She gulped her coffee, not treating the brew with the respect it deserved, and glanced at the kitchen clock. Yep, he’d noticed at least one clock in every room in this place, too. Didn’t think some of the rooms had previously had them.

“I’d like to get on the road soon, before rush hour traffic.”

Too late, but it would be easier once she passed downtown and headed north away from the influx into downtown Denver.

“Uh-huh,” he said. He could stand here and drink coffee with her, get some food from the fridge, or go back upstairs—by way of the elevator, though that smacked of running away from the decision. He didn’t have trouble with decisions and hadn’t ever had trouble disengaging from a lover before . . . before, when he was a different man.

He didn’t want to hurt Clare’s feelings. But he’d already hesitated too long.

She paled. “Are you going to come to Virginia Dale with me or not?”

He fumbled for an answer, let show his irritation at the whole screwed-up mess that had been scraping his nerves for days. Sending her a sharp look, he said, “Somehow follow a ghost somewhere to illegally obtain a grisly piece of human flesh?” Grisly to her, at least.

“Do you believe I can see ghosts, Zach?” She was steady: posture, gaze, voice. And quiet, a little too quiet, tipping him off that this was a vital question.

He would have liked to say, I believe you believe you see ghosts, but that was too wishy-washy, more lie than truth. And something that jerk Barclay might say. So his eyes met hers and he said, “Yes. You can see ghosts.”

“And you can see ghosts, too.”

“No!”

“Don’t give me that.” Her expression was all impatience. “You saw them! The cowboy outside the land office, Jack Slade.” Now her tone rose and Zach didn’t like it. He used his flat cop stare. It worked. She took a step back.

“I don’t see ghosts.” Flat voice to match flat stare.

Another step back. Her chin trembled.

He felt like he walked along a narrow shelf trail in the mountains that might crumble under his feet at any moment. Losing her, losing him, one of them falling beyond reach and hope. So he amended, “I can see ghosts when I touch you. This is about you, Clare, not about me.”

She said, “There’s been a congruency of lives intersecting here: me, Mrs. Flinton, and you. All of us with a gift—”

“No, Clare.” He repeated, “The gift is yours. I don’t have one. You’re deluding yourself. You just want to have company in . . . all of this.” He waved.

Her face crumpled for an instant, then tightened. She walked deliberately to the other side of the breakfast bar, flung stuff in her cooler, and zipped it shut. “All right then. Thank. You. For. Your. Former. Companionship. I won’t be a burden on you or on anyone else, emotionally or in any other way. I won’t inflict my ideas on you or anyone else. I won’t be with anyone who cannot give me respect.” She paused, swallowed. “And respect my gift.”

An emotional blow right to the middle of his chest. She was dumping him! That wasn’t what—

But she’d skittered around him and headed toward the big front door.

THIRTY

HE RECALLED THAT her car was parked on the street as if she’d wanted people to know the house wasn’t empty anymore. “Wait just a damn minute,” he said.

“Don’t cuss at me!” He winced. His mother had been hard on him and Jim about bad language. One of the last things he’d promised his brother was to keep the cursing mild. He’d kept that promise.

Now he heard the sound of Clare’s sucked-in breath. “Get your stuff and let yourself out.” Her words were rushed. “I have to go. I have to beat traffic.” She opened the big front door and zoomed out.

Following her, he stopped on the front porch, wincing as he noted a neighbor couple across the street staring at them. “Clare,” he called.

She flung a look at him after she opened the car door and set the cooler in the back. Her voice quivered. “I’ll finish examining the ledgers, and messenger them to . . . your company . . . with my notes as to where . . . your client’s . . . property might have been dispersed to . . . for another point of your investigation . . . I’ll send them on to . . . your address . . . when I’m done.” She obviously watched her phrasing because of the listening ears.

Her expression grimaced into a fake smile and she didn’t meet his eyes.

He lingered in the deep archway of the door, though his white boxers and orthopedic shoes must be readily visible, and searched for something to say. Couldn’t find it.

“Good-bye, Jackson Zachary Slade.” One last hard and disappointed glance from her grazed across his eyes. Then her breasts rose with another deep breath; she glanced across the street at the neighbors and walked back to the foot of the porch, this time with a direct stare. “But, Zach, this argument isn’t about psychic gifts, this is about change happening when you don’t want it to, and accepting it and managing change.” She turned on her heel, circled to the driver’s side of her car, and opened the door.

“Are you going to let this ‘gift’ define you? Rule your life?” Zach managed. Screw any show he was giving the couple on the sidewalk across the street; he moved to look at her above the roof of her car.

She gazed at him. “My gift is my life now, Zach. Unlike you, I’ve accepted that I can’t go back to what or who I was.

“You ran away from your previous life in Montana instead of dealing with your change of circumstances there. You never reference in the slightest your weakened leg. Well, you can run away from me, too. Good-bye.” She got into the car, didn’t even slam the door. It closed with a final thunk. A few seconds later she drove away.

Barking came from beyond Zach, passed him, caught up with the car, and then Zach heard a long doggie whine. Enzo was probably saying something to Zach; thankfully he couldn’t understand it.

And they left and the bright day seemed harsher, the sun metallic in its color and radiation. Blue sky brassy. The sidewalks glaring white.

The moment stretched hot and still and breathless.

Instinctively, Zach tensed, waiting for the whir of wings, the caw of crows.

Nothing.

Because he had been on that steep and scary mountain shelf trail, an emotional spot. Now solid ground had crumbled under him and he was free-falling and all he could hear was the wind whistling by.

Ignoring the disapproving neighbor couple, he went back into the house and closed the door. He’d shower and change, then gather all of his stuff that might be here. Ready, once more, to leave another segment of his life behind.

 • • •

Clare stopped a few blocks away and let the sobs of hurt and anger wring her dry. She knew there was no chance of Zach coming after her, which was a darn shame. After wiping away her tears and blowing her nose, she shook her head. It was exceedingly odd to think that she had adapted to the change in her life better than Zach, a man who was used to acting quickly in situations in flux.

She flushed again when she remembered seeing her new neighbors come out their door across the street like they were ready to take a morning walk. They’d gotten an eyeful and heard an earful. Not the kind of first impression she’d wanted to make in the block.

Well, they shouldn’t judge whether she was weird. After all, they had a ghost in their attic.

Ghosts. Yes, dealing with ghosts was her life now. Anyway, she had a job to do for the apparition of Jack Slade. She straightened her shoulders.