Stacey Joy Netzel Boxed Set (3 page)

If she stayed still, would it go away?

Her lungs burned. She needed oxygen or she’d
faint. Rising slowly, she drew in a deep breath of air, then
concentrated on repeating the process until her legs steadied. All
the while, her mind registered details.

The man of her dreams. Tall. Dark, wavy
hair, worn long enough to hang over his forehead and brush the
collar of his black shirt. Eyes that at first glance appeared black
but now she saw were a sexy slate gray. His thick eyebrows shadowed
them, making them seem darker. A hint of a five o’clock shadow lent
a sinister air, yet she wasn’t truly afraid of
him
.

“You
can
see me.” The husky
accusation washed over her.

“This can’t be real,” she said out loud. She
was losing her mind. For heaven’s sake, she just thought of a
hallucination’s eyes as sexy!

He stepped closer, his gaze locked with
hers. “No one has ever been able to see me.”

Melanie backed up, still talking to herself.
“I’m hallucinating. He’s not real.”

“But I am.”

“No.” She shook her head. “He’s a figment of
my imagination. I’m going crazy.”

“You may stop speaking as if I am not here.
I know you can see me.” A hint of irritation colored his deep
voice.

Laughter bubbled up. She fought off the
hysteria, closed her eyes and wished him away. After counting to
ten, she lifted her lashes to find him still watching her. He stood
just a few feet in front of her, his gaze so intense she could
practically feel it touching her face. Yet his form didn’t seem
quite…solid. Her mind went back to the moment he’d appeared and she
shivered.

“I don’t know what I’m seeing.”

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is
Andrew Lindeman.”

Somehow that didn’t surprise her, but she
still shook her head in denial. “No.”

“Yes.”

She gestured to the tombstone. “Andrew
Lindeman is dead.”

“Yes.”

Melanie swallowed hard, heart thumping in
her chest. “That would mean you’re a…a...

One eyebrow rose in a sardonic gesture.
“Yes?”

“A ghost.”

His lips lifted in a smile, flashing white
teeth. “That would be correct.”

“Ghosts aren’t real.”

“I beg to differ with you.”

Annoyed with his enjoyment of the situation,
Melanie stuck a fist on her hip. “You can beg all you want, it
doesn’t make you real.”

“To whom are you speaking, then?”

She bit off a sarcastic retort. He was
right, and she was not going to stand here wasting her day arguing
with a ghost. She spun around and strode toward the cemetery
entrance, willing herself not to break into a run.

In the space of a blink, he appeared in
front of her. She halted with a sharp gasp as his mesmerizing eyes
locked on hers once more.

“Please.” The word came out rough and low.
“I have spoken to no one in so long.”

“How long?”

“One hundred and fifty-one years.”

She swallowed hard and darted her gaze over
his shoulder, toward the gate. “You’ve been counting?”

“And thirty-one days.”

The raw emotion in his voice sparked an ache
in her heart. His gaze remained on her, as tangible as a lover’s
caress on her cheek.

“I wish you no harm.”

Her chest tightened as she took in his dark
figure in front of her. Except for the missing hat, he was the
exact picture of the man in her fantasy yesterday and her dreams
last night, even down to the muscled forearms revealed by the
rolled up sleeves of his black shirt.

It was all so unreal, she simply shook her
head. “I’m sorry. I—this is just too much. I have to go.”

He didn’t move. The absurd notion of walking
through him made her shudder. As if that reaction convinced him, he
dipped his head and stood aside.

“I apologize. Good day.”

And then he was gone.

Melanie blinked a few times and turned in a
slow circle, but she saw nothing. Not even the strange thickness in
the air that had first caught her attention on the walking tour the
day before. Silently insisting the emotion weighing on her chest
was relief and not disappointment, she hurried from the
cemetery.

Ten minutes later, she realized she’d walked
past the turnoff to her cabin and now stood in front of the
Lindeman’s Crossing Historical Museum. Maybe, subconsciously, she’d
come here on purpose.

The building itself was either an exact
replica of an old west mercantile, or a meticulously restored and
well-kept original. Either way, she loved the weathered structure
at first sight. Especially appealing was the raised wooden sidewalk
the tour guide had described Andrew Lindeman and Lorena Van Buren
strolling along as they courted.

Stepping inside, she swept her gaze across
the equally antique interior until she found an information counter
to the left of the entrance, manned by none other than her animated
storyteller from the day before.

“Hi, John.”

“Well, good afternoon,” he greeted with a
friendly smile. “Miss Sparks, wasn’t it?”

“Please, call me Melanie.”

“I’m so glad you came by. You’ve brightened
an old man’s boring day.”

She smiled, some of her tension fading now
that she was speaking with a real live person. “You can’t be a day
over fifty.”

“Fifty-six next month.”

“You don’t look it. And how can you be bored
in the middle of all this history?”

“I know it inside and out, that’s how, you
flatterer. Although, since our discussion about the bank robbery
yesterday, you have me very curious about Jacob Van Buren.”

Just like that, her tension returned.
“Speaking of which, I’m interested in the picture you mentioned of
Andrew Lindeman. May I see it?”

“Yes, of course. Follow me.”

Just saying the man’s name brought a flush
to her cheeks. But really, she needed to stop this foolishness.
Once she saw the picture, saw it wasn’t him and that she’d just
dreamed up the ruggedly handsome ghost, she could seek professional
help and move on with her life.

John came around the counter and headed
toward the back of the building. The room seemed to stretch for
miles, distorting into an endless tunnel in her mind, yet it took a
mere ten seconds to cross the smooth, boot-worn floor planks.

“Here he is, our notorious Mr.
Lindeman.”

Melanie stared at the picture of the man on
his tall, black horse. A dull roar filled her ears as her heart
thudded slow and hard.
It was him.
The man—the
ghost
—from the cemetery. The man in her dreams.

John’s voice penetrated the haze engulfing
her head and she tore her gaze away from the image. “I’m sorry,
what did you say?”

“He did have a great looking horse.”

She leaned closer to the picture again.
Almost as beautiful as the man. The man who once more commanded her
undivided attention. Even here, in black and white, face shadowed
by a black cowboy hat, his eyes were like a living entity, touching
her soul.

“What do
you
think happened?” she
asked John as she straightened and pushed away from the image.
“With the bank robbery, I mean. Do you think Andrew was part of
it?”

John raised a hand to scratch the back of
his head. “I try to remain objective, but I’ve got to tell you,
I’ve read every single one of the editions of the Lindy Gazette he
published before he died, and the man I got to know in those papers
wouldn’t have done what he was accused of.”

“Judging by the second headstone, the family
of the little girl he saved didn’t think so, either,” Melanie
added.

Her
family.

“Very true. But, as the debate has gone on
for years with no definitive answers. Is there any way to really
know?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she murmured to herself,
glancing out the window in the direction of the cemetery. “John,
any chance the historical society lets people check out materials?
I mean, if I wanted to read the old Gazette issues that Andrew
Lindeman published, do I have to do that here or can I take them
home?”

He cast a furtive glance about the room
before moving behind another counter. “Normally we don’t allow
documents out of the museum, but I think I can make an
exception.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble or
anything.”

He chuckled as he handed over two sets of
thick binders. “No trouble—technically, I own the place. And my gut
tells me I can trust you, so you get them back to me by tomorrow
and the committee will never know.”

****

Through the window of the museum, Andrew
watched the feisty redhead talking to John. Her beauty enhanced
each time he saw her. And oh, had he enjoyed conversing with her
for those few brief moments. The flash of wit, the exchange of
emotions he’d never thought to experience again—even if they were
on the wrong end of the spectrum. Disbelief, fear, sarcasm and
annoyance.

Instead of waiting for her to exit and
upsetting her further, he stuck his hands in his pockets and
strolled down the street. Without bothering to alter his course, he
passed through moving and parked vehicles alike, a lamppost, and
two spandex clad mountain bikers.

Immediately after his murder, when
navigating the areas of town he had access to, he’d dodged
everything as if he were still alive. Horses, carriages,
pedestrians. Just the thought of passing through a live body
unnerved him. But he had soon discovered it mattered not. Whether
the object was living or inanimate, he felt nothing. From himself
or the object. Besides which, once the horse-less carriages were
invented, moving fast enough would’ve been impossible.

As time progressed, so did his apathy, and
he decided it was not worth the energy to even think about
avoidance.

Passing though the sidewalk bench in front
of the Lindy Gazette now, he focused his energy and leaned against
the back of the bench, facing the building. Through the window,
Andrew watched the new editor in chief, hard at work at his desk. A
young man who eerily embodied what Andrew remembered of his mirror
image back in 1860.

He’d left Lindeman’s Crossing for college
almost ten years ago, but since first spotting him back in town,
Andrew had been drawn to the guy. Not only because they were
similar in appearance, but from what he could gleam from glimpsed
editorials in the newspapers left lying here and there around town,
Drew Nelson was a throwback to older times. His views, his
upstanding morals, his sense of right and wrong and his willingness
to stand by his convictions.

He vaguely remembered Drew as a child. The
kid had been quiet. Studious. One or two backwoods bonfires in high
school, but no real trouble. Andrew didn’t recall him looking so
much like himself when he was younger, but man, that first glimpse
a few months ago had sure thrown him.

Drew straightened in his chair and lifted a
hand to rub the back of his neck. At the same time he swiveled to
face the window, a frown drawing his dark eyebrows together. Andrew
tensed when the man rose to his feet and made his way to the
window, staring at the bench where he rested. When Drew’s gaze
dropped to the sidewalk, so did Andrew’s.

There on the concrete, sunlight outlined a
distinct shadow.
His
shadow. The startling sight shifted his
energy and the outline faded. He jerked his head up to see Drew
glance about self-consciously before rubbing his hands over his
face and returning to his desk.

Andrew took a figurative deep breath and
moved away from the building. That was a first for him. Like
Melanie being able to see and hear him. He loved that new
development. This strange pull to Drew Nelson, that was another
matter he was still working on.

For the most part, he was okay with his
return. The Gazette had needed a man like him to keep it from
fading into obscurity like many things were wont to do in these
modern times. Circulation was up, and once more people were reading
the newspaper in Lindeman’s Crossing instead of just those
electronic gadgets that had popped up over the past decade.

The success of his legacy pleased him. The
brief flashes of memories that had begun to plague his periods of
rest did not. They drained his energy and alarmed the hell out of
him.

Because they were not his memories.

A sharp pain tore into her back seconds
before she hit the water. Icy cold engulfed her body, robbing her
of her breath as she fought for the surface. The river’s current
tried to drag her back under, but she had to find the girl.

There!

The small red head bobbed just a few feet
away. A desperate grab won her a handful of material from the
girl’s skirt. With every last bit of strength she had, she fought
the current and pushed the small body toward the outstretched hands
on the bank.

Safe. Thank God.

Now save me.

But no help was offered. She went under,
struggled back up. They stared at her from the bank of the
river.

So cold. The water and their eyes.

Despair clutched at her insides, freezing
the blood in her veins. Her body was numb except for the knife-like
pain in her back and chest. She tried to breathe but the frigid
water closed over her head, filling her mouth, sending razor-sharp
ice slivers into her burning lungs—

Melanie shot up in bed, drenched in sweat,
gasping for air. Once she realized she wasn’t actually drowning,
she collapsed back against the pillows. What was happening to her?
This dream had been even more real than the night before.

As real as Andrew Lindeman’s ghost.

She shivered and pressed her shaky palm over
her frantic heartbeat. She knew without a doubt she’d just relived
his last moments. He’d died cold and alone. Tears pricked her eyes.
No one should die that way. Why hadn’t anyone helped him? They’d
all judged without giving him a chance to defend himself and tell
them the truth.