Katie Rose (7 page)

In response, Emily laid her hand on his arm, as if patting a lapdog. “Please don’t concern yourself, Reverend. I must follow my path, and do what I was created to do, just as you must.” Her eyes fell meaningfully on his collar.

The simple contact of her hand made him want to pull her into his arms and teach her what he was created to do. Yet as she strode briskly away, her carpetbag in one hand, her notebook under her arm, he fought the impulse with everything he had. And he realized something else about himself, something not very flattering: For all he had intended to find out about Emily Potter, she’d obviously learned a thing or two about him.

Upon returning from the grocery store, Emily fed Watson, then finished her examination of the house. But the erotic feelings she’d experienced with Thomas just wouldn’t leave her. Even when he’d grasped her hand to haul her to her feet in the sheriff’s office, she had felt all tingly. She’d discovered that she liked the rough feeling of his skin against hers, which was amazingly like her fantasy, and frantically wondered if he had felt her pulse pounding beneath his fingers. The good Reverend Hall made her feel unholy indeed, but (as she had to firmly remind herself again) he was a prime suspect in the case.

Emily absently petted Watson as she studied her notes. It was inconceivable that he would visit the sheriff’s office at the first opportunity, the same as herself, unless he was just as interested as she was in the murders. His presence there this morning only
supported her suspicion that he was no ordinary preacher. What man of God concerned himself with stolen gold and revenge killings?

So if he wasn’t a preacher, who and what was he? Emily was puzzled. Perhaps a lawman, someone working with the sheriff? He could even be a federal agent, assigned to investigate the case. Or one of the hated Pinkertons—detectives known for disguise who would ingratiate themselves with suspects, then wring confessions out of them. Thomas certainly seemed to have the nerve for such exploits, but something told her the reasons for his involvement were deeper than that. Was it possible they were also more sinister?

A chill raced up her spine. What if
he
were the accomplice to the robbery? If the sheriff’s theory was right, someone out there would stop at nothing to get that gold.

Putting aside her casebook, Emily tried to clear her mind. One could not theorize with so little information, she reminded herself, for invariably one started trying to fit the facts to the theory instead of the other way around. Also, although Emily couldn’t explain it, even to herself, she didn’t want Thomas to be the killer. Aside from the way he made her feel, there was something likable about him, something that made her want to trust him. Still, the thought was more than a little disconcerting, and one she couldn’t entirely dismiss—especially not for the sake of a tingling sensation and some broad, masculine shoulders.…

Emily decided to do some cleaning, to give herself
something to do other than wonder about Reverend Hall, and to start making Shangri-La into a proper home. Physical activity was the best cure for an overactive mind, her mother had taught her. Climbing the stairs, she started with her bedroom—Rosie’s room. Emptying the contents of the wardrobe onto the bed, she gasped at the collection of clothes Rosie had accumulated. There were richly printed dressing gowns from India, and intricate lace chemises that enticed the eye. There were brilliant jewel-tone ball gowns, and day dresses of sprigged muslin. There were nightclothes such as Emily never knew existed, gowns and short shifts, shimmering rails and exotic lingerie. She touched the luxurious material in wonder. For a fleeting second, Thomas Hall again popped into her mind, but she refused to entertain the thought. Blushing furiously, she forced herself to inspect the rest of the wardrobe. There were cloaks and shoes to match everything, clever boots, slippers, and beguiling wraps. Emily shook her head in amazement. The cost of one of these beautiful gowns could feed a family for weeks! Yet she had already made up her mind to get rid of the clothes.

When she finished packing as many of the gowns as she could manage, she began rounding up the jewels and perfumes. Something feminine within her made this difficult, but she reminded herself of the poor, scrawny miners she’d encountered on her trip, of the half-starved children she’d seen playing in their camps. Any proceeds from this stuff would surely help them, so she deliberately packed most of
it, leaving only a few items remaining in the dresser. When she came to the last flagon of perfume, attar of roses, she hesitated, examining the beautiful bottle.

Rosie wore this. The thought came unbidden, and she put the bottle down quickly, as if it had burned her. There was something about knowing how the woman smelled while still alive that chilled her. It made Rosie seem so real, as if she were here.…

As she turned back to the bundles of clothes, Emily smelled a soft fragrance. Roses. It filled the air—the sweet smell of a garden in July. Breathing in the heady scent, she looked over her shoulder at the table. She must have left the stopper off, or knocked the bottle over … but her brow knotted when she saw the flagon.

It was full, and tightly stoppered.

Yet the air was thick with the perfume. Amazed, Emily breathed it deeply. Then a cold breeze blew over her, as if she’d stepped outside in the dead of winter, that same raw, damp chill she’d felt earlier. She stood frozen in disbelief as a sudden certainty came over her.

She was not alone.

The cold chill passed right through her. The scent continued to fill the air, sweet and rich, almost as if the woman herself was standing right beside her.

“Rosie?” Emily whispered squeakily. Her own voice sounded strange to her. Only silence answered her, but she was more convinced than ever that there was another presence in the room.

A ghost? Emily sank down onto the chair, her knees shaking. The hair rose on the back of her neck.
She’d read about such doings, but never thought to experience them herself! Eagerly, she reexamined her surroundings, but there was no visible evidence. It was more of a feeling, the way one knew when a cat had entered the room long before actually seeing it.

The candle flame went out, just as the gaslight had earlier. Her hands shaking, Emily tried to relight the wick, but the match blew out as quickly as she struck the flint.

“Rosie, now stop that! If you really are here, why don’t you just appear and stop playing these games! Some ghost you are!”

She felt better voicing her fears and taking control of the situation. She found another flint and successfully lit the candle. As she glanced up, Emily smelled the perfume again, and felt the same, eerie presence she’d experienced before. Her eyes rose to the mirror that faced her. Slowly, one by one, the matches slipped from her fingers. She saw her own reflection, and right beside it, the bawdy image of a saloon girl.

“Rosie!” she cried breathlessly, taking in the scarlet dress, the black plumes, the dancing earrings. Her eyes, like the eyes in the portrait, were magnificent. She grinned, as if still enjoying life, and Emily could hear her naughty laughter. “My God, it’s really you!”

“Well, it ain’t Queen Victoria. How are you, sweetie?”

Emily stared in amazement, her mouth hanging open like an overstuffed drawer.

“Don’t look so horrified, honey, it ain’t that bad. I won’t hurt you. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” The saloon girl giggled. “Sorry about the gaslight downstairs. Seems I can cause that kind of thing, even if I can’t get out of here.”

Emily forced her mouth closed and swallowed hard. “Then I’m not imagining this? You’re really here?”

“In the flesh, I would say, but that isn’t quite correct, is it?”

“Rosie.” Emily lowered herself into the chair at the dressing table, trying to force her mind to accept what she was seeing. “But you’re—”

“Dead.” Rosie said the word with glee. “It’s still a little hard for me to accept, but that seems to be the
case. I was shot, sweetie, not far from where you sit. Hurt like hell, I must say. When I woke up, I was a ghost, and stuck inside the mirror. It’s like being yourself but without a body.”

That was too incredible a concept for Emily to imagine. She touched the mirror, half expecting her hand to go right through to feel the satin of Rosie’s dress. Instead, her fingers rested on cold, hard glass. Ignoring the spirit’s laughter, she looked behind the gilt frame, even going so far as to lift the heavy glass from its nail, but the back of it was smooth and firm, the hook a simple scrap of tin.

“There has to be something,” Emily said to herself. “I’ve seen those new experiments with moving pictures. There must be a projector.”

Replacing the mirror on the wall, Emily ignored the vision’s smirk of amusement as she fetched her magnifying glass. She searched every inch of the wall for a hole, a crevice, or a mechanical device that could cause what she was seeing, but she found nothing. The wall was simply a wall, the bed, a bed, the ceiling plastered and firm. And yet … how could this be? She knelt and peered under the bed. Nothing but a plethora of dust balls.

“Satisfied?” The phantom seemed to be holding back laughter. “It’s been kind of boring, these past few weeks, with nothing to see or do here. I couldn’t even get downstairs, or I’d have scared the hell out of those cowpokes who wrecked the place. I did a pretty good job as is, though. Anyhow, I’m real glad you’ve come. You’re right pretty, honey, and you look a little like your pa.”

The familiar mention of her father made her flinch. Emily brought her magnifying glass up to the mirror, examining the image in minute detail, but even the trusty lens didn’t shed any light on this mystery. The reflected image seemed as real as if the woman were standing behind her. “Then you were my father’s … consort?”

Rosie paused, translating this into her language. “Oh, you mean mistress. That’s certainly a nice way of putting it. Sweetie, my relationship with your pa had nothing to do with you or your mother. They were separated for so long. But he never forgot you. He spoke of you constantly.”

Emily bristled, although Rosie’s explanation was meant to be reassuring. “I’ve heard such things are common on the Continent, but it isn’t quite so readily accepted here,” she said coolly. Was she really arguing ethics with a ghost?

“Why, I know, and I can understand how you feel,” Rosie agreed blithely. “But if it makes you feel any better, I was the only girl he visited. He built this house for us … and for you. It is lovely, isn’t it? I wasn’t too crazy about the downstairs, those paintings and all. Your pa assured me they were art, but I think they were just to please the fellas, you know? And I don’t have anything against that. Why, if it makes a cowboy come quicker, then my girls are happy, too. Know what I mean, honey?”

Emily didn’t have the slightest notion what she meant. She frowned, her nose wrinkling. This was all too bizarre to sort out, even with a wonderfully logical
mind like her own. “Is my father with you?” she asked finally.

Rosie shook her head. “No, I think he moved on. I didn’t see him after everything happened, but he got himself shot before I did. Same killer, I would say.”

Goose bumps popped up on Emily’s arms. In spite of her disbelief that this was really happening, a clue was a clue. “Do you remember anything about—?”

“No, I can’t,” Rosie said quickly, her plumes dipping like an exotic peacock’s. “I’ve tried and tried, but can’t recall who it was that walked into our house that night. I think all that gets erased when you come to this side, so you can’t cause trouble for the living.”

“Why haven’t you moved on?” Emily found her fear lessening, being replaced by fascination. Even if this were just a weird dream, it was incredible. “Shouldn’t you be wherever my father is?”

“Sure,” Rosie agreed. “But I got trapped in this mirror. Caught between two planes, so to speak, and here I am.”

A knock on the door interrupted Emily’s reply. She watched Rosie’s reflection fade away to nothingness. “Wait!” Emily cried, but the mirror was just glass once more, and the only image she could see was her own.

“Drat!” she muttered, picking up the candle. Maybe it was all just a dream. Emily’s logical mind could conceive of no other explanation. She was alone too much. Perhaps it made one fanciful. Or it was this house! Surely it was that, and not that she was losing her mind.… Outside the door, Dr. Watson
mewed, staring at the blank mirror with his back arched and his fur standing straight out. Had he seen the same thing she had? Downstairs, the rapping became more persistent, and Emily had no more time to think as she rushed to get the door.

Thomas stood on the front step. “Good evening, Miss Emily. I hope I’m not intruding?”

“Reverend.” Emily stared at the man, her eyes narrowing. She wanted to talk to the ghost, to learn everything she could about the murders, and about her father. But once again, Thomas had gotten in her way. Her previous suspicions came back to her as she scrutinized him more thoroughly. Could he be a coldblooded killer?

“Mind if I come in?” Thomas walked into the hallway without waiting for her answer. It was only then that Emily realized he wasn’t alone. A small boy doffed his cap, his hair sticking straight up like a cocklebur, and followed Thomas into the house. He appeared undersized and thin, his shoulders seeming to sag beneath the weight of his suspenders. He looked down at the floor shyly.