Still Close to Heaven by Maureen Child

Author:Maureen Child [Child, Maureen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Author Published
Published: 2013-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

"What’s it like?" Rachel asked quietly. "Being a… ghost?"

Jackson’s hand tightened around his coffee cup as he stared at the woman sitting across the table from him. How, he asked himself, could he explain?

His gaze shifted, slipping about the homey room above the Mercantile. In a glance, he took in the blue and white calico curtains over the windows, two overstuffed chairs drawn close together, with a reading lamp between them, and shelves of books lining the wall just behind. A small fire burned in the stone hearth, contributing the soothing hiss and snap of flame-consuming wood.

Beyond Rachel was a tiny kitchen area and on the far wall of the great room sat a roll-top desk, neatly closed now, concealing the books and ledgers for the store. He didn't turn to look down the narrow hall behind him, but he already knew it well. Three small bedrooms opened off the passageway and at the far end was a washroom with indoor plumbing.

He had only spent the last few days here and already he felt… distanced from the dirty saloon that had been his only home for fifteen years. How could she ever understand?

"Jackson?"

He looked at her and his insides twisted. In the hazy, yellow glow of the lamp, her skin seemed to shimmer with golden light. She chewed at her bottom lip, and his gaze locked on the motion. His groin ached with a pulsing throb that kept time with each tug of her lip.

Jackson swallowed a groan. His hair was still damp from the cold dip he’d taken in the creek, but he suddenly felt as though he was on fire. Apparently an icy bath wasn’t a strong enough cure for a fifteen-year fast.

Grumbling to himself, he lowered his gaze to the less captivating, yet safer, depths of his coffee cup.

"If you don’t want to talk about it —" she started.

"No," he cut her off quickly, though it was a struggle to keep his voice steady. He had to talk. About anything. To keep his mind busy. Perhaps too, he told himself, talking about his existence as a ghost was just what he needed. A vivid reminder that his time with Rachel would be brief.

He reached for the coffeepot in the center of the table and refilled her cup before pouring more of the brew into his own. Jackson took a long sip, then started talking. "It's not that I don’t want to tell you about it," he said. "It’s just that I'm not sure what to say."

She toyed with the handle of her flower sprigged china cup. "You said you live in a saloon."

"I know I didn’t say live," he corrected wryly.

She flushed and the pink in her cheeks looked lovely in the lamplight. "I meant — you know what I meant."

"Yeah. I do." His fingers tightened on the fragile cup handle that was much too small and dainty for a man's grip. "The name of the place is The Black Hound."

Her eyebrows lifted.

He snorted a laugh that held no humor.

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