A Haunted Twist of Fate (8 page)

“Thanks. I may give her a call if I don’t come up
with anything else. It might be interesting to see what she can tell me.”

Doris left and Shay set the business card aside and
started flipping through the pages of the book on the town history. The back
cover noted the book had been written and published several years earlier by a
local man.

Reading the history of the Lakota Indians and how the
town started up and then grew and prospered due to tin mining kept her
fascinated for close to forty minutes. After skimming through pages of old
photos, she ran across a vintage photograph of the Buckhorn and felt like she’d
hit pay dirt. Her heart began thumping as she read the inscription under the
photo:
The Buckhorn Saloon, 1885. Owner Dean Averill.

A man stood in front of the building wearing a derby
hat, but the photo had been taken from a distance and was not of good quality,
so she couldn’t see his face. A blurb followed the photograph, which she read
to herself.

The Buckhorn Saloon was built and
operated by Dean Averill, a former tin miner who was one of the first in the
area to strike it rich. The bar served such customers as fur trappers, cowboys,
miners, gold prospectors, gamblers and lawmen. The whiskey served in the early
days was strong stuff, a combination of raw alcohol, burnt sugar and chewing
tobacco. Cactus wine, made from a mix of tequila and peyote tea was popular, as
well as something called a Mule Skinner, which was made with whiskey and
blackberry liquor. Rye and bourbon were also popular drinks, and beer was
served in high volume, though not ice cold as it is today. Sometimes a
barkeeper watered down the liquor with turpentine, ammonia, gunpowder or
cayenne pepper. It packed a wallop either way.

Poker and Faro were known to be played
in the Buckhorn, as well as dice games. Mixing alcohol and gambling, no doubt,
could result in some deadly gunplay. Professional gamblers quickly learned to
protect their assets by honing their six-shooter skills at the same time as
their gambling abilities.

Aside from the usual drinking and game
playing that went on at this well-known Black Hills saloon, dancing girls were
said to have entertained the patrons, catering to them twenty-four hours a day,
seven days a week. These girls sang, played piano, and danced with the
customers, dressed in somewhat revealing dresses with feather boas. It is
likely some of them occasionally doubled as prostitutes, which could be the
reason there are several bedrooms on the second floor of this establishment,
which still stands today.

Turning the page, Shay peered at the first of two
photos. It seemed to have been taken just inside the front door of the saloon. 
It captured the tables in the middle of the room as well as the mahogany bar
with the mirror above. Men in cowboy hats were lined up at the bar with their
heads turned, staring solemnly into the camera.

She was astounded to discover the room had hardly
changed through the decades. The caption under this photo read:
Opening Day
at Buckhorn Saloon, March 1, 1885
.

The black and white photo at the bottom of the page
was grainy, but Shay could tell the snapshot was of the piano, standing in the
same spot at the back of the room where it stood now. Several saloon girls
leaned against it, with one sitting on the bench with her legs crossed.

Shay held the book close to her eyes and squinted,
trying to distinguish whether one of the girls was her visiting ghost. Unfortunately,
because of the poor quality of the photograph, there was no way to tell. They
all looked young.

“Darn.” She’d thought she’d been onto something there. 
She closed her eyes and placed her hand on the page over the photo, hoping a
sixth sense would reveal if one of the girls in the picture might be the
spirit.

“Having any luck?”

Shay’s eyes flew open, and she felt her cheeks heat
with embarrassment. She hadn’t heard Doris enter the room. Doris stood in front
of her with a comical expression on her face. Feeling like an idiot, Shay slapped
the book shut.

“Some,” she answered, smiling and opening the second
book. When Shay’s cell phone blared from inside her purse, Doris frowned and
pointed to a sign on the wall:
Please Turn Off Cell Phones.

“I’m sorry.” Shay whipped the phone out and flipped
it open. “I’ll go outside,” she whispered, passing Doris on her way to the
front door. As she walked through the main reception area, she noticed there
wasn’t another soul in the place so it seemed silly to be whispering.

“Hello,” she answered, once outside and standing on
the steps.

“How are ya?” a deep voice drawled.

She felt her face light up. “I’m fine, Colt. How are
you?”

“Great, now that I’ve heard your voice.”

“That’s a sweet thing for you to say.” She pictured
his warm smile and green eyes and delicious lips, and felt her hormones begin
to rage.

“I’m a sweet guy,” he replied before clearing his
throat. “Unfortunately, that’s not the reason I’m calling. Where are you right
now?”

“The historical center. I’ve started doing some
research on the saloon. Where are you?”

“Standing outside your place.” Something in his tone
changed. “I stopped by to see you and, well, you’d better scoot on down here.”

“What is it, Colt? Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, there is. Not to scare you, but hurry over if
you can.”

“Sure. I’ll be right there.”

Thirteen

“I have to go,” Shay told Doris, when she swooped
back into the room. “There’s some kind of emergency at the saloon.”

“Oh, my.  I hope it’s not serious. Go on. I’ll put
these things away for you.”

“I appreciate that. I plan on coming back soon,
today if possible. Depends on what’s going on at my place. Can you keep the
materials out front for me?”

“Of course. I’d be glad to.”

“Thank you.” Shay dashed outside and vigorously
walked the five blocks to the Buckhorn. Colt leaned against the old hitching
rail that was in front of her building. He bounded up when she approached. “Hi.
You made it here fast.”

“Hi.” Catching her breath, her head bobbed up and
down, while scanning the building. “What’s going on, Colt? I thought the place
was on fire or something.”

Slipping his hand inside hers like it belonged there,
he led her to the front door and pointed at the glass-paned window. “Take a
look at that.”

Condensation fogged the window at eye level, as if
someone had blown on it in the dead of winter, and the warm breath had steamed
up the glass. A word, spelled backwards, was written in the condensation.

H C T I B

Shay gasped. If the vulgar word wasn’t enough to
shake her, the fact that it wasn’t cold outside,
and
the condensation
was on the inside of the window, not on the outside, did cause her pause, and
concern.

Colt touched her arm. “Who do you think would have
done that?”

She met his curious gaze. “I have no idea. It wasn’t
there when I left this morning. I would have seen it when I locked the door.”

“Not necessarily.”  He tapped on the glass. “That
velvet curtain would have covered it up. You wouldn’t have seen it from the
inside.”

She dug the keys out of her purse and unlocked the
door and pushed the curtain back. The word glowered at her in big letters.  “Only
someone from inside the saloon could have done this,” she said, uncomprehending.

Colt didn’t respond, but she could see his mind
working, probably questioning how that was possible, unless…

“You don’t think
I
did this, do you?” she
snapped. The nip in her voice hadn’t been intentional, but noticing his
furrowed brow had made her feel the need to defend herself. Maybe he thought
she was orchestrating this ghost business herself. Loss and grief affected
people in different ways. Perhaps he thought she was creating this situation
for attention.

“Of course not, Shay.”  His tone was unconvincing. His
eyes narrowed. “I’m just wondering which of the undead in this saloon wrote
it.”

It was obvious he had reservations about her and her
sanity. She took a deep breath and bit her tongue so she wouldn’t say something
she’d regret later. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe there are spirits in
here or not. I didn’t write this. There’s no other explanation other than
supernatural.”

He shrugged. “It’s not for me to say. I’ve never
believed in ghosts, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I
don’t take you for a psycho.”

“Gee, thanks.” Shay rolled her eyes and stared at
the window, thinking.

“I hate to say it,” he continued, “but whoever left
this is sending you a clear message.”

A shudder ran the length of her body. “It has to be
the ghoul from the basement. But who is he and why is he trying to scare me? So
I’ll leave? I’m not going to leave, no matter what he does.”

“Maybe you
should
think about selling,” Colt
said. “You’ve been through enough in your life, from what you told me, and
especially this past year or two. I can relist the property.  You can find
yourself a little house here in town. I have several listings that would be
perfect for you.”

Her ire was slowing rising. What did he know about
what she’d gone through in her life, and what would be perfect for her? She
hadn’t shared much of anything with him, except for the fact that she came from
money—which had been a mistake—and that she’d had some trouble with past
relationships. He seemed anxious for her to put the saloon up for sale. Did he
have another buyer in mind? Someone who was willing to pay more so he’d earn a
bigger commission?

“No, Colt. I’m not leaving,” she said to end that
conversation. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this and put a stop to it
somehow.”

They stood staring at the word for a moment and then
she wiped it away with her hand.  “Do you know a woman by the name of Brenda
Preston?”

The discomfort that washed over his face was subtle,
but noticeable, all the same. The corner of his mouth twitched.  He sighed.  “Yep.
She lives right here town.  As a matter of fact, I went to school with her.”

“Oh. Then you know she’s a psychic?”

“Who told you that?”

“Doris Rockwood. She’s a volunteer at the historical
society. She helped me find some books on the history of the town, and when I
told her about the ghosts haunting me, she suggested I speak to this woman,
Brenda Preston.”

“You told a stranger about the ghosts?”

She gathered by his tone that he wouldn’t have made
that choice. “Yes. There are stacks and stacks of material in that place.
There’s no way I could find what I was looking for without assistance, so I
told her so she’d be able to help. That’s her job.”

He shrugged again. “Did you find anything?”

“Some old photos of the Buckhorn. It hasn’t changed
one bit since 1885.  Even the piano looks to be the same one. There was a photo
of some saloon girls standing in front of it, and I was hoping to see the blonde
girl among them, but the picture wasn’t clear. Oh! And there was a photo of the
saloon when it first opened with Dean Averill standing in front of it, but it
was taken too far away to see his face. That was disappointing.”

Colt rubbed a hand across his chin. “I imagine Frank
will have a picture of his grandfather, if you want to see what he looked
like.”

Shay grew excited. “That’s what I was thinking, too.
I’d like to meet Mr. Averill. Do you have any idea when he’ll be able to
receive visitors?”

“I’ll drop by and check on him. He has a live-in
nurse to care for him. I’ll find out how he’s faring and let you know.”

She touched his arm. “Thanks. I can probably learn
more from him than any books I could read. Does he still live at home?”

Colt nodded. “Yes. He refuses to be put into a
nursing home. Says he’ll die if he goes to one. I’m afraid his time is running
out anyway.”

“You said he has a nurse. Doesn’t he have any family
to help out? No children?”

“His wife passed on about twelve years back. They
had a child, a daughter, but she’s also gone. I don’t know the whole story, but
ever since I’ve known Frank, I’ve never heard him speak of her. I believe she
died many years ago.”

“That’s sad. It’s nice of you to look out for him.”

Colt smiled. “I do it because of my granddaddy. They
were best friends their whole life. Besides, Frank is a real nice fellow. He’s
always been good to me.”

A moment of silence filled the space between them
before she confessed, “I walked by your office this morning.”

His face brightened. “I’d meant to tell you where it
was so you could come by sometime. I’ll give you the grand tour next time you
stop.”

“I’ll take that tour now if you’re headed that way. There’s
nothing to be done about this message, and I’d like to go back to the
historical society and dig around a little more. Your office is on the way.”