Still Close to Heaven Read online

  "What happens when we get there?"

  "I'm going to find some nice folks for you to live with."

  A pang of worry squirmed around in her chest as she stared at her hero, opposite. "But, couldn’t I stay with you?"

  He tipped that hat up and shot her one long look from the corner of his eye. "Kid, where I'm probably headed, you don't want to be."

  Rachel held her tongue as he settled down to sleep. A moment later, she curled into her blanket, drawing her knees up to her chest. With her head pillowed on her forearm, she looked past the flickering firelight to the man she'd known only a few hours.

  Her family was gone.

  The only person left to her was Jackson Tate. Her own personal angel. And despite what he thought now, she wasn't going to lose him, too.

  Chapter Two

  STILLWATER, FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

  "It's not right," Imogene Walters declared for the fourth time. "A woman like yourself should know better."

  Rachel Morgan frowned at the column of figures she had been totaling and spared one quick glance at her best customer. Imogene's faded blue eyes looked huge behind her spectacles, and her nose was fairly twitching with her indignation. Her long, boney fingers clutched at her drawstring purse, and Rachel could only hope there was nothing breakable inside.

  "Imogene, you're getting yourself all worked up over nothing."

  "Nothing?" The smaller woman straightened so abruptly, it was as though she was a marionette and an unseen puppeteer had jerked her strings. "This is a scandal, Rachel. A scandal!"

  Rachel ducked her head, just managing to hide a smile.

  Heaven knows she couldn’t afford to offend Imogene. The mother of eight spent more money in Rachel's store than half of the men in town combined. But the very notion that she had created a scandal with the meeting she had called the night before was ludicrous.

  How could a handful of maiden ladies, coming together to enjoy a relaxing evening of chatting and parlor games, be called a scandal?

  "Why, my own dear husband, Mister Walters, was horrified, I tell you."

  Hard to imagine Hank Walters being horrified by anything. The quiet, easygoing man was the exact opposite of his wife. Hank liked to say that Imogene was wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. Of course, when his little wife was out of earshot. Hank always added, "an eight-day cuckoo clock."

  "It was one meeting, Imogene," Rachel soothed and deliberately looked back to the column of figures. The sooner she had Imogene' s bill totaled, the sooner the woman would leave.

  "One meeting is one too many," Imogene shot back. The bell over the front door jumped and clanged out a welcome as another customer sidled into the Mercantile. Rachel looked up in time to see a well dressed man take one look at Imogene Walters and hastily back out of the store again.

  She sighed and redoubled her efforts on the bill.

  "The very idea!" Imogene went on, oblivious to the fact that Rachel was barely listening anymore. "A bunch of maiden ladies getting together to celebrate the fact that they don't have menfolk!"

  Rachel gritted her teeth and quickly wrote down the total. Lifting her gaze to the other woman's, she said, "That's fifteen dollars and thirty-seven cents, Imogene."

  Dutifully, the small woman tugged her bag open and stuffed one hand inside. Withdrawing a handful of bills, she began slowly and carefully counting the correct amount out onto the counter.

  Rachel bit her tongue until sixteen dollars lay within reach. She grabbed it up and made change. As she handed the coins over, though, she finally allowed herself to say, "The Stillwater Spinster Society is not scandalous."

  "It is by its very existence."

  "Imogene, we are spinsters."

  "You don't have to be. In a town filled with lumbermen, no woman need remain unmarried."

  "What if we're not in love with any of the men?"

  "Faddle!" Imogene dropped the coins into her bag and closed it again with a yank of the strings. Wagging one finger at Rachel, she said, "Love is fairy tale foolishness. What you need is a good, solid man who'll bring home his pay every week and give you a baby every other year. That would keep you so busy you wouldn't have time to dwell on this love nonsense."

  "Is that why you married Hank?" Rachel asked, already knowing the answer to her question.

  Imogene sputtered a moment or two, flushed a deep pink up to the roots of her gray-streaked brown hair, then sniffed determinedly. "I didn't say that love never happens," she conceded.

  Smiling softly, Rachel leaned her forearms on the polished oak countertop and said, "You fell in love with Hank when you were twelve years old, Imogene. You've told me the story yourself, dozens of times."

  Imogene lifted her chin slightly and pursed her lips.

  Rachel went on. "When two older boys teased you after school and took your hair ribbon, you said that Hank flew into them like a windmill in a hurricane. You said even though those boys were bigger than him, Hank bested them both, then walked you home."

  "Yes, but…"

  "And," Rachel added, "you said that Hank asked permission to keep that hair ribbon, and you gave it to him. Folks say that Hank still has that ribbon. Keeps that small bit of frayed childhood on his watch fob."

  Imogene flushed and ducked her head.

  "Now that seems like love to me."

  A long moment passed before the other woman lifted her head again. When she did, the fighting gleam in her eye had faded a bit. "All right, Rachel. Love does happen."

  Ah, vindication. One thing could be said for Imogene. She wasn't afraid to admit when she was wrong.

  Rachel looked at the woman who had been her schoolteacher and asked quietly, "I firmly believe that there is one man meant to be with one woman. All they have to do is find each other. So why should a spinster give up her independence, her very life, in order to marry a man she doesn’t love?"

  "Love could grow."

  "So could misery."

  "What if you never find that one man?"

  Rachel stiffened slightly. A fifteen-year-old ache sputtered into life in her chest, and she felt it blossom, squeezing her heart until the pain became one with her heartbeat — constant and steady.

  How could she explain all that to Imogene? How could she tell her friend that she had already met that man? That he'd rescued her when she was a frightened ten year old and won her heart with his awkward kindnesses. How could she admit that her one true love had never returned for her, despite his hastily given promise? There was simply no way to explain that another man couldn’t claim the heart she had already given to her guardian angel — Jackson Tate.

  "Rachel?" the other woman asked. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes," she said, deliberately forcing air into her lungs. "I’m fine." Nodding abruptly, as if to reassure herself, she went on. "As to your question, Imogene… if I really believed that I would find that one man, would I have founded the Stillwater Spinster Society?"

  "No, I suppose not."

  "And aren't the four of us ladies doing quite nicely? Without a man in our lives?"

  Imogene paused, took a deep breath, then shook her head slowly. "You always were a hardheaded girl."

  Rachel grinned. "You're only saying that because I didn't pay attention in your class when I first came to town."

  "And still don't, though I don't know why that surprises me. You didn't listen then, don't know why you'd start now." Shaking her head, Imogene reached up to straighten her already perfectly straight hat, then turned for the door. "I'll send one of my boys over later to pick up my order."

  When the door closed behind her, Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate Imogene's concerns, it was simply that at least seven other people that morning had stopped by the store to share their "horror" over the newly formed Society.

  Why a group of four maiden ladies coming together for an evening should upset everyone in town, Rachel had no idea. But the ladies were scandalized, and the men seemed to tak
e it as a personal affront. As though the Spinster Society was pointing fingers at unworthy men.

  She sighed, straightened up, and walked along the length of the counter until she came to the gated opening. Stepping through, she walked slowly around the store, tidying up. Ever since her adopted father, Albert Heinz, had left her the place at his death two years before, Rachel had taken great pride in running the cleanest, most well stocked Mercantile this side of Seattle.

  Her hands paused in their busywork as she silently admitted that Albert wouldn't have been pleased with her success. But then, she thought, dismissing old hurts from her mind, he hadn't been pleased with much of anything. Still, he had left her the store, surprising as that had been, and she was grateful. Rachel turned in a slow circle, letting her gaze sweep over the neatly arranged merchandise.

  Floor to ceiling shelving lined one whole wall and in the tidy cubicles, everything from woolen blankets to books to hair ribbons and hunting knives rested in their proper places. In one end of the store, she had standing racks where ready-made dresses and suit coats hung, just waiting for the right customer. In the corner, she even had a screened-off section where clothes might be tried on before purchase.

  In the opposite end of the store was a mountain of tools. Everything a man might need, he could find at Rachel's Mercantile. And if she didn't have it, she would get it. Her gaze quickly swept over the axes, saws, hammers, and bins of nails before moving to the last wall where she stocked guns and ammunition.

  Weak sunlight poked from between the clouds and scuttled in through the wide front windows to sneak around the store. Springtime in Washington meant rain. And mud.

  As her thoughts strayed to the weather, it occurred to her to go to the storeroom and unpack her order of knee-high boots. Before the next storm broke, she wanted to be ready.

  #

  Jackson sat perched on the edge of the boardwalk and watched the comings and goings around him. A bark of laughter, the chink of coins, and the scrape of chair legs on wood sounded out from the saloon behind him, and he threw a disgusted look toward the building.

  Fifteen years.

  Dead for fifteen years and he was still in this miserable little town.

  What in hell did a ghost have to do? Over the years, he'd completed whatever tasks Lesley had given him and even at that, he'd only earned his way out of the saloon two years ago. Sure, he could leave the building, but that icy cold wall now surrounded the town where he had died.

  Of course, there had been a few more ghosts littering the place during the last fifteen years. But even before he'd had a chance to become accustomed to having company, they had worked their way out of this mess and disappeared. Which left Jackson on his own, but for the occasional visit from Lesley. Visits he was even beginning to look forward to.

  "You are in sad shape, son," he told himself. "When ol' Les starts looking good to you, you've been dead too long."

  "Very amusing, I'm sure."

  Jackson jumped up and turned around. Damn, he hated how the little fella just appeared and disappeared without warning.

  "So, Les, what am I supposed to be doing now?"

  "It's Lesley, if you please."

  "Lesley." Jackson nodded and frowned as a drunken customer was tossed out the batwing doors, sailing right through his person. Glowering at the drunk, lying in the dirt, Lesley muttered, "How you tolerate this… village, I do not understand."

  Jackson straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. He'd almost become accustomed to the man's personal insults. But when he started in on America, calling it a land of cretins and bullies, Jackson had all he could do to keep from leaping at him."I guess you didn't have drunks in jolly ol' England, huh, Les?"

  Lesley shot him a scathing glare, but didn't accept the challenge. "There is no time today, I'm afraid, for one of your little speeches about democracy and free will."

  Jackson's eyebrows lifted. "Must be important."

  "It is."

  "Shoot."

  Lesley’s eyes closed briefly, and Jackson thought he heard the little man murmur, "If only I could," but then decided he was mistaken.

  "The problem is Rachel Morgan."

  "Who?" A quick race through memories didn't bring him any answers.

  "Rachel. The girl who was your first assignment?"

  "Oh, yeah." Not a bad kid, as he recalled, except for her annoying habit of calling him "Mister Angel."

  "What kind of trouble did she get into now?"

  "One entirely of your making."

  "Me?" He slapped one phantom hand to his nearly invisible chest. "What'd I do?"

  "It's what you didn’t do." Lesley stepped down off the boardwalk, floated through the now up and staggering drunk and faced Jackson. "You didn’t wipe her memory of you when your assignment was completed."

  A stab of worry sliced at him, but Jackson argued anyway. "Sure I did."

  Lesley's eyes narrowed and his already thin lips flattened into a slash across his unforgiving features. Turning abruptly, he marched to a nearby horse trough, waved one, lace-hidden hand over the surface of the dirty water and said, "Watch."

  Hesitantly, Jackson stepped up beside the other man and looked down at the scene beginning to form.

  Outside the general store, Jackson glanced at the faces of the elderly couple who had offered to take Rachel in. The man looked like a hard case, but his wife’s eyes shined every time her eyes lit on the little girl. For his first assignment, he figured he had done a pretty good job. The girl was safe. A childless couple had a daughter. Everybody was happy. Now it was time to head on back and find out what kind of reward his good job had earned him.

  "Don’t leave, Mister Angel," the small voice tugged at him and against his better judgment, he looked down into blue eyes swimming with tears.

  Going down on one knee, he whispered, "I told you. I'm no angel. And I have to go, Rachel. You'll be fine here. The Heinzes will take good care of you."

  The older woman dropped a proprietary hand on the child’s shoulder as if afraid that he would take the girl away after all. She needn’t have worried.

  "Will you come back?" Rachel asked.

  He didn’t know, but he sure as shooting hoped not. Surely there was something better waiting for him, somewhere. "Maybe," he said, figuring that it was the easiest answer he could give her.

  "I'll wait for you," she promised, and one tear escaped to roll down her smooth cheek. "And when I grow up, I'll marry you."

  His brows shot high on his forehead. Hell, even when he was alive, he hadn’t wanted to get married. And she was just a kid, for God's sake! This was all getting out of hand. "Rachel, you'll feel different when you grow up."

  "No I won’t." She stepped free of the restraining yet gentle hand on her shoulder and threw herself at Jackson.

  Squeezing his neck tightly, she closed her eyes and whispered, "Promise me you'll come back, or I won't stay here. I'll follow you."

  He frowned, disgusted with the turn things had taken. The old man in the doorway was giving him a look that would peel paint, and the man's wife looked about to burst into tears herself.

  He had to get out of there. Quick. No matter what it took. "Okay kid, I'll come back."

  "You promise?" Rachel drew her head back to look at him, and Jackson avoided meeting that teary gaze.

  "Yeah. I promise."

  At his words, she tightened her hold on his neck and landed a glancing kiss to his cheekbone. "I love you, Mister Angel."

  Enough was enough. Gently, Jackson pried her arms loose, stood up, and took a step away from her. "You be good for the Heinzes, you hear?"

  "Yessir."

  "Don’t you worry," the woman said. "She'll be fine."

  Worry? Jackson was already putting the problem of Rachel Morgan out of his mind altogether. He'd done what was expected of him. That was all he needed to know. As he turned and walked away, he heard Rachel’s determined little voice call out to him.

  "I'll be waiting, Mister
Angel. I'll be right here when you come for me."

  He lifted one hand, but didn’t look back.

  Lesley dragged one fingertip through the water and the scene rippled, shifted, then disappeared.

  "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "Angel indeed! Imagine, allowing that child to think you're a messenger of God."

  "I kept telling her I wasn't an angel." Jackson paced back and forth in front of the trough. Who would have thought that even dead, you could still feel anger? And guilt. "She didn't listen."

  "You didn't wipe her memory though, did you?"

  Fifteen years was a long time. Even for a ghost. He cast back, trying to recall. About all he came up with was this — leaving the girl as fast as he could. He had been hoping that the successful end to his assignment would be enough to ensure his release from the place where he had died.

  A quick glance around the town brought a humorless smirk to his face. So much for high hopes.

  Jackson rubbed his jaw slowly and tried to stall. Who knew what could happen to a ghost who mucked things up? "I would have bet hard money that I had."

  "But then, you usually lost while gambling, didn't you?"

  Jackson flicked a quick, hot look at him. "There's no call to be nasty. It was just one little mistake."

  "Because of your 'little mistake,' Rachel Morgan's destiny is in jeopardy."

  "Huh?"

  He sighed. "When you allowed Rachel to remember you, that memory affected each of her decisions and actions since."

  Jackson turned his head and stared off down the short, unimpressive main street. His gaze moved over the loaded freight wagons, their drivers shouting and cursing at the draft horses hitched to the traces. He noticed the merchants, the cowhands in for a day on the town, and one or two of the bar girls out for a stroll.

  He focused on the small things. The old yellow dog curled up under a porch, snoozing in the shade. The woman in an upstairs window shaking the dust out of a rug that had seen better days. Two boys flipping pocket knives off their fingertips into the dirt. Anything. Anything to keep from thinking about what Lesley was telling him.