Page 10 of Ghosted Cowboy
"Your life has gotten very weird very fast," Ellie observed.
"Tell me about it."
BY EVENING, I'D ALMOSTconvinced myself the gothic bouquet and note were a twisted Halloween prank. Almost.
The walk to the theater took ten minutes through the cooling October dusk. Fog drifted up from Caddo Lake, blurring the edges of the square and softening the streetlights into halos. Midnight Springs always felt dreamlike on nights like this.
Inside, rehearsal was about to begin. Vivian stood center stage with her script, calling out last-minute notes to the scattered cast.
Then I saw Ransom.
My breath caught. I forced myself to keep walking, to look casual, even as my pulse hammered and heat crept up my neck.
He wore jeans and a dark flannel, talking to Vivian near the stage steps. I walked past him without making eye contact, focusing on the director instead.
Get it together, Rainey.
"There she is!" Vivian clapped her hands. "Perfect. Tonight we're staging the summoning scene. Laurel, you're the fortune teller trying to contact the spirit world. Rainey, you're desperate to reach your lost love. We'll use the Ouija board from yourestablishment—so glad Rose found one when I sent her the request. And real candles, of course. Authenticity is everything."
Great. Because nothing said "safe working environment" like open flames in a building that was barely code-compliant.
We took our positions. Vivian had set up a small table center stage with Laurel's crystal ball and the antique Ouija board I hadn’t even been aware we carried. Tall tapers ringed the space, their flames casting dancing shadows across the old velvet curtains.
"Remember," Vivian called from her seat in the third row, "Evangeline is consumed by grief. She can't move on. She needs to know why Silas left her, why he died. Channel that desperation."
Desperation. Yes. I could do desperation. Especially since I was currently desperate for the leading man to stop looking at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
Laurel sat at the table, her hands hovering over the crystal ball. In costume—layers of scarves and dark fabrics—she looked like an actual Victorian-era psychic. "Close your eyes, my dear. Open your heart to what lies beyond the veil. Let the ghosts of the past come forth."
I did as she said, trying to sink into Evangeline's grief. The candle smoke created shapes in the darkness behind my eyelids. The theater creaked and I heard footsteps far off.
Then the power cut out.
Total darkness. Not even the emergency lights clicked on.
My pulse kicked hard and my eyes flew open.
"Everyone stay calm," Vivian called. "Probably just a breaker. Mason, can you—"
"Rainey." The whisper came from everywhere and nowhere. Soft. Sinister. I couldn't identify the voice.
I went cold.
Then the flood lights flickered back on, harsh and sudden after the darkness.
And there, across the long antique standing mirror we'd brought for one of the saloon scenes, scrawled in what looked like red lipstick: BELL - LEAVE THIS STAGE OR ELSE.
The theater erupted into chaos. People talking over each other, Vivian demanding to know what happened, Darcy filming everything from the lighting booth with her phone.
I froze, staring at the message, at the red smears that looked too much like blood, at the violation of it all.
Then Ransom was there.
He vaulted onto the stage in one smooth motion, his body positioning itself between me and the rest of the theater. His hand found my arm, warm and solid and real.
"You okay?" His voice was low, just for me.
I should've pulled away, told him I was fine, I didn't need protecting, I could handle this myself.
