Page 2 of Ghosted Cowboy
Leading Brooke and Darcy through the shop felt like walking through a minefield. Every cutting comment, every backhanded compliment, every pointed reference to Brooke's "Hollywood connections"—it all landed like small explosions. I stayed in the doorway while they loaded two boxes of period items into Darcy's car, my jaw aching from clenching it.
Looking out the shop window, I watched them pull away. Brooke rolled down her window and called out with a wink, "See you tonight! I'll be sure to study your blocking. You know, just in case."
The door chimed again before I could fully exhale.
Dolores "Dee Dee" Crenshaw swept in, trailing expensive perfume and oversized ambition. Her silver-blonde hair was teased to impressive heights, her designer suit probably a knockoff but worn with such confidence it almost didn't matter. The real estate agent's expression showed too many teeth and zero warmth.
"Rose, wonderful. And Rainey's here too—even better." Dee Dee pulled out her phone, swiping to what looked like architectural plans. "I have the most exciting news. My clients from Tyler—the developers I mentioned?—they're even more interested now. They're prepared to make a very generous offer for this property."
My grandmother didn't look up from the brooch she'd returned to examining. "We're not interested in selling, Dee Dee. This shop will stay in the family."
"But darling, think of the opportunity! They're planning a boutique casino—very tasteful, very upscale. It would bring jobs, revenue, put our beloved small town on the map for more than just one festival a year."
"The answer is no." Gran's voice was quiet but final. "It was no last month, no last week, and it's no today."
Dee Dee's expression tightened. "Sometimes old buildings have accidents, Rose. Electrical fires, structural issues. It would be such a shame if anything happened. I trust you're properly insured for full value?"
A roar filled my head, but my voice stayed steady. "I think you should leave now." I stepped forward, placing myself between my grandmother and the real estate agent. "We're not selling. We're never selling."
Dee Dee studied me for a long moment, then shrugged. "Your loss. But when you change your mind—and you will—my number hasn't changed." She dropped a business card on the counter and left in another wave of perfume.
Gran waited until the door closed. "That woman has all the subtlety of a rattlesnake."
"Are you worried?" I picked up the business card and dropped it in the trash.
"About Dee Dee? No. About you?" Her gaze was knowing. "A little. You've barely said two words since I mentioned Ransom."
I busied myself straightening a display of velvet gloves, lining up each finger with care. "There's nothing to say. He left. End of story."
"Honey—"
"Gran, please. I have the rehearsal tonight. I need to focus on the show, not on..." I gestured vaguely. Not on the man who'd promised forever and disappeared. Not on the years of silence that followed. Not on how I still sometimes woke up reaching for someone who was never there.
Gran came around the counter and pulled me into a hug. "You're allowed to have feelings about this. You're allowed to be angry, or hurt, or—"
My phone buzzed. I pulled away to read the text from Vivian Crawford, the community theater's formidable director.
Reminder - cast meeting tonight - 7pm. Finally found our ghost cowboy! He's ideal. Almost TOO good. You're going to die when you see him. -V
"I have to go," I said. "I need to prep for tonight."
My grandmother squeezed my hand. "Rainey—"
"I'll be fine. I'm always fine."
It was only half a lie.
THE DAY'S HUMIDITYhad given way to evening's mercy. By seven o'clock, the October air had cooled enough that I'd grabbed a light sweater for the walk to the theater—one of those perfect East Texas autumn evenings when the temperature finally dropped from the eighties to the sixties, making you remember why you loved this season. Dense foliage threw shadows across the sidewalk, and somewhere in the distance, that oil derrick kept pumping its steady rhythm.
The Midnight Springs Community Theater had been built as an opera house in 1899, back when the town was flush with cotton money and railroad ambitions. Now the two hundred seats groaned under weight, the exposed rafters held shadows, and the whole building seemed to lean slightly to the left, looking weary from all those years.
But tonight, with candles lit for the séance scene we were blocking, it transformed into something eerie and otherworldly. The theater smelled like dust and old velvet and decades of memory—that particular mustiness of a building that remembered better days.
I stood center stage at my mark while Mason Davenport adjusted the overhead lights, his paint-stained hands steady on the ladder. Vivian sat in the third row as Clay Burnett, thestage manager, tracked our positions from the wings. The other actors waited for their entrances—June Caldwell going over her saloon owner's lines, Knox Phillips practicing his sheriff's drawl, Bennett Cooper mouthing his doctor's dialogue with exaggerated gestures. The old building settled around us, wood groaning here and there.
"More shadow on stage left," Vivian called to Mason. "This is a séance, not a birthday party. I want atmosphere, drama, danger! Remember, this is forMurder at Midnight Saloon—we need that Gothic Western feel!"
The door at the back of the theater opened.
