Page 1 of Ghosted Cowboy
Chapter One
Rainey
The taxidermied raven watched me with glassy black eyes, judging my every move. As if the universe hadn't already decided this morning was perfect for messing with me. I positioned the life-like bird among the vintage Halloween decorations in the front window of Midnight Curiosities, Gran's antique shop and the only place that had always felt like home. Victorian mourning jewelry—jet beads and hair lockets—hung around an antique masquerade mask painted in fading golds and blacks. Morbid enough for the season, elegant enough for my grandmother's standards.
Through the wavy glass of the 1888 storefront, I watched the town square transform. Workers balanced on ladders, stringing orange lights around the historic courthouse with its clock tower—hands frozen at midnight. Hay bales stood on corners like sentries. Enormous pumpkins and cornstalks flanked shop doorways. Spanish moss draped from the ancient oaks surrounding the square, and the morning fog from nearby Caddo Lake hadn't quite burned off yet, softening the edges of everything. The October air clung to my skin, warm and humid even though it was nearly November.
Beyond the square, past the line of Victorian storefronts, an oil derrick pumped steadily against the morning sky—the slow,rhythmic nod that marked East Texas as surely as the Spanish moss.
The Midnight Haunts Festival was coming, bringing with it the ten thousand tourists who would keep our dying town alive for another year.
"That's lovely, honey." My grandmother's voice drifted from behind the counter, where she examined a newly consigned brooch through her jeweler's loupe. At seventy-two, she still had steady hands and sharp vision—and still lived in the apartment above the shop where she'd raised me after my parents died. "Though I think the raven should face outward more. Let him watch the square."
I smiled. Rose Haywood was right, as usual. "Better?"
"Much." She set down the brooch—an Art Nouveau piece with tiny garnets—and peered up over her reading glasses. Her silver hair was pinned in its customary bun, and she wore one of her signature cardigans, this one a soft lavender that brought out the color in her eyes. "I hear the oldest Hollis boy is back."
Ransom. Here. In Midnight Springs.
My fingers went numb first, then the rest of me. The antique picture frame I'd been holding slipped right out of my hands.
It hit the wooden floor with a crack that echoed through the shop's tin ceiling, through my chest, through five years of pretending I was fine. The antique glass—original to the frame, irreplaceable—shattered into a dozen pieces.
"Oh, honey." Gran was already moving toward the back room for the broom.
I stared at the shattered pieces, my heart kicking hard against my ribs. Five years since Ransom Hollis left Midnight Springs without a word, without a text, without any explanation beyond the hole he'd torn through my heart.
"Marjorie says Ransom came back to help with the ranch after Grady's heart attack," my grandmother continued, her toneneutral—too neutral. "Good thing, too. Marjorie and Grady will need the extra hands, since Aiden's working roughneck shifts on an offshore rig out of Houston these days."
I managed to drag in a breath. The familiar scents of the shop—lavender sachets, old leather, lemon polish—usually grounded me, but not today. Not with Ransom's name hanging in the air like gun smoke.
"I hadn't heard." I bent to retrieve what was left of the frame, focusing on the gold leaf because looking at Gran would mean seeing the pity in her eyes.
She mercifully let me have that moment. "Are you ready for tonight's rehearsal? Vivian's been texting me about borrowing more props for the séance scene."
"She wants authentic late 19th-century pieces to set the mood." I examined the damaged frame, running my thumb along the ornate gold leaf that hadn't been affected. Maybe I could salvage it with modern glass. It wouldn't be the same, but at least the frame could be saved. "I told her she could take whatever she needs from the Halloween collection."
The bell above the purple door chimed, and I looked up to see Brooke Whitfield sashaying in like she'd forgotten she was entering a consignment shop and not a Milan runway. Her blonde bob was impeccably styled despite the October humidity, and her makeup looked professionally applied. Behind her, Darcy Coleman followed, phone already out and filming. The twenty-something lighting tech from the community theater filmed everything these days—behind-the-scenes content, she called it, trying to boost her presence on social media.
"Rainey! Rose!" Brooke's voice carried that theatrical projection she never turned off, bright and insincere. "Vivian sent us to collect some props for tonight." Her gaze swept the shop with barely concealed disdain. "Still playing dress-up in this dusty tomb?"
It was the first time Brooke had set foot in Midnight Curiosities since high school. After graduation, she'd fled to Los Angeles chasing her big break. When she came crawling back this summer to take over the high school drama teacher position from retiring Mrs. Nealy, our paths had crossed only once—at auditions for the festival's murder mystery production.
I'd gotten the lead. Brooke had gotten understudy.
"It's a consignment shop, Brooke. Also known as a successful business." I set the damaged frame on the counter and forced a smile. The cameo at my throat—one of Gran's pieces—felt too tight suddenly. "What does she need?"
"Oh, you know. Authentic pieces to make the show actually believable." Brooke ran one acrylic nail along a display of hatpins. "Not all of us are satisfied with amateur hour. Some of us have actual professional experience."
"Right. Your role on one episode of Baywatch." I shouldn't have said it, but there it was.
Brooke's expression turned predatory. "The second they saw me in that red swimsuit, the casting director said I had 'undeniable screen presence.' But I suppose you wouldn't know about that kind of validation, would you? You've never left Midnight Springs." She examined her manicure. "Though I suppose when you've never left a town of less than five thousand people, community theater might feel like Broadway."
Darcy angled her phone to capture the exchange, filming everything like her life depended on the content.
"Darcy's lucky I'm mentoring her in the industry," Brooke continued. "It's so important to give back to those less fortunate, don't you think?"
Gran appeared from behind a rack of consigned dresses circa 1920, her expression pleasant but her voice firm enough to cut glass. "The props are in the back room, organized by era. Takewhat the director approved and bring everything back in the same condition. Rainey can show you."
