Chapter 9
“Joe actually was a Pony Express rider?” I said to Gram as she, Joe, and I were gathered in the cooking school’s kitchen. Joe’s horse was tethered outside. Seeing the animal had given me a jolt when I’d pulled into the parking lot. It was almost dark when I’d arrived, and I learned quickly that even ghost horses became more dimensional, more solid in the dark for both Gram and me when I was around. I’d never seen a horse tethered to the sign outside the school, but I supposed many had been back when they were the main mode of transportation and the building had been a church.
After I parked the car, the temptation to move closer to the horse was irresistible. I was able to pet him, though there was no warmth or texture to the touch, and the horse, unlike the human ghosts, had no scent whatsoever, which I decided probably wasn’t a bad thing. But it was the horse’s eyes that garnered most of my attention anyway. With his, he looked directly into mine, blinking with an intelligence that was unsettling.
“Hey,” I said softly.
The horse nudged my shoulder with his nose and then blew a breath out that was made of only sound. There was no air attached to the long-dead animal.
I inspected the mochila over the saddle closely for any sign of tooled letters or initials, but this one wasn’t marked like the one we’d looked at in Jake’s back room.
“I’ll see you later,” I said before I stepped inside the school. I was almost sure that the horse nodded.
A faint scent of leather hung in the air, but it was just enough that I was reminded of a fellow law school student who had always worn an old leather jacket and carried an old leather briefcase. He also drank a twelve-pack of beer almost every night and slept during most of the classes. Unlike my case, where I chose to drop out, school administrators had strongly suggested to him that failing law school wasn’t the right path to becoming an attorney and had asked him to leave.
“We know exactly why Joe’s here,” Gram said when she saw me. “He and I have had a number of adventures together.”
“Okay,” I said as I looked at our new ghost. He wasn’t unfriendly, necessarily, but he didn’t act as though he cared much that I could see and talk to him. He was Gram’s ghost, and Gram’s ghost he would remain. “But I have to ask first, Joe—are you sure you aren’t Astin Reagal? Or maybe Charlie Reagal, though he might have changed his last name over time?”
Joe brought his grimy face up and his eyebrows together. “No, ma’am, I’m positive. Why do you ask?”
“Yeah, Betts, why do you ask, and who is Astin Reagal?”
The situation held too many coincidences to believe that was all it really was—could it be chance that two mochilas, two Pony Express riders, and two badges had come into my life in one day?
“I guess it’s not really important who Astin was other than the fact that he was an Express rider too,” I said. “But I just learned about him today.” I continued to inspect Joe and his painfully young face; young death was becoming more and more difficult for me to accept. I was looking for some sort of reaction, some telltale sign that he was lying about who he was. He seemed somewhat uncomfortable with my stare, but as I’d already noticed, he didn’t seem to much care if he and I could communicate or not. Maybe he just wanted me to leave. “I don’t think I’ve ever given Pony Express riders a second thought, and now . . .”
Gram shrugged. “It is Broken Rope.”
“It is,” I agreed. Sometimes that was enough to explain the string of strange occurrences in our town, but I still wondered.
“Anyway,” Gram continued. “Joe does need help.”
“Just a few more, Miz,” Joe added, a smile lighting his face and eyes.