I tried to picture the calendar in my thoughts, though days and nights had begun to blur. “You’re right.” Finding it painful to look at him, I began picking my way through the cemetery. “I suppose this will be good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye?” He stayed at my side, so close I could feel the tickle of his arm hairs on mine. “Miss Fei-Yen, you did me and my family a great service, and got yourself killed for it. By my estimation, I’ll be in your debt for some time. Ages, even. It’d be difficult to pay off my dues if I’m half a continent away.”
My feet stalled. I looked up.
James was right. He was in my debt. And yet he didn’t seem at all upset to find himself beholden to the will of a wandering ghost.
He smiled the same smile that I remembered from last fall and tipped his invisible hat. I felt the pull of him, drawing me closer.
This time, when he held out his hand, I took it.
My husband and I go on a lot of road trips together, but one of our most memorable was the drive from Minnesota to our home in the Pacific Northwest that took us through Deadwood, South Dakota, for the first time. After all the prairies and cornfields, entering the ominous Black Hills and driving into Deadwood Gulch felt like going back in time — at that moment, riding in a horse-drawn carriage would have felt more appropriate than my VW Bug. I became fascinated with the city that prides itself on its reputation as the last great Wild West town. Sure, the slot machines are now electronic and prostitution has been outlawed for over half a century (though the last brothel didn’t officially close until 1980), but you can still sense the area’s rich, often-savage history around every corner. It’s in the imposing hills that creep right up to the edges of town. It’s in the Victorian architecture rebuilt in brick and stone after a fire claimed the original timber structures. It’s in the shady graveyard that marks the final resting places of gunslingers like Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane.
Conducting research for this story was a joy — one of those times when it was difficult to stop researching and start writing. The characters and the story are entirely fictional, and some liberties have been taken, but I’ve done my best to write a story that would fit in with the history texts (supernatural elements notwithstanding). Though the Black Hills gold rush lasted only a few years, it left Deadwood with an abundance of tales full of real-life bandits, brawls, and all those assorted vices that usually follow in the wake of man’s greatest weakness: gold.
They now say there are more liars to the square inch in Alaska than any place in the world.
— Seattle Daily Times, August 17, 1897
WHEN THE STRANGER WHIPS OUT A pistol, everyone hits the floor.
Everyone except John and me, that is. He goes perfectly still, one thin brown hand flat on the table. The gun is pointing straight at him, yet his dark eyes are calm. Me, I just feel exasperated. It’s been such a long day, and it’s only midnight. “Put that down,” I say in my sharpest tone. I touch my hip and feel the reassuring handle of my bullwhip, looped to my belt.
The newcomer’s gaze bobs around the dimly lit tavern and finally locates me beside the bar. “You trying to tell me what to do, little girl?” He gives me a once-over that might be insulting, except he can’t focus properly. Still, the gun droops in his hand.
“I’m not trying; I’m giving you an order.” I point to the handwritten sign tacked above the bar:
His gaze slides over the sign, and a faint frown appears between his eyebrows. Good grief. Too pie-eyed to read.
“I’ll save you the time,” I snap. “Put the gun away.”
He glares at John. “I can’t drink with that dirty Indian in the room.”
My pulse rockets. “Then get the hell out of my saloon!”
“This here is your saloon? Thought it was called . . .” He scratches his head with his free hand.
Leave it to a drunk to focus on petty details. “Garrett’s Saloon. And I am Miss Lily Garrett. Proprietress.” As I speak, I uncoil my bullwhip. It’ll be downright satisfying to use it on this pustule of a human being.
“Co-proprietress,” corrects a sweet, husky voice. My sister swishes into the building on a gust of frozen air and takes the stranger’s arm as though they’re off for a stroll through Central Park. “Allow me to introduce myself: Miss Clara Garrett, co-proprietress. You must be new to Alaska, Mr. . . . ?”