Badland Bride (2 page)

"Damn, damn and damn! That was the most unusual one yet!” He closed his eyes and floated downward, through dilapidated floorboards and the ceiling of the ground floor. Perhaps he could see the contraption from a downstairs window. The other two carriages he'd seen during his ghost life had stopped near one of the outbuildings, each time men had gotten out, and after wondering around a bit had climbed back in their carriages and rolled away. One of the vehicles had been green, the other white, with splotches of what looked like rust near the bottom. Each of those carriages had had a large wagon box behind the enclosed area.

A loud bang made Skeeter almost jump out of his skin, if that were possible for a ghost. He glided toward the sound, through the wall and into the kitchen of the old house. Good thing he was a ghost, the rotting lumber of the floors would never hold the weight of a live man.

The sight of the woman standing in the middle of the room made his heart swell, press against his ribs. She wasn't as tall as his six foot height, but she wasn't as short as his ma, or sister-in-law, either. He held his breath, hoping the boards below her wouldn't give out. What would he do if she did fall through? He couldn't catch her, couldn't even ease her plunge through the rotten wood. Arms out, as if they could prevent the inevitable, he floated closer.

Tight curls, much like his hair when it was wet, covered her head and fell to brush over her shoulders as she twisted her neck to peer around the room. The sunlight shining through the glassless windows made the red-hued curls dance like the flames of a camp fire.

Air lodged in his chest. It wasn't her height or the ball of fire dancing around her head that made it hard for him to breathe, it was the fact she didn't have any clothes on. Well, she wasn't completely naked. A piece of green material, held by two small strips of lace over her shoulders, covered her upper torso, and below the odd shirt, were a pair of white pants, with the legs cut off.

Waving his arms, he floated closer.

She remained still, looked right though him.

While she continued to gaze around the room, he examined every inch of the exposed skin on her long and shapely arms and legs. He paused to gawk at the bright red paint on her toenails. A rope ran between two toes, holding nothing more than the flat soles of old shoes beneath her feet.

Had she been attacked by Indians? Could that be why she didn't have any clothes?
He floated around her, looking for injuries. His appraisal stopped at her face, and the air once again caught in his chest. Large tears fell from the wild eyes scanning the area with urgency. Fear distorted her face with a wrinkled grimace.

His presence must have petrified her. He felt lower than a worn-out, flea-bitten dog, and realized since becoming a ghost there hadn't been a time when he wanted to be alive again more than right now. He dragged out a ragged sigh. “I'm not going to hurt you."

Her head snapped around, and her wide-eyed gaze searched the space behind him.

His heart began to race. “Can you hear me?"

She started to nod, then blinking she shook her head and flipped around to stare at the door.

He floated in front of her again. “Miss? Miss? I'm not going to hurt you. I'm...I'm here to help you.” Drifting closer, he said, “Nod if you can hear me."

"Oh, dear God, please don't tease me like this,” she whispered, raking her fingers through the curls bobbing around her head.

Excitement shook his body. “You can hear me, can't you?"

She opened her mouth, then shook her head and closed her eyes. A disheartening frown fell upon her face as it lowered until her chin touched her chest. “Please, Lord, I can't take much more. Please don't make me believe I'm hearing voices now."

"Yes!” He floated around her. “You can hear me, which is odd, because I can't hear myself. But that's all right, as long as you can hear me.” His feet kicked with glee as he danced a tiny jig in mid-air. He settled down enough to ask, “So do you hear me like I'm talking to you, or do you hear me like I'm whispering?"

Her face lifted. A thoughtful gaze bounced around the room. Fine wrinkles formed between her eyes. “A real faint whisper,” she murmured so softly he almost didn't hear her.

"Oh, well, I'll shout then!"

Her head snapped up, eyes clouded with fear again.

Skeeter frowned, but the way she ran to the broken window quickly told him it wasn't his shout that had startled her, it was the sound of another carriage. It was a distance away yet, but moving closer.

"Oh, no!” she gasped. “He's found me already.” She twirled around clearly looking for an escape route.

"Who?” He floated to the window.

"Who?” She moved away, frantically searched the room. “If you're my guardian angel you should know."

"Angel? I'm not an angel. I'm a ghost.” He followed as she crossed the room, hovering near her shoulder.

"Great! That figures, instead of an angel, I get a ghost!” She shoved a door open, hurried into another room.

He glanced at the floorboards and quickly flew to block her route. “Stop!"

A hot wave rippled his body as she walked right through him.

He shook off the feeling before whipping around to land in front of her again. “I said stop! The floors are rotten. You'll fall right through."

A flutter of relief washed over him as she stopped in her tracks.

Her gaze examined the old boards, tears falling from the big, green eyes faster than a spring rain. “I have to find a place to hide. He's here to kill me. Please whether you're a ghost or an angel, help me, please help me,” she pleaded.

Real terror filled her eyes. He cursed his state of ghost-hood and raked his brain. The rumbling outside grew louder; the carriage would soon come around the corner of the sandstone bluff. “It's all right, I won't let him kill you,” Skeeter said, not at all sure how a ghost could fight a man. Sweat began to run down his back, made him shudder. “That's funny, I haven't felt sweat since I became a ghost. I haven't felt hot, or cold, or hungry or tired."

"What?” she asked.

"Nothing, nothing. I was thinking, or at least I thought I was thinking,” he said, feeling as useless as a dead rat.

The few pieces of glass in the old house began to vibrate. “Please!” she sobbed, “He's here! Please help me!” Her hands twisted together, and her body trembled from head to toe, as she once again searched the broken and sagging floor boards.

The seriousness of the situation chilled his spine. “All right,” he said. “See that set of stairs? Underneath them is a small door. But to get there you have to walk around the edge of the room, don't step anywhere near the middle."

She nodded, quickly shuffled to the wall and on the tip of her toes, scampered toward the stairs. Gravel crunched outside, and a vroom noise cracked the air like thunder from a bolt of lightning.

"That's it,” he encouraged, “stay close to the wall. Good girl. Now, the door is locked, but it's the middle panel, whoever built the house didn't want anyone to know about it. The key is hidden beneath the base board."

She pointed to the long board running along the bottom of the wall. “This one? How do I get it?” Panic filled her voice.

Another quiver shot down Skeeter's spine. “Just pull on the board. You can do it. I wish I could do it for you, but ghosts can't grab things.” He hoped she understood his inability to be of more assistance. He floated closer, cursing his uselessness.

Broken windows continued to rattle. She tugged on the board. “Don't pull it all the way off.” He stopped her before she lifted it away from the wall. “We don't want anyone to see it's been removed. Now, reach down, yes, right there. Pull out the key."

The noise outside ended abruptly, making the silence that followed ominous. She lifted up a large brass key. It shook in her fingers. “I got it,” she whispered.

"Good, now carefully, slip that frame board off the side of the panel, the one right in the middle.” At least his ghost days had given him the opportunity to examine the old house from top to bottom.

She did as instructed. The board slid over to expose a key hole at the same time a loud slam echoed through the house. “Oh, God!” she squeaked.

"You'll be all right,” he assured. Having floated to the window, he watched a tall, burly man stomp toward the outbuildings. “Where did you hide your carriage?"

"My what?” Her quaking fingers tried to make the key slide into the key hole.

He returned his gaze to the yard. “That red thing you rode in."

"Oh, I parked it behind one of the clusters of rocks on the far side of the house. Got it!” she exclaimed softly, tugging open the small door.

The strange man had disappeared behind one of the buildings. “Good girl.” Skeeter glided back to her. “Now, it's dark in there, and there's nothing we can do about it, but don't worry, it'll be all right. It's a long tunnel that leads to the cliffs behind the house. Just keep crawling, don't stop until you come to another wooden door. You'll need the key again, when that door opens crawl to the very end, and you'll be in a large cave."

"Thank you,” she whispered.

"Stop!” he yelled before she climbed all the way in.

"What?"

"The side panel, flip that board back into place."

She gave a nod of understanding, slipped the board back in place and climbed in the little opening.

He couldn't help but admire the round shape of her bottom, covered with the short, white britches as it disappeared into the small doorway. A tightening that ghosts certainly shouldn't be able to feel tugged at his groin area. Figures—leave it to him to find the most beautiful girl on earth, after he'd left it.

A second later the fire-red curls popped back out the hole. The big, green eyes glanced around the room. “Are you coming?” she whispered.

"I'll be along shortly,” he assured. “Shut the door and lock it behind you."

"But how will you get in?"

A smile played with his lips. “Ghosts don't need doors."

"Oh.” She shot a worried look around the room before her head disappeared, and her arm pulled the door closed.

Skeeter waited until the lock clicked then floated to the kitchen to peer out another window. The husky man kicked open doors on the outbuildings, splinters of rotten wood fell as he stormed in and out each dilapidated shed.

Damn, this being a ghost shit is awful.
What could he do to make sure the man didn't find the girl's escape route? He'd promised she'd be safe, and he never broke a promise. His mouth twisted, and one hand lowered to his hip. If he were still a man, he'd just draw his gun and shoot the bastard—but his gun was back in the cave, and he was nothing more than a liver-bellied ghost.

Floating up and down, around the room and back to the window, didn't help. A plan wouldn't form in his ghostly mind. “If only I could throw something at that shutter above his head, I could make it fall and—"

The words stalled in his throat as the large chunk of wood slipped from the building above the man. It landed square on his head, knocking off a hat that only had half a brim.

"Damn! Did I do that?” Skeeter muttered.

Dust flew up around the man as he collapsed to the ground. A loud curse echoed across the land before he pushed the scraps of wood away and grabbed the odd hat.

Skeeter glanced at the area around the man, searching the clumps of weeds. “If only I could make that hay rake rise up and smack him,” he shouted.

The man rose, and as he stepped forward his foot landed on the forks of the rake. Swiftly, the long handle jumped forward and hit him right between the eyes. Arms flaying, the man stumbled backwards, hitting the side of the building with a loud thud. A deafening curse split the air.

"Who would have ever thought ghosts had such powers?” Skeeter mumbled with a faint hint of joy. “Let's see...If only I could make that log roll over and pin him against the building."

Refusing to think of all the creepy, crawly things that probably lived in the long tunnel, Lila crawled through the darkness. Her shoulders rubbed against the sides, and a pain, from keeping her neck bent for so long, tugged on stiff muscles. The tunnel went on and on. Had a ghost really shown her the escape route, or was her overactive mind playing tricks on her? The voice had been so soft, like a whisper in the wind. It wasn't like she really heard anything; it was as if she felt the words.

She shuddered and kept moving forward. Ghost or no ghost, she'd found a way to escape Pete—at least for the time being. A touch of hope settled her quaking. The space was tiny; Pete's wide frame wouldn't fit even if he did find the tunnel. Still, the thought of him following, made her increase her speed, even the gravel biting at her knees didn't slow her momentum.

A sting ripped across her knuckles as they encountered something solid, bringing her to a halt. She ran a palm over the dark, flat area in front of her. Hard, cool wood blocked her path. Her fingers felt for a key hole, and once she found it, she unclenched the other palm to insert the skeleton key.

The heightened, quick thuds of her pulse pounded in her ears. Thick darkness made everything twice as difficult. Finally, after several tries, the key slipped in and turned. The lock clicking open made her swallow the sour taste in her mouth. “You can do this, Lila,” she whispered. “You can't give up now, not after what you've been through the past few months. Besides, you don't have just you to think about, there's the baby to protect."

Revived by the personal pep talk, she took a deep breath and pushed the door open. A fresh, cleansing wave of cool air floated over her. She gulped, filling every corner of her lungs before letting the fresh air exhale. Tugging her shoulders tight, she squeezed through the small opening. The area on the other side was wider, giving her plenty of room to twist around and lock the door before she turned about to crawl along the dirt tunnel.

How? When had everything gone so wrong? All she'd wanted to do was sell her old Toyota to help pay for the new Mustang. Putting an ad on the internet sounded like a simple, easy way to do it. When Pete had responded to her ad, she never gave the idea of giving him her address a second thought. Hays was a safe town, weirdos didn't scan the internet for unsuspecting females—or so she'd thought.