His phone buzzed, a default sound he’d given Rickman until he knew the guy better. He’d had it set on vibrate. Now he pulled his cell from his pocket and saw that he’d missed another call from the man soon after everything had gone down, two calls from Mrs. Flinton . . . and nothing from Clare.

That last had a surge of melancholy yearning rushing through him. She’d be sympathetic; she’d know what he was going through, the longing for his old job.

He shook the emotion off, answered the phone, “Slade.”

“You need anything from me or the business?” Rickman asked.

“No.”

“Fine. Good publicity for the firm, so thanks for that.”

“No problem,” Zach said dryly.

Rickman barked a laugh. “You’ll be getting a bonus in your check.”

Zach just shrugged a shoulder, and strained muscles eased a little more.

“And I want to say that you’re an asset to the firm. We’ve had a mutual wariness thing going on with the local cops.”

Because most of Rickman’s operatives were ex-military. Rickman and those guys might have federal contacts, but . . . they hadn’t worked in the same places—police and sheriff departments—that Zach had.

“How’d they treat you?” Rickman asked.

Nearly like one of themselves. “Fine.”

“You make some good contacts?” Rickman pressed.

“Yeah, sure.” And Zach thought he had. He hadn’t been flashy in taking the suspects down, hadn’t used any more force than he’d had to, had known by the time the police had shown up that they’d have run his past. And the big City and County of Denver, Colorado, was not puny Plainsview City, Cottonwood County, Montana. Not to mention Zach was a third-fourth-fifth-or-something-generation Coloradan. He’d be given any benefit of the doubt about what took place in Montana. And he had been. Almost made him wish he’d stayed in Colorado.

Too late now.

“Contacts, Zach?” Rickman prompted.

Zach rubbed the back of his neck, feeling sweat flake away. The parking lot lights flashed on as night banished day. “Yes, boss. Like I said, I made some good contacts.”

“That we—you—we can build on.” A statement laden with satisfaction.

“Yup.”

“Good. I’ll let you go now,” Rickman said.

“Later,” Zach said. Weariness began to slide through him, along with relief that crows were difficult to see at night. He swung his leg into the car and drove away. By the time he made it to a major intersection, he knew he was going to Clare, though not sure why.

Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee would have dinner for him . . . and questions . . . and, even, maybe, I-told-you-so’s. He sure didn’t want that.

Clare . . . it had been a big day for her, too.

He didn’t know what the hell had happened. But he knew it was one of those “bonding” experiences the shrinks talked about. An event that included only the two of them that neither of them would ever forget.

Of course he hadn’t told the police about whatever-the-hell he’d seen and heard when he’d touched Clare. He’d said he’d heard on the news of the check cashing hits, then observed the car, and so on. Just happened to be the first one to notice and call it in. He hadn’t mentioned Clare at all.

The night wasn’t cool, and he wasn’t really looking forward to being at Clare’s sweltering place, but maybe they could sit outside. He needed to be with her. Smell her scent, see her face . . . rest with her, no forced explanations necessary. Have a soft, womanly companion.

Maybe he could spend the night. Oh, yeah, his body, even more than his bruised feelings, liked that idea. Anticipation.

NINETEEN

WHEN HE PULLED up to her house, he saw the front door open, the ripple of drapes over the big window as the ceiling fan in the living room moved.

Walking up to the door, he heard an unknown woman’s voice:

“By now you’ve had your gift a while and know that ghosts aren’t a figment of your imagination, and that they aren’t going away. And, lovey, brace yourself, because I have more bad news and this will come as a real shock for someone as repressed as you are.”

Zach slowed, flipping through his memory of just that day’s lunch . . . this must be the video from Clare’s great-aunt Sandra.

Talking of ghosts. He slowed his progress.

“There are great benefits to helping ghosts transition . . . both emotional and financial . . . the universe rewards you.”

So far Zach hadn’t seen that. He was only a few steps from the concrete stoop and the open door, wondered whether he should go forward.

“Listen close, lovey. There are great rewards, satisfaction and fulfillment that come with our gift. But there are also costs. And the greatest threat, the greatest cost comes if you don’t accept your destiny, if you ignore the ghosts.”

A dog barked and Zach tensed. Sounded like it was coming from inside the house. But Clare didn’t come to the door, and above Aunt Sandra’s dire predictions, he heard a clatter of pans, smelled mouthwatering food—grilling beef, onions, potatoes. All he’d had since tea at Mrs. Flinton’s was terrible coffee.

He took the last few limps to the door and rang the bell.

From the threshold he could see the television screen and a frail and elderly orange-haired woman who shared features with Clare.

“If you don’t accept your gift, you decline and die,” Sandra said.

Dire warnings that Zach couldn’t tolerate. He banged on the door to drown out the video and Clare came into sight, walking through the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. She stopped and called out, “Who’s there?”

She’d only see him as a dark shadow in the door. “It’s Zach Slade.”

Her body stilled with surprise. Then she crossed to the door and flicked the flimsy screen door lock open, and her smile shot through his heart and sizzled down to his groin. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” He smiled back.

She looked easier, not nearly as nervy. Yeah, still haunted, but . . . settled, like she’d made a decision. That scanned for Zach. He always felt better after a decision himself.

He moved to the side on the stoop and she opened the door, held it as he took the one step up and into the house, brushing by her, catching her scent, this time the heavier, more exotic one. His whole damn body tingled; his dick began to harden. Yeah, he was glad to see her, all right. Wanted to be here, and not just because of the effect she had on his body.

With an unhurried step, she picked up the remote and clicked the video off. When she turned back toward him, she said nothing, and he realized then that she wasn’t going to push. That if he wanted to deny the strangeness that had happened, that they’d both seen some damned old-fashioned-looking transparent cowboy yelling about a real and current robbery . . . Clare wouldn’t force him into some admission of the truth. He could deny all he wanted.

But the knowledge had settled into his bones that this wasn’t about him, and for that he was incredibly grateful. This was about Clare. She’d seen stuff, and because he’d had a hand on her and some sort of small emotional connection with her, he’d been able to see the dog and the cowpoke.

Clare would let him pretend. But when her gaze met his, instead of the interesting shadows he’d seen before, now he saw a terrible, tortured loneliness. She held herself stiffly, as if expecting rejection.

He understood then that he must make a clear-cut decision whether he was going to accept her or turn away. As she had made the decision whether to accept the ghosts or not.