The Bone Orchard (4 page)

Ezra took his bottle of whiskey, and they retreated back to their room so they could speak freely without receiving more sideways glances. Ezra was learning to speak without moving his lips when he responded to Ambrose, but he still probably looked plumb crazy to everyone around him.

Ambrose sat in the rocking chair by the window overlooking the street, attention firmly fixed outside. Ezra sat on the bed and leaned against the iron headboard, writing down the events of the day in his leather journal and watching Ambrose through his eyelashes.

“They brought you to this room after it happened?”

Ambrose nodded, humming. He finally turned away from the bustling street to meet Ezra’s eyes. He sighed heavily. “It’s the first door on the hall. I guess they wanted to get me out of sight. Should have just left me where I fell; might have got Jennings on murder, then.”

Ezra swallowed hard. “They thought they could save you. The attendant said you died in this room, not at the bar.”

Ambrose nodded almost imperceptibly. “I suppose. Can’t say I remember much. Just that lantern swinging as everything went black.” He pointed to the ceiling, where a lantern did indeed hang above the bed. As they watched it, it began to sway as if on a gentle breeze.

“Are you doing that?” Ezra asked.

“I don’t know.” Ambrose shrugged. “Still trying to get the hang of being dead.”

Ezra glanced around the room, trying to come up with a new topic of discussion, one that wouldn’t involve the idea of Ambrose bleeding to death on the very bed he sat on now, or of death simply being a doorway to a world where nothing you did mattered.

“How did you grab me in the crowd?” he asked. “I mean . . . if you can’t touch things.”

“I can touch things. They’re just real heavy. Like trying to push a boulder uphill.”

“Like Prometheus.”

“Can’t say as I know him.”

Ezra smiled fondly. “He was a myth from the Greeks. He stole fire from the gods and gave it to man, and was sentenced to push a boulder up a hill for eternity . . . for his love of humanity.”

Ambrose was silent, blinking slowly.

Ezra licked his lips. “The analogy hits quite close to home; I apologize.”

“No need. I’m okay with having to throw myself against doors to make them open if it means Boone Jennings finds his way to hell.”

Ezra gave a surprised laugh. “Is that how you open them?”

“That’s how I opened this one,” Ambrose said with a wave at the door to their room. “That damn doorknob, like trying to pick up an anvil.”

Ezra laughed harder, covering his mouth and closing his eyes. He could picture Ambrose standing in the hallway, slowly losing his ever-present composure as he fought with the doorknob and threw his weight against the door.

Ambrose was smiling when he finally calmed again.

“So then, dragging me through that crowd, it must have been difficult.”

“Not when you started moving,” Ambrose answered. He smiled gamely.

“Well. Thank you, again.”

“If I get all worked up, it’s easier. When I got angry, the door finally moved for me. When I grabbed you, I was nervous. I guess that helps. You’re warm,” Ambrose murmured, looking at his own hand as if he didn’t understand how it worked. “It’s a strange thing.”

Ezra frowned, holding up a hand. “If I tried to touch you now, would I be able to?”

Ambrose shrugged. He shoved himself out of his chair and sauntered over, then sat on the edge of the bed at Ezra’s hip and held up his hand, palm out. Ezra hesitated, stomach tumbling as he met Ambrose’s eyes. His fingers were trembling when he pressed his palm to Ambrose’s.

At first, Ambrose was solid against Ezra’s palm. But then it became a sensation like shoving against sand that was slowly giving way and enveloping him. Ambrose closed his eyes and lowered his head, like the touch was costing him a great deal of energy.

Then Ezra’s hand pushed through Ambrose’s like he was smoke on air, and then Ambrose was gone.

Ezra looked around the room, his heart hammering. “Ambrose? Are you okay?”

The chair in the corner began to rock as if pushed by a breeze. One moment it was empty, and the next moment, Ambrose was sitting there, eyes darting like he was watching something spin. “Well, that was new.”

“Are you well?”

Ambrose scowled at his hand and nodded. “That was right fun.”

Ezra rolled his eyes, though he was relieved. “I think you enjoy being dead more than I expected a ghost to.”

Ambrose was still looking at his hands, turning them over and slowly grinning. “Give me a few minutes, I want to do that again.”

Ezra couldn’t help but enjoy Ambrose’s fun, but his good mood was soon tempered as he watched the man. He wasn’t the grim and grisly western lawman Ezra had thought him, even in death. Ambrose Shaw was a legend in his own right, but the man was so much more than the myth.

“I do wish I had known you in life,” Ezra whispered.

Ambrose raised his head, his smile fading. “As do I.”

Ezra stared into Ambrose’s silver eyes for far too long, but he couldn’t force himself to look away. He liked the man. He could admit that to himself. Too bad the man was dead.

Ambrose cocked his head. “Do you favor men?”

“Pardon?”

“The way you’re looking at me. Do you court men? Is that done back east?”

“It’s . . . done quietly.” Ezra cleared his throat, looking away. “I’m sorry, it’s rude to stare.”

“It’s okay. You’re the only person who can see me, might as well stare.”

Ezra raised his head sharply. “Were your eyes always that color?”

“What color are they?”

“I’m not certain. They go between the lightest of blue and gray. They’re quite striking.”

Ambrose grinned. “I thought you were going to say they were red or something.”

Ezra snorted.

“Burning with hellfire,” Ambrose said on a laugh.

“As the only ghost I’ve ever met, I must say you’re entirely insufferable.”

“You’re taking the me-being-dead thing pretty well.”

“Yes, well, you’re taking the you-being-dead thing pretty well too. Better than most, I would think.”

Ambrose shrugged. “My line of work, you’re a ghost long before you die. Why’s it done quietly?”

“Pardon?”

“You said back east courting men was done quietly. Why?”

Ezra blinked hard, shaking his head. “It’s rather unusual for most, I suppose. I don’t know. Is it not in the west? How is it handled out here?”

Ambrose snorted. “Folks in the cow towns are more worried about living through the winter than who you’re in cahoots with.”

“I suppose that does offer perspective.”

“I seen my fair share of men who’d just as soon lay with another man as a woman, and since women ain’t too common, you make due. Me? I always chose the spurs in favor of the garters.”

Ezra realized he was staring once more, an indecipherable ache in his chest. “I’ve never heard it phrased quite as such, but I did cause my family quite the scandal when I filled my dance cards with young gentlemen rather than young ladies.”

“Now I’m really wishing I’d met you while I was still alive,” Ambrose said. “Or at least when I could still touch a door.”

“I could leave you and the door alone, if you wish me to.”

Ambrose very nearly growled. “The things we could do. You, me, and that door.”

A knock at the door interrupted Ezra’s response. He went to answer it, giving Ambrose a second glance as he walked past.

The desk attendant was standing in the hallway holding a piece of paper. “They’ve sent word from the Palace Hotel,” the man said with a smile.

Ezra took the paper and unfolded it quickly. He could feel Ambrose behind him, the cold shiver of his presence so close. Ezra thanked the attendant and closed the door. Ambrose’s eyes were wide and shining, his lips parted in anticipation of the verdict.

“They’ve given him no reprieve. He’ll hang at sunset.”

The spectacle drew quite the crowd. The trial had been decisive, but even Ezra was shocked by the verdict being returned in less than a day. It seemed no one wanted Boone Jennings to be breathing for another night. He’d almost escaped twice during the two weeks between his capture and his trial. They weren’t taking any more chances.

Ezra and Ambrose stood off to the side, where they would be able to watch the man’s feet twitch while he died.

Even though this was the outcome everyone had hoped for, Ezra’s heart was heavy. He glanced at Ambrose, who was watching Boone Jennings like a fox watches a mouse. Ezra checked around them to see if anyone was near enough to hear, then stepped closer to Ambrose and lowered his voice to speak. “When he hangs, do you suppose you’ll go with him?”

Ambrose turned to him, one eyebrow raised high. He pushed back the brim of his hat and glanced at the gallows. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I hope I don’t go to the same place he’s bound.”

Ezra blinked away the stir of dread. But it wasn’t merely the thought of burning in an eternal Hell, or even a peaceful ending in Heaven for someone like Ambrose, who by all accounts was a good and decent man, meant for a pair of angel’s wings when his work was done. It wasn’t the thought of where Ambrose might be heading after his reason for remaining was gone; it was the thought that he would go at all.

Ambrose met Ezra’s eyes and smiled wistfully. “I reckon we should say our good-byes first, just in case.”

Ezra returned the smile sadly. “I suppose so.”

Ambrose stuck out his hand, holding it just in front of Ezra’s stomach so he could reach for it discreetly. Ezra gripped it hard, as if that would make it easier for Ambrose to hold on. It was cold in his palm, icy tendrils sliding up his fingers.

Ambrose’s grip stayed solid, and his eyes locked with Ezra’s. “Must be more emotional than I thought,” he said. “Saying good-bye to . . . to
life
. Makes it easy to hold to you.”

Ezra’s fingers tightened as if he could keep Ambrose there by mere strength. This was a man who’d spent his life keeping good people safe from men like Boone Jennings, who’d dedicated himself to his skill, to a life of solitary hunting, who’d become damn near legendary even in places where so-called civilized society said the pair of dusty boots he wore were uncouth. This was Ambrose Shaw. The world had lost a hero when he’d died, but by some miracle, he was still here with Ezra, a light in the darkness that refused to extinguish until justice was done.

Ambrose let Ezra go before the quicksand feeling could start, but Ezra still felt the loss of the contact. Even when he heard the constable bringing Jennings toward the gallows, he didn’t turn his eyes away from Ambrose. If Ambrose was here to see his revenge, then it only stood to reason that he’d disappear when Jennings took his last breath, vanishing into eternity much like he’d done in their room. If that was going to happen, and Ambrose wasn’t going to magically reappear in the rocking chair, Ezra wanted to remember him just like this: a stoic, shining beacon of all that was good and right.

Ambrose’s attention was on Jennings, following his progress up the wooden steps of the newly constructed gallows. His eyes sparked in the light of the setting sun, and he scanned the crowd, seeing things, people, that Ezra couldn’t. Ambrose wasn’t the only victim here to witness the death of Boone Jennings.

“I never thought myself a vengeful man,” he said to Ezra, then returned his steely gaze to the gallows. “I was wrong.”

Jennings stood laughing at the crowd, mocking them, speaking of all the lives he’d taken, the way he’d made his victims suffer and tremble in fear. The crowd booed and hissed, shouting that they’d take him to the hanging tree if the executioner didn’t do it fast.

“I hope they tie the knot wrong,” Ezra grumbled.

“Bet I could take care of that,” Ambrose said with a grin.

Ezra shook his head. “Can’t grab a doorknob but he can tie a knot.”

Ambrose harrumphed and crossed his arms.

A black hood was put over Jennings’s head, more to save the witnesses the horror of watching than to offer him any dignity in death. Then the noose was looped over his neck, the hangman’s knot placed under his left ear to offer a quick and mostly painless death.

“Short drop and a sudden stop,” Ambrose growled. “It’s better than he deserves.”

Ezra took Ambrose’s forearm and shook his head. “Don’t let his sins sully your soul,” he whispered. He held tight to Ambrose.

Ambrose nodded grimly. He shook out his arm until his fingers latched on to Ezra’s, and he squeezed him tightly. His hand was icy cold, like gripping a ball of snow. He was solid, though, and Ezra held on to the man as if his own life were somehow hanging in the balance.

They stood there hand in hand and watched as the lever was thrown and Jennings dropped. He swung, his feet twitching for several seconds until finally that stopped as well. The crowd watched silently, the creak of the noose the only sound as the sun set on the gallows.

A breeze ran through the crowd, and Ezra shivered. He glanced to his side, but Ambrose was no longer there. Ezra’s eyes pulled skyward, toward the pink and orange of a lovely sunset streaking across the horizon. He gave the clouds a melancholy nod, the frozen imprint of Ambrose’s touch still on his palm.