Nick sat against his mahogany desk, thumbs hooked in the belt on either side of the buckle that looked like two crossed revolvers. As the stress mounted, old habits tended to kick in, and the cowboy posturing was one of the oldest.
“Drake is back,” he said, glancing quickly at each of them.
Shelby sported cutoff denim shorts that revealed a good inch or two of ass, and a white tank top with no bra. Her nipples pushed up right into the fabric to say, “Hello, how do you do.” It was an annoying habit of hers, purposefully putting herself on display in front of him. Her dark hair had been drawn back into a simple tail, showing off the smooth, sensuous lines of her face, looking unchanged from the day he had met her seventy-eight years ago.
Reggie’s transparent form sat in the old leather wingback in the corner. He was dressed in the same old, faded overalls, T-shirt, and leather work boots he had died in, forever Nick’s right-hand man.
Cynthia sat in the chair immediately in front of him, her legs demurely crossed, gaze curious and calm. Only the arms crossed over her chest gave any indication of her seriousness. Nick knew that irritation lay ready in waiting, crouched just beneath the surface.
Shelby’s relaxed nonchalance evaporated. “How do you know?”
“Someone found a twelve-year-old boy, drained of blood, sitting up against a tree in Garibaldi Park this morning. I felt Drake on him. I sensed Drake… a couple days ago but had no luck tracking him down.”
Reggie made a low whistling sound, and Shelby straightened up stiff as a lightning rod. “Two days? And you didn’t tell me?” She pointed an accusatory finger at Nick. “You asshole! You promised you would tell me the minute he was back again.”
“There’ve been whispers lately,” Reggie said in agreement. “But these days, the restless folks whisper about a lot of things, and, honestly, I’d not been paying attention to them. I suppose I should’ve checked on things.”
Nick shrugged at them. Knowing two days ago would have served no useful purpose other than putting them in harm’s way even sooner. “It wasn’t clear, and more than likely you would have just gotten yourself in trouble before we realized what he is up to this time. I figured it was better to risk just one of us until absolutely necessary.”
“Ah.” Shelby’s voice teetered on the fine edge of fury. “And if you’d managed to get yourself killed before letting us know what the fuck was going-”
“Hey,” Cynthia’s calm and cool voice interceded. There was a hint of fear. This was beyond Shelby’s usual acerbic attitude toward Nick. She never got downright pissed at him. “Aren’t we a team here? I mean
… what exactly is going on? I’m a little disappointed to be left out of the loop on this, Nick.”
He folded his arms across his chest, a futile attempt to ward off the negative emotions tightening up every muscle in his gut. How many times had he considered asking Cynthia to find another job, trying to find a good way of letting her go, and then not being able to do it? It was difficult to let go of someone who knew about the dark parts of your heart and accepted them anyway. And then part of it was just plain, old-fashioned honesty. He did not have the wherewithal to lie to Cynthia.
“Cyn. This case is potentially very dangerous, and it’s also very personal,” he said, forcing himself to look down at those wide, accepting brown eyes. “After today, if you decide to pack up and leave, there’ll be no hard feelings from any of us. Honestly, I’d feel better if you did.”
She leaned back, eyes narrowing. “You’re serious.”
“I’m not going to ask you to stay.”
Shelby laughed. “Oh, come on, Nick. Like Cyn would refuse you anything.”
He shot her a hard glance, which was met with equal fire.
“Why don’t you just tell me the whole story and let me decide for myself?” Cynthia said.
Nick shifted against the desk. Nothing like having the two people you cared about most in the world seriously annoyed with you at the same time. “You have to promise me, Cynthia. If you have any doubts, any reservations at all about this after today, you will-”
“Christ, Nick. Just tell her already, and make it the short version. The last time you sat down and told this sob story, it took five and a half hours.”
Except I was lying down in your bed and figuring I was dead. Nick bit off the reply that burned on his tongue. “Fine. The short version. Stop and ask me a question about any of this. Shel and Reg know the story.”
Cynthia smiled. “Talk away, hon. I’m all ears.”
Shelby walked out of the office and returned a moment later with two more beers. In the meantime, Nick turned to Reggie. “Reg, when you decide to leave, I need you to go check out the FBI headquarters downtown. Typical snoop run. I want to know who is on the case, what they’ve got, etcetera. Be careful though. They have a medium working with them now, and she’s pretty strong. Might give the locals on the scene a look, too, just in case.”
His silvery head nodded. “I’m all over it, boss. Was just waiting for the go-ahead.” He waved his fingers at Cynthia and Shelby. “Bye, girls. Enjoy story time with Uncle Nick.” His body slowly sank through the chair and vanished.
With a fresh beer in his hand, Nick opted to stand behind his desk to allow for some pacing. Telling Cynthia this information was just too nerve-wracking to be parked in a chair. Shelby was the only other person he had ever told, and look what had happened. Sadly, it was too late to turn back the clock two days and fire Cynthia. Even then, it was possible she had already been marked. Cynthia sat on the edge of her chair now, hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked more curious than anxious, and Nick wished he could make her feel the opposite. She needed to be worried. She needed to know that leaving was the best option, and sooner rather than later.
Shelby sipped at her beer, standing with nonchalant grace in the corner. “Anytime, babe. Drake’s probably already planning number two as we speak.”
“Shelby,” he said but realized then that arguing was pointless. She was just looking for an excuse to jump down his throat for breaking his promise to notify her. Nick heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Anyway. The short-and-sweet version.” A long draught on the beer wetted his already dry throat. “Short, at least.”
“Nick,” Cynthia said, forever the voice of tranquillity. “Just tell me, please.”
“Right. I know.” He blew out his breath again. It should not have been this hard the second time around. “I was a sheriff in Wyoming back in 1862.”
And so his story began.