A Psychic Western Romance Book Series
American Hauntings by Simone Beaudelaire
Series Excerpt
“Dr. Morris! Dr. Morris!”
A young child's voice cut through Gavin's concentration, and with the lapse, his pen leaked. It splattered ink across the document he'd been writing—one of many death certificates from the Floreston fire, three weeks past. He frowned at the paper, and then lifted his glowering face to the child, a golden-haired scamp named Miles.
The child flinched.
“What is it?” he asked, softening his expression.
“Dr. Morris, Ma says you need to come right away. There's a lady hurt.”
Gavin scanned his memory and recalled that Miles's 'Ma', Nancy Johnson, ran a small boarding house in the middle of town. “One of the tenants?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Miles replied. “I don't know who she is. Please, hurry.” The child scuttled around the desk and grabbed Gavin's hand, tugging with all his childish strength.
Sighing, Gavin set aside his pen, rose to his feet and snagged the small leather bag of supplies he kept beside his desk for just such occasions. He let the boy draw him out of the small clinic space he'd set up in an empty building along Main Street. The burning Texas afternoon sun smote his eyes, leaving him squinting as sweat sprang to his brow and moistened the armpits of his plain brown shirt. Any further questions he might have had for the child cut themselves off in an instant.
He allowed himself to be led off Main Street and two blocks east to a conglomeration of cheerfully clashing houses in a wide array of sun-beaten colors and mismatched sizes. The largest—a wide, three-story with sharp gables and peeling white paint—crowned the neighborhood. As Gavin expected, Miles led him straight up the uneven porch of the boarding house and into the parlor. There, Mrs. Johnson waited, wringing her hands and pacing.
“Howdy, ma'am,” Gavin said.
Despite his soft tone, the woman started badly, and then hurried to him, grasping his hands in a flurry of distress. “Thank goodness you made it,” she babbled, her softly-accented voice, which he normally had no trouble making out, now almost unintelligible under the thick tones of Bavaria. “I didn't know she was sick. I… I don't know how to help her.”
“Her who?” Gavin asked, trying to inject a measure of calm into the normally capable woman's panic. “A tenant?”
Mrs. Johnson shook her head, sending strands of dark hair in rebellion against their pins to stand in sweaty points around her face. “No, sir. No tenant. Please, come with me.”
Much like her young son, Mrs. Johnson tugged on Gavin, leading him out of the parlor and up the stairs. Her boots clunked noisily on the treads. Up and up they went, to the top of the house—the attic—where the summer heat turned the air almost unbreathable.
Gavin sucked in deeply, feeling a bit dizzy in the close darkness. The light filtering through a single porthole in the front wall barely illuminated the space, casting weird shadows on trunks and boxes stashed in various corners. In the middle of the room, a slender female figure sprawled on the floorboards.
Gavin stepped forward, talking as he went. “What on earth was she doing up here? It's hot as blazes. No wonder she fainted.” He opened his bag and drew out a small, round bottle of smelling salts.
“No, no,” Mrs. Johnson replied weakly, fanning herself with her hand. “It's the ghost. The ghost didn't want her here. She's been struck down. I told my husband not to choose this place. It's a demon's den.”
“Where is he, by the way?” Gavin demanded. “I could use a hand getting her down the stairs.”
Ghosts again? Why is it so hard to get rational explanations from anyone these days? He touched the woman's back, relieved to feel a strong, rapid heartbeat. Then, he focused his attention fully on her, barely noticing Mrs. Johnson's babbling explanation.
“George went to Dallas for supplies… fixing the guest rooms… painting the porch… none of it matters with this ghost here… losing too many clients… banging and moaning…have to get out of here.”
A thunder of boots told Gavin she'd left the room.
The woman before him lay flat on her belly. He felt the back of her head for bumps but found none. Her golden hair slipped silkily through his fingers. He felt his way down her neck and along her spine, grateful she had not compressed her breathing with a corset. In the heat, such a garment could have proven deadly.
And yet, she's unconscious. Even without a corset, it wouldn't be hard to be overcome by this heat. Fairly confident she could be moved safely, Gavin gently rolled the woman onto her back, and then stared down in amazement.
“Annabelle?” he breathed, formality forgotten as he waved the pungent-smelling bottle under her nose.
Her eyes remained shut, though a tremor in her eyelids spoke of returning consciousness. Even in the uncertain light, her pale skin had a grayish tint.
Without a second thought, he scooped her into his arms and hurried her out of the sweltering attic, down the reverberating staircase to the upper floor of the boarding house. Down the hall, he found an empty bedroom with the door standing open and stepped inside. Laying his patient on the bed, he jerked roughly on the bell cord that hung beside it.
Gavin regarded her face, looking for signs of any injury. A red spot on her forehead indicated where she'd landed, but it didn't look serious. With her eyes closed, darkly golden lashes lay against her cheeks, and her plump lips parted slightly. She looked lovely, not ghastly as she had at the fire.
It was fatigue and soot that altered her face, he realized. In reality, she's neither as pale nor as thin as I first thought. And yet, all was not well with her, for she remained unconscious.
A bowl of tepid water stood at the ready in a commode along the adjoining wall. Gavin opened the top three buttons of Annabelle's threadbare blouse and scooped up water in his cupped hand, splashing it on her throat and collarbone.
Annabelle's eyelids fluttered again, and one eye opened a slit.
“Are you among the living?” he asked.
Annabelle's lips opened, but instead of words, a massive rumble rolled up from her stomach.
“Oho, is that why you fainted?” he demanded.
Annabelle's pale face pinkened. “Sorry.”
“What for?” he asked. “For being hungry? I'm certain it's not a choice you made willingly. Is work hard to come by? I notice you've traveled all this way.”
“Work is…” She coughed, cleared her throat, and tried again. “Work is the same as always. If I could do more of it, it would be better, but I keep getting called away to help the suddenly-dead pass on. There have been three in the last month or so.”
“Including the fire where we met?”
She nodded.
“That is a lot, but it's the heat of summer, and people are fragile. I imagine it's not unusual, right?”
“Of course not,” she replied, sounding agitated. Her shoulders twitched as though trying to rise.
“I've lived in Texas a number of years.” She gave up her restless movements and sank deeper into the pillows.
Gavin laid a calming hand on her arm. “Easy, there now. Easy. Let's get you settled a bit. You're here to banish a ghost, right? For pay?”
“Not really,” Annabelle muttered. “I wanted to help, so I agreed to work in exchange for train fare to town and accommodations while I'm here. Mrs. Johnson promised me a meal after I finished my task.”
“Good idea.” Gavin grinned, trying to soothe her. She smiled back cautiously. “Let's see if we can extract that payment in advance though. It is in advance, right?”
Annabelle nodded. “I knew I wasn't in good shape, after hours on the early train, and nothing to eat since breakfast, and then it was so hot in that attic…”
“It's daytime, silly girl. You should wait until night. Put on a better show.”
“Light, dark—doesn't matter to spirits, or to me. I can see them either way. Plus, I'm not putting on a show.” All this Annabelle muttered in a low voice and flat inflection that suggested she'd heard such ideas before.
“I know you're not putting on a show,” Gavin agreed jovially, “and you know you're not, but have you considered that it might be a bit more… lucrative, if you acted like you were? You know… carry around a squirrel skull and light some candles. Mutter some nonsense. Then, send the family out of the room and really get to work.”
“That's ridiculous,” Annabelle snapped, struggling again to sit up. Once more her strength seemed to fail her, and she slumped back onto the bed.
“We need to get you some food before we argue about your employment strategy,” Gavin suggested.
Annabelle tilted her head on the pillow, staring at the ceiling plaster. “I hate this.”
“Poverty is not an enjoyable state,” Gavin agreed, patting her hand.
“Who rang that?” Mrs. Johnson bustled into the room. “Oh, Dr. Morris. What's wrong with the ghost chaser?”
“Miss Smith is about to perish from starvation. Between that and the heat, she found herself overcome. I hear you agreed she could work for room and board. Well, if you want your ghost banished, you're going to have to provide some lunch in advance. It's well after noon, nearly dinner time.”
The woman's mouth sagged open, shut, and opened again, but no sound emerged.
“Now, if you're worried about Miss Smith collecting her… ahem… payment and leaving, let me assure you, she wouldn't do that. She's a high-class medium and cannot bear to see spirits suffering. Your poor ghost will be headed off to a better place tonight, when the weather cools off.”
“How do you…” Mrs. Johnson spluttered.
“I've seen her work. She's excellent. You're most fortunate she came all the way from Fort Worth to help you, and for no money at all. However, as her doctor, I must advise that she not work until she's recovered from her fainting spell. That means a decent meal and a comfortable place to cool off.”
“Well… ummm…. All right. This way, please.”
“Can you stand, Miss Smith? Gavin asked graciously, extending his arm.
Instead of taking the offered limb, Annabelle grasped his hand. The warmth of her skin caused his to tingle, and he began to feel a bit dizzy. If I didn't know it was nonsense, I would think she's drawing physical energy from the touch. Indeed, Annabelle levered herself upright with more strength than he'd seen during this entire encounter, and rose to her feet, swaying, but not dangerously.
“It was too hot to cook today,” Mrs. Johnson explained. “Dinner tonight is just sandwiches and salad, and a few berries for dessert.”
Only because he was looking directly at her did Gavin see Annabelle's eyes go wild for a moment. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded completely composed. “That will suffice. I'm hardly fussy.”
Still clinging to Gavin's hand, she led him out of the room, following the owner. As they emerged from the bedroom, another door creaked open, and an older woman, whose curly hair had begun to escape its pins from the weight of her sweat, stalked into the hallway. She regarded Annabelle and Gavin with a sour frown, her gaze lingering on Annabelle's throat, still exposed where Gavin had opened the top buttons to apply water. Annabelle flushed, dropped his hand, and refastened her bodice.
They made their way slowly down the stairs into the parlor, where Mrs. Johnson ushered them to a seat on the sofa.
“It's too early to go to the dining room, and the tenants won't appreciate it, so I'll bring you two your plates here.” She bustled out of the room.
Annabelle turned to face Gavin. “I thought you didn't believe in what I do.”
“I'm not entirely clear how I feel about it,” he admitted, “but there was a time or two when I—” he broke off, feeling heat rise in his face.
“Yes?” she pressed.
“Well, I thought I saw… something. Maybe a heat shimmer. I don't know.”
Annabelle raised her eyebrows and turned on the rose-printed upholstery. “You saw something?”
“Who knows?” Gavin shrugged and tried to backpedal. “After that fire, hot spots were likely.”
“Over a cellar filled with cool air?” Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Keep trying, Gavin, but I'm starting to think you may not be as skeptical as you think you are.”
“Yes, I am,” he muttered, and then he noticed Annabelle scrutinizing him closely. “What?”
She shrugged. “Ask me again another time. I don't think you would appreciate the answer today. So, Doctor Morris, what brought you my way in my moment of need? Aren't there other doctors in this town? What happened to your friend?”
“We parted ways,” Gavin explained, glad to leave off the conversation of whether or not he'd abandoned his skeptical ways. “He was ready to move on, back East, to his family, but I've found I rather like Texas. The mayor asked me to stay, and I decided I would. The better question is, what brought you this way? We're nowhere near Fort Worth.”
Annabelle shrugged. “I follow the work, that's all. I knew from Mrs. Johnson's description of its behavior that the ghost was suffering. I thought it might help my professional reputation to give a demonstration.”
Gavin regarded her, eyeing the slender frame that had more womanly curves than he'd realized, but still not quite enough. “I think you should put on a bit more spectacle,” he suggested again. “People like that sort of thing. Back East, mediums and séances are all the rage. Texas towns are growing, and the women are hungry for something 'civilized' to do, to counter the heat and the dust.”
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