossed his gear on the floor. No way was he going to sleep in one of the bedrooms with ghosts as his bed companions.
The thought no sooner moved through Joseph’s mind than the air exploded with sound and flying debris. Buddy yelped in fright. Joseph dived for the floor. When the dust settled, he was under the table, his Colt .45 drawn and ready, two overturned chairs providing him with scant cover.
Holy shit. Disgusted with himself for drawing his weapon when he knew damned well it was a woman shooting at him, Joseph slipped the revolver back into his holster and retrieved his Stetson, which had been knocked from his head. After putting the hat back on, he cautiously shifted position to see around one of the chair seats. Better to make a target of the Stetson than his head, he thought, and then promptly changed his mind when he saw the jagged hole that had appeared dead center in the boarded-up archway. The size of a prize-winning Texas pumpkin, it was well over two feet in diameter, the bottom edge a little over three feet from the ground, telling him that she’d probably fired from the waist instead of her shoulder. Only a shotgun had that kind of blasting power. If aimed anyplace near him, the gun would destroy the table, the overturned chair, his hat, and him.
Lamplight poured through the opening, lending additional brightness to the already illuminated dining room. With a shotgun-toting crazy woman on the other side of the wall, Joseph didn’t count that as a blessing. Total darkness would have pleased him more.
Judging by the circumference of the hole, he felt fairly sure that Rachel Hollister had emptied both barrels. So far, he hadn’t heard the telltale rasp and click of steel to indicate that she’d shoved more cartridges into the chambers. That was encouraging.
Once again, he thought about calling out to identify himself, but then decided it would be futile. If his earlier explanations hadn’t satisfied her, telling her his name again wasn’t likely to rectify the situation.
This woman wasn’t messing around. She meant to kill him.
Chapter Four
Ears still ringing from the blast, Rachel lay on her back, arms and legs sprawled, the weapon lying at an angle across her lower body. Her hip throbbed with pain. For a moment, she couldn’t think what had happened. Then her spinning confusion slowly settled into rational thought. She’d been standing in the middle of the room, terrified by the sounds of someone breaking into her house and coming toward the kitchen. Heart pounding, she’d swung the gun toward the boards over the doorway. Then something heavy had struck the wall, she’d jumped in fright, and the next thing she knew, she was staring at the ceiling.
Pushing the weapon off her legs, Rachel struggled to sit up. When she saw the huge hole that the shotgun had blown through her barricade, her heart almost stopped for the second time in as many minutes. Oh, dear God. She scrambled to her feet and retrieved the shotgun.
“Who’s there?” she called, her voice shaking with fright. “Get out of my house, or I’ll shoot. Don’t think I won’t!”
No answer. An awful dread squeezed her chest. What if she had killed him? She frantically tried to remember the name of the man who had knocked on her door. Paxton? The moment he’d told her about Darby being shot, her head had gone muzzy, and then everything had turned black. Just before that, it seemed to her that the other man had introduced himself as the marshal. Oh, God. Oh, God. What if he’d been telling the truth, and she’d just shot a lawman?
Afraid of the sight that might greet her eyes, she inched closer to the opening, the bottom edge of which hit her several inches above the waist, allowing her to look through without ducking. In all her life, she had never harmed anything, not even a spider. To think that she might have killed two men made her stomach roll.
“Mr. Paxton?” She cautiously poked her head through the hole to see into the other room. The silence that bounced back at her was ominous. “A-are you all right?”
Hell, no, I’m not all right, Joseph thought angrily. The woman had almost blown him to Kingdom Come. He wished he could reach the lantern that he’d set on the table so he could lower the wick and extinguish the flame. As it was, the dining room was lighted up like a candle-laden Christmas tree, and all he had to hide behind was a chair seat.
How the hell did he land himself in fixes like this? If she opened fire again, he wouldn’t even be able to shoot back. Crazy as a loon or not, she was a female. No man worth his salt harmed a woman. That wasn’t to mention the difficulty he’d have explaining such a thing to a judge. It was self-defense, Your Honor. When I broke into her house, she started blasting away at me. Yeah, right. He’d end up swinging from the highest limb of a scrub oak.
At least he hadn’t heard her reload the weapon yet. That was a comfort. He inched his head out from behind the chair again.
The sight that greeted his eyes made his breath catch. Then he blinked, thinking maybe his vision was playing tricks on him. Rachel Hollister was beautiful—the kind of beautiful that made men stop dead in their tracks to take a long second look and trip over their own feet.
Never having met a crazy person, Joseph had expected to see a wild-eyed female with matted strings of filthy hair, a skeletal countenance, and soiled clothing. Instead, she looked like an angel. A cloud of golden curls, ignited by the light behind her, framed one of the sweetest, loveliest faces he’d ever clapped eyes on. She had a small, straight nose, delicate cheekbones, a soft, full mouth, a pointy chin, and blue ey
es, which, at the moment, were huge with fright.
“I mean you no harm, Miss Hollister. Please don’t shoot again.”
She jumped as if he’d stuck her with a pin. Then she vanished. Joseph figured she’d gone for more ammunition and muttered a curse under his breath. One second, she was asking if he was all right, and the next she was making ready to kill him again.
Buddy, who had been lying belly-up in front of the archway, chose that moment to recover from his fright and scramble to his feet. To Joseph’s dismay, the dog reared up on his hind legs to hook his front feet over the lower edge of the hole, his snubbed tail wagging in friendly greeting. Rachel Hollister let out a startled squeak.
“Don’t hurt him!” Joseph called. “He’s harmless, I swear. Still just a pup.”
“Go away!” she cried. “Get out, all of you! I don’t want you here.”
Joseph had gotten that message, loud and clear. Unfortunately, Buddy hadn’t. The dog loved women, fat ones, skinny ones, and all shapes in between. Normally Joseph saw no harm in that. He liked females just fine himself. Only this one was armed, mad as a hatter, and trigger-happy.
The shepherd tensed as if to jump.
“Buddy, no!” Joseph cried, but the command came too late. With his usual agility, the sheepdog leaped through the opening. Joseph clenched his teeth and cringed, expecting to hear terrified shrieks, the snap of Damascus steel, and another shotgun blast. Instead, he heard a feminine yelp, followed by, “Go away! No! Bad dog! Get off!”
Soon after, a sputtering sound, interspersed by muffled protests, drifted to Joseph from the other room. Bewildered, he inched his head out from behind the chair again. He heard Buddy growling and could only hope Rachel Hollister didn’t think the animal was threatening her. Joseph had come to love that silly canine more than was reasonable.
More sputtering. What the hell? Muscles tensed to dive for cover again if necessary, he crawled out from under the table, rose gingerly to his feet, and tiptoed to the hole. Shotgun shells scattered on the floor around her, Rachel Hollister knelt in the middle of the other room, the shotgun lying beside her. Buddy had his front paws planted on her slender shoulders and was licking her face. Rachel kept ducking her head, trying to gather the ammunition, but the dog was quick, agile, and determined to have his way.
Normally the sight might have amused Joseph, but he’d just come close to meeting his Maker.
“Buddy!” he called.
Rachel Hollister jerked and fixed Joseph with a fearful look. The dog wheeled away from her and trotted to the hole. Joseph snapped his fingers, and Buddy obediently leaped back through the opening, coming to land lightly on his feet in the dining room. When Joseph glanced back into the kitchen, Rachel Hollister had retrieved the gun and stood with the brass-plated butt pressed to her shoulder. He wasn’t unduly alarmed because he knew she hadn’t reloaded the weapon yet.
In Joseph’s opinion, she was a mite small to be firing a 10-gauge shotgun, anyway, especially one with shortened barrels. Such a weapon had enough recoil to knock a grown man on his ass. She also seemed to be sorely lacking in weapon know-how. Most people realized that guns worked better with ammunition in them. He guessed maybe she was so scared that she couldn’t think straight.
An urge to smile came over him. That gave him pause. Who was crazier, him or her? He decided his urge to smile was partly due to the two-inch ruffles that lined the yoke of her white nightdress and fluffed up over her shoulders like clipped wings, making her resemble a small bird about to take flight. Then again, maybe it was the lamp on the table behind her, which shone through the folds of muslin, clearly outlining her body. He hadn’t seen anything so fetching since he’d paid a nickel to watch a peep show in his misspent youth.
She was trembling—an awful shaking that made it difficult for her to hold the gun steady. Remembering the horror in her tone when she’d called out to ask if he was all right, he wondered if she had fired the weapon accidentally. Right before the blast, he’d tossed down his bedroll and saddlebags. Had the thump startled her so badly that her finger jerked?
She didn’t have the look of a killer. Joseph firmly believed in the old adage that the eyes were windows to the soul. He saw no meanness in Rachel Hollister’s, only terror.
In that moment, his wariness of her abated. Now that he’d had time to assess the situation, he couldn’t believe that she’d taken deliberate aim. She was just frightened half out of her wits, reacting without thought to anything that startled her.
Terrorizing females didn’t sit well with Joseph. Unfortunately, looking back, he couldn’t think what he might have done differently. He’d tapped on her door three different times. Had she registered nothing of what he said?
He held her gaze for an endlessly long moment, waiting for her to look away first. The air between them turned electric, reminding Joseph of the expectant feeling before a storm. When her lashes finally fluttered, he turned aside.
“If you mean to shoot me, Miss Hollister, you’d best reload your gun. Judging by the size of that hole, you already emptied both barrels.”
In his peripheral vision, he saw her flick an appalled glance at the weapon. Joseph couldn’t help but smile. He went to the table to douse his lantern and then shook out his bedroll, selecting a spot along the wall between the dining room and kitchen so he’d be able to hear any sound coming from the other room. As he arranged his pallet and blankets, a rattling sound told him that Rachel Hollister was trying to retrieve the ammunition that she’d dropped on the floor. A second later, he heard the telltale snap of steel. Oddly, knowing that she’d reloaded the weapon didn’t worry him anymore. Unless she accidentally pulled the triggers again, he honestly didn’t believe she would shoot him.
He took off his jacket and tossed it at the head of his pallet to use as a pillow. Then he removed his hat and set it on the floor next to his saddlebags. He sensed rather than saw Rachel Hollister return to the opening. He soon felt the burn of her gaze on him. Ignoring her, he sat on the pallet and toed off a boot.
Poking her golden head through the hole to stare at him, she cried, “What are you doing?”
“Like I already told you, ma’am, I promised Darby that I’d look after you, and I’m not a man to go back on my word. It’s a mite too cold outside for me to sleep on your porch, and the bunkhouse is too far away.”
“Well, you most certainly won’t sleep there.”
“I won’t?”
“No, you won’t!”
Joseph toed off his other boot. Then, after pushing back the wool blankets, he pivoted on his ass and stretched out on his back, the jacket and his crossed arms pillowing his head. Buddy came to lie beside him.
Head angled through the opening, she stared at him with appalled disbelief. He studied her through narrowed eyes. “Do us both a favor, and keep your finger away from those triggers. Think of the mess it’ll make if you blow a two-foot hole through me.”
What little color remained in her cheeks drained away. “Mess or no”—she hooked a pointy elbow through the hole to better steady the gun—“I’ll shoot if you don’t get out of my house.”
Joseph feigned a huge yawn, wondering as he did if he’d taken total leave of his senses. “You’d best pull the trigger then because I’m not leaving.” He tugged the blanket to his chin. “I told old Darby that I’d stay, and that’s what I mean to do. If the situation isn’t to your liking, take it up with him.”
Lowering her head and squinting one eye, she sighted in on him. As if she needed to aim? Joseph watched her with a curious detachment.
“You’d best get your chin away from that gun butt,” he warned. “That shotgun will kick back on you like there’s no tomorrow and bust your pretty little nose.” He waited a beat. “Also—if it’s all the same to you, that is—can you pull your aim wide to the left? Maybe then you won’t shoot Buddy. His penchant for licking aside, he’s a lovable dog, and he’s never harmed a living soul. I’d hate to see him get hurt.”
“I said you can’t sleep there!” she cried.
“Why? You snore or something?”
“No, I don’t snore!” The shrill pitch of her voice gave measure of her mounting frustration.
“Then I reckon I can sleep here well enough.”
Light from the kitchen illuminated the side of her face. Joseph saw her mouth working, but no sound came out. Finally, she gave up on talking and disappeared. Shortly thereafter, he heard a commotion. It sounded to him as if she were tearing something apart.
Angling his upper body to see the doorway, he gazed curiously after her. He wasn’t left to wonder what she was doing for long. She soon reappeared at the hole, a half dozen nails clenched between her teeth and a hammer in her hand. He watched as she set to work, nailing the slats of an apple crate over the opening. The sections of wood were barely long enough to span the distance and so flimsy as to provide little protection, but she furiously pounded them into place. Unfortunately, she lacked a sufficient number of slats to completely fill the hole, the result a sloppy crisscross with triangular gaps large enough to accommodate a man’s fist. To curtain off her sanctum, she draped two bath towels over the lot, tacking them at top and bottom.
Joseph frowned in the ensuing dimness. A man could crawl through that two-foot hole, but not without making a good deal of noise in the process. With a loaded shotgun handy, she was as safe in there as a babe in its cradle.
Only a dim glow of light penetrated the linen towels. The illumination cast diamond patterns over the room. Settling back on his pallet, Joseph studied the shapes, acutely aware of every sound she made on the other side of the wall. Soft rustles, breathless utterances. “Consternation” seemed to be her favorite byword, “drat” running a close second. She clearly wasn’t pleased to have houseguests.
Joseph grabbed his saddlebags, thinking to fetch himself and Buddy some supper. His hand met with emptiness when he reached in the pocket. Damn. After a day of wrangling, he always replenished his trail supplies, but somehow or other he’d forgotten to do it last time. Thinking back, he recalled the reason: a heifer in the throes of a breech birth. He’d been out in the field with her until late and had been so exhausted when he reached the house that he’d fallen straight into bed.