Clare grimaced. “Yes.”

“And that would be?”

A line formed between her brows. “Um, one of the Pony Express and stage stations.” She shook her head. “Cold Springs, I think.” She sagged against him, and he wrapped his arms around her, shifting to brace himself a little more against the couch. But he smiled. Clare had forgotten about his disability, had been the first person he’d met in nearly a year who had treated him normally, and he would always treasure that.

She felt damn good in his arms. “Factoring everything in, and leaving a bit of room, one week, max, and this should be over,” she said.

His arms tightened even though he knew she wasn’t speaking of their . . . friendship.

Sighing, she said, “What time is it?”

Zach glanced at the large living room wall clock. He’d noticed the woman had a clock, sometimes more than one, in every room. “Five forty A.M. Dawn’s coming,” he said matter-of-factly. With the continuing nightmares he’d become all too aware of the time of daybreak.

“Oh. Hardly worth going back to bed,” she said. “Would you like an omelette or cereal?”

He grunted. He’d rather head to the bedroom with her. “Coffee would be good,” he said.

She stepped away, took off the afghan and folded it, draped it over the back of the sofa, and smoothed the throw so it looked nice. Then she crossed to the kitchen and Zach turned his head so the light coming on didn’t blind him. Reaching for his cane, he limped back and forth through the living room to get the blood running in his foot.

Definitely time to find a good therapeutic masseur. The sound of beans grinding came from the kitchen; he walked to the threshold to ask Clare for a recommendation, saw her still-tense back, and figured she wouldn’t have spent the money on something she’d think was an indulgence.

Zach hunched and released his shoulders. Maybe Rickman would have names—for a massage therapist and a dojo that specialized in cane work. Zach had been lucky to take down the three idiots and knew it.

He watched Clare move around the kitchen, and the ache to have sex with her intensified . . . more like he wanted the intimacy with her than the actual physical climax, and wasn’t that an annoying realization?

He clumped over to the front door. It faced west, so he saw some lightening of the sky and the stars fading away, but no colorful sunrise. He wondered how hot the day would get, but not enough to turn on the local morning news.

Stooping, he opened his duffel that he’d left there and fished out his tablet, settled himself back on the couch, and was looking at some maps of the Overland trail, the Overland Stage line, and the Pony Express when Clare walked out with a couple of good-sized mugs of steaming coffee.

He set the tablet aside, stretched his arms and torso before he took the cup, and had to suppress a grin when her stare focused on his chest when his muscles flexed. “Thank you,” he said.

She smiled and sat down beside him. “So how did your day go yesterday?”

He nearly spit out coffee as he laughed. He angled his head. “Pretty damn well.”

Barking. But he heard nothing in his mind and didn’t see any ghostly Labrador.

Clare sipped her coffee. “Yes, mine was . . . notable, too.” She cleared her throat, looked at the open front door. “When do Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee expect you?”

He wasn’t sure when the old ladies got up. “Breakfast is at seven thirty, even on Saturday, I guess. But they’d better not expect anything,” he said.

Clare looked surprised, then her expression smoothed. “Ah, you don’t want people . . . concerned about your well-being?”

“I don’t want them checking up on me.”

“Deal,” she said shortly.

“Didn’t really mean you,” he muttered. The morning peace had been broken, and he’d done it.

Her pupils were dilated in the dimness; she’d turned off the kitchen light. “I promise you I won’t check up on you. But that’s a mutual thing. You don’t check up on me. Like you did yesterday.”

“You needed it,” he said, remembering how terrible she’d looked when he’d met up with her in LoDo, trying to shrug off the recollection that he’d had to be chivvied into it by Mrs. Flinton. He felt guilty now that he’d had to be forced to help Clare. For the first time he wondered what she would have done about the robbery if he hadn’t been there.

He sized her up, let a quiet breath out of his nose. She wasn’t the type to have walked in and tried to handle the suspects herself—unlike many of the women he’d dated before. Not reckless, this woman.

But she frowned and looked pointedly at his cane. “This . . . relationship . . . will be based upon rules that apply to us mutually. If you get to ‘check up’ on me, I get to do the same to you.” She paused. “For instance.”

His teeth clicked together and he ground out, “You have a point.” The excellent coffee was gone and he stood looking down at her, hearing and ignoring more barking. Bending, he lifted her chin for a hard kiss, liked the heat that zipped along his veins. Then he straightened and stared at her. “I’ll be in touch, and you keep in touch, too.” He snagged his tablet and his gaze swept over the books. “Count me in on this whole situation.”

“Uh,” she said. Her eyes appeared a little unfocused, and that made a side of his mouth lift in smugness at her reaction to the kiss.

He flipped a hand at her and picked up his bag. “Later.”

 • • •

Clare showered and dressed, then perused the most comprehensive biography on Jack Slade. The killing and mutilation of Jules Beni took place at Cold Springs Station, now in Wyoming. She spent a couple of hours researching the place and couldn’t find it . . . which made her more determined to discover the exact place, though the ghost of Jack Slade would know easily enough.

So she’d trundle once more back to the Western History room after touring the house she was interested in. Maybe she wouldn’t like the feel of it, or Enzo would be wrong about ethereal inhabitants.

But she loved it. Absolutely loved the place. As she walked through the small mansion it felt right.

We resonate well with the residence’s vibrations, Enzo yipped. This will be good for us. We will live here and be happy together!

Well, Clare hoped that sometime Enzo would move out, on, whatever. And was it foolish of her to eye the exercise room and the tiny elevator with an eye out for Zach? Not that she could see him bending his pride enough to use the thing.

Enough bedrooms for two personal offices . . . and, down the road in her life at least, a couple of children.

Enzo’s nails clicked up the back stairs; Arlene had seen Clare’s interest and knew her well enough to let Clare wander around without any prompting.

The master suite upstairs had a fine view of the country club, not that they’d let an assistant-accountant-cum-ghost-seer in: smooth green lawn, lovely old trees, golf course. Clare disliked the modern master bath with granite in gray and gray painted cabinets. Her least favorite color was now gray.

Look, look at the BIG tub! Big enough for two or three of me! Enzo thrashed around in the spa bath as if water filled the thing. Great, now there was ghost water?

No, the bathroom furnishings would eventually have to go, but since they appeared to be new she’d live with them a few years until she couldn’t stand it anymore, much like her current house.

One small room off the master suite on the second floor contained a massage table. That might be interesting. She stretched her arms and shoulders, felt tension in her neck.

She’d lingered in the master suite, then descended the stairs again, hand sliding along the original carved wooden railing . . . and through a cool area.

Enzo yipped. That is the ghost! Sandra could have seen her, but you can’t!