Texas Gothic - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,58

Er, yesterday,” he amended, glancing at his watch.

He turned to say goodbye to Phin, but she’d already disappeared into her workroom. With a rueful smile, he told me instead, “See you tomorrow, chica. Don’t forget to lock up.”

I followed him, said goodbye to Jennie and Dwayne, too, then closed the door and leaned against it. We never locked up Goodnight Farm. I wasn’t going to start for a ghost. Not that it would do any good if the shored-up security system failed.

As I headed for the workroom to look for Phin, I ran my hand over the back of Uncle Burt’s rocker. I didn’t pretend to understand how much of the real Uncle Burt remained, whether it was a shadow of his soul or just a wisp of residual personality, but I’d always tried to stay on good terms with whatever it was. I believed souls had someplace better to be, but who knows? If I loved someone like Burt loved Aunt Hyacinth, maybe I’d hang around, too.

But Uncle Burt fit here like a puzzle piece. The other did not. There was nothing peaceful or contented about whatever shred of a man had stood gasping and grasping in front of me. What remained of him was wretched desperation.

Look for me.

The cold in my chest expanded. I took a deep breath—a whiff of denim and violets pushed it back.

The ghost could have been talking to anyone. His image might play like a recording when someone stumbled over that spot at any particular time. So why did it feel like he had been talking to, waiting for, me?

“You’re going to have to do it, you know.”

I jumped, shaking myself back to the present. “Jeez, Phin! That was freaky even for you.” She stood in the door of her workroom, and I glared at her for scaring me, and speaking directly to my thoughts. “You haven’t suddenly added mind reading to your talents, have you?”

“Pfft. My talents are actually useful and reliable. Are you going to get with the program?”

Casting a longing look toward the stairs and my bedroom at the top of them, I asked, “Does the program involve going to bed and thinking about it in the morning?”

She ignored the question. “This is the second time the ghost has singled you out.”

I sighed. “Thanks for that, Phin. It will really help me get to sleep.”

“Why are you being so obtuse?” She folded her arms when I didn’t answer. “I know the implication has occurred to you. You’re not normally an idiot.”

“No,” I said, “but I’m very tired, so why don’t you explain it to me?”

“We already talked about this,” she said with a huff. “Hauntings are usually very localized. Cold spots, apparitions, orbs, knocks and noises … they all tend to happen in the same place, often around the same time under the same conditions.”

“I remember all that,” I said, because I wanted her to get to the point. A point I dreaded, because she was right. Since the ghost had appeared in my room, I hadn’t faced the full meaning. I’d sat on the knowledge, beaten it down, drowned it out by arguing with cranky cowboys and tinkering with Phin’s gadgets. I’d smiled right at Mark and told him not to worry. But I knew what she was about to say. “So just say it.”

“The ranch may be haunted, Amy. But it’s obvious that you are, too.”

17

at way-too-early o’clock, I stumbled down the stairs, trying to figure out why the dogs weren’t barking at the racket from the front of the house. I finally realized the thumping came from the door and threw it open to find my cousin Daisy on the porch, nearly hidden by the big cardboard box in her arms.

“You look awful,” she said, hardly glancing at me as she breezed in. With my rumpled pajamas and bleary eyes, I didn’t exactly make her a liar. “Clearly I’ve arrived just in time.”

I closed the door and followed her into the living room, where she set the box on the coffee table. Daisy was a lot to take, even on a good day. She was a high school senior, but she’d skipped a grade, so she wasn’t quite seventeen yet. With her very red hair, black tee, short plaid skirt, and platform Mary Jane shoes with knee socks, not to mention all the spikes, she looked like the Goth love child of a Catholic schoolgirl and Lucille Ball.

“I didn’t sleep at all last night,” I said. “Also, Phin’s