Marlie's Mystery Man
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After closing the door, she leaned against it to gaze accusingly into her seemingly empty bedroom. “Say something, darn it. I know you’re still here.”
“That makes two of us.”
There was the sound a deep sigh followed by a massive Ker-choo!
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! Do you have to keep doing that? Ghosts aren’t supposed to sneeze.”
“I’m not a ghost.”
“Could’ve fooled me. What are you then?”
“Alive, for one thing. For some reason, people just can’t see me, and so far the only person who can hear me is you.” Ker-choo!
“Well aren’t I just the lucky one,” Marlie said nastily. “How delightful that the whole world now thinks I’m crazy.”
“Not the whole world, just Ann Jergin. But she’s a nice girl. She won’t tell anyone.”
“You know her?”
“Of course I know her. We were in the same grade all through school.”
Marlie frowned in the direction of the voice, now coming from the vicinity of the other bed. In fact, the bed looked a little depressed on one side, as if someone were sitting on it.
“Who are you?” she asked slowly.
“I’ll tell you after you shower. Lifebouy, Irish Spring, Dove. Take your pick. Any scent but lavender.”
“How do I know you won’t float into the shower with me? You might be anywhere for all I know.”
“Lock the damn door,” the voice snapped. “I can’t walk through walls. I already tried.”
“You could be lying.”
“Yes, ma’am, I could. You’re just gonna have to trust me now, aren’t you?”
Why should I, Marlie wanted to ask, but didn’t. A ghost with allergies seemed…trustworthy, in a bizarre sort of way.
Good grief! She was certifiably crazy.
But she headed for the bathroom. Just before she closed and locked the door, however, she stuck her head out again. “Where are you?”
“Here,” he replied, his tone one of long suffering, but the sound of his voice came from the bed. “Now get a move on. I’m tired, I’ve got a hell of a headache and I don’t want to stay up all night yakking.”
What a crab.
When she returned, showering in record time, the woman smelled like nothing but cleanliness. Caid had never thought of eau de clean as erotic before, but as he watched her prance across the room, then hop into bed, he had the overwhelming urge to hop into it with her.
Huh, he thought. So she had great legs. The real attraction was probably because he could talk to her. Communication could be a powerful aphrodisiac.
And strangely, though sharing a bed with the woman had strong appeal, going beyond sharing didn’t seem to…suit the moment.
“What’s your name?”
They’d asked the question at the same time.
“You first,” the woman said. “And your story better be good, buster.”
“Or what?” Caid asked, truly curious.
“I’ll think of something. Don’t think I won’t. Now start talking.”
Caid grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” But his story was no laughing matter and he sobered immediately. “I’m Caid Matthews,” he said. “Kincaid Matthews the Fourth, owner of the Rolling M.”
“That’s your feather on the dresser, isn’t it?” she said wonderingly. “I mean, your hat. Your name is inside. I thought it was part of the hotel decor.”
“Only since yesterday. I forgot it when I went back to the ranch.”
He heard a startled little movement in the next bed. “Oh my Lord!” the woman exclaimed. “You’re the rancher who was involved in the accident. The one they took to the hospital last night.”
“No, ma’am. I’m the one who ran into a tree, all right, but I never went to the hospital.”
“But…but when I checked in last night, they said you’d been taken to the hospital. That’s why they gave me the room.”
Caid was beginning to get irritated. Whose story was this? “No, ma’am,” he contradicted stubbornly. “I was right here in this bed last night.”
There was a long silence. “Oh.”
Though it hurt his head to do it, Caid raised up so he could look across the intervening space at the opposite bed, part of which lay in a pool of light cast by the lamp on that side of the table between them.
The woman sat against a bank of pillows, gazing into space and chewing her bottom lip, obviously thinking deeply.
“Do you remember how you got into town?” she asked at last.
Caid could tell she was keeping her tone carefully noncommittal and it riled him no end.
“Yes, I remember how I got into town. Three cowboys from the MT gave me a lift. They found my truck and I hitched a ride into town with them. But my head was killing me, so I let them talk to the sheriff and I came on here.”
Uh-oh. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that “killing me” part. The woman’s own ideas were bad enough.
“But did you actually talk to them?”
She just wasn’t going to leave it alone, was she? “Hell yes, I actually talked to them. Well, some. Maybe not a whole lot, but I told them I’d ride into town with them. Then I crawled into the back of their pickup and we came on to Fort Davis.”
“You told them? They didn’t ask? And they let an injured man ride in the night air in the back of the pickup? That doesn’t sound strange to you?”
“Not particularly,” Caid replied shortly, though come to think of it, it did seem a little harsh even for West Texas cowpokes. Nobody had even offered him a handkerchief to sop up the blood.
“Did you get a good look at your truck?” the woman then asked.
“Yeah, I saw it. What about it?”
“There was blood all over the seat.”
“Doesn’t mean anything. There was blood all over my head and my shirt, too. I probably had a mild concussion, but so what? I’ve had worse. And how do you know there was blood on the seat?”