I hoisted myself up to a stool and said, “What do you need?”
“Joe needs to have some letters delivered. Or the essence of them delivered, at least.”
“Okay,” I said.
Gram joined me on a neighboring stool. “A little of Joe’s story first, I suppose. He’s one of our unique ghosts, Betts. He remembers what he’s supposed to do every time he joins me . . . uh, us. He doesn’t remember his life, just this one purpose that he and I have been working on for decades. He doesn’t ever stay long; that’s why it’s taken us so many years. But with only three letters left, we might be able to get him taken care of on this trip.”
“Taken care of? What will happen when all the letters are delivered?”
“We don’t know,” Gram said.
“Not sure at all. I just know it’s something I’ve got to do,” Joe said.
“Why didn’t you get the letters delivered when you were alive?” I asked. Maybe because you are the ghost of Astin Reagal and you died on the trail, your deliveries being lost along the way?
“That’s part of what we don’t know,” Gram answered for Joe as she smiled at him.
I admired her attitude. Usually, Gram hadn’t expressed much patience with the ghosts, but it seemed she was actually attempting to be delicate or careful with Joe, wanting to make sure his feelings weren’t hurt. I wanted to know why—did she have a special fondness for this ghost, or did she just want to get rid of him as quickly as possible, and think the pleasant, polite road was the path easier traveled?
“Did you ever research his life? Is he buried in our cemetery?” I asked Gram.
Gram shook her head. “We don’t know. We don’t know Joe’s last name, but I suspect he’s buried somewhere in or around Broken Rope.”
I wondered what Jake could do with the minimal information of Joe, Pony Express rider. Could something that vague help him find more information about our ghost? If anyone could dig up something of value, Jake could.
I also wondered if Jake or Esther might have a picture or at least a passed-down description of what Astin Reagal looked like.
“If the rest of the facts are so unclear, how can you be sure that your name is Joe?” I said.
Joe shrugged. “I don’t have any idea. It’s just something I know. One of the few things I am certain of.”
But that didn’t necessarily mean it was factual. My doubts lingered. Strongly.
“Anyway, now that you’re here, Betts, I thought we could try something,” Gram said. “Joe always carries his letters in the pouch contraption that’s over his saddle.”
“The mochila.”
Gram blinked. “Is that what it’s called?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Huh. Well, he’s always had to read the letters to me because, of course, I can’t touch them. I can’t really read them either. I can see them, but they’re blurry. I wondered if they might become solid when you’re around, Betts.”
I slipped off the stool. “Let’s find out.”
We paraded through the kitchen and the front reception area to the outside of the building. The horse was still there, tethered and seemingly content, though even more dimensional. I’d never spent a lot of time around horses, but there were plenty in Broken Rope. I found them beautiful, with a wise aura, but intimidating. I’d ridden a little when I was a kid, but it had been a long time. I always kept a respectful distance, but I stepped a little closer to the ghost horse, and again it looked back into my eyes. I sensed that this creature had more answers to my questions about Joe than anyone else did. Too bad he couldn’t talk.