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Authors: Robin D. Owens
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help.”
They got into the canyon proper and Zach’s breath caught at the same time hers did
at the striking rock formations.
“Amazing,” Zach said.
“Yes. Incredible rocks and gorgeous views, even more so with the aspen turning gold.”
They drove past the firehouse built into the side of a hill, the mining museum, and
the community center—also underground—passed ponds on their right where Willow Creek
was, then bushes masked the running water. The asphalt road gave way to packed dirt
with some sharp rocks and Zach slowed, taking more care.
“This was Stringtown,” Clare said. “It was up against the canyon walls, though I think
the stream moved some. There was both a fire and a flood in 1892, the year of Robert
Ford’s death, and the fire took out most of Jimtown.”
“Jimtown?”
“Jimtown or Gintown.”
“I’d suspect the latter was the first name, then it slid into respectability.”
“Probably. We’re heading for the Bachelor Historic Driving Loop. It starts where the
creeks join.”
“Lots of history. Still no ghosts?”
“No, and it’s creeping me out.” Because there should be plenty in such a mining town.
How soon she’d become accustomed to catching sight of shadows from the corners of
her eyes.
Ahead of them the road split. On the right above the confluence of the streams, it
became a large parking area before snaking up another canyon. On the left, it narrowed
and headed around a rocky cliff.
“This is it,” Clare said at the same time the nav did. She turned it off. The roads
were sparse enough that they wouldn’t be needing it.
Zach pulled into the lot where the point of the cliff twisted into a spar, thrusting
into the sky. He parked near the three covered tourist information billboards, farther
away from the triangle of land piled with rocks that dropped off into the junction
of the streams. Where Caden had said the scary spot had been.
Zach got out and so did Clare. Drawing in a big breath of cool and misty air that
had nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with oncoming winter, Clare stretched.
Naturally, she’d gravitate to the billboards, but she set her shoulders and followed
Zach toward the point of land in a Y with the arms embracing them. Mid-sized sharp
boulders were stacked near the drop-off, no doubt in an endeavor to keep people from
standing at the very edge and falling into the shallow but tumbling stream.
Bushes mostly concealed East Willow Creek, the one against the canyon wall.
“Feel anything?” Zach asked, swinging his cane a little like he might be dowsing,
sensing energies or something.
“Do you?” she shot back.
His smile was quick, sincere, lethal. “I asked you first.”
So she gingerly walked around, closing her eyes now and again.
“Don’t do that,” Zach said roughly. “Not when I’m here to help you.” He took her arm
and began to walk her around and she kept her eyelids shut. “Stop. Here.” She scowled.
“Just the faintest tingle.”
He let go of her and when she opened her eyes he was several feet ahead of her and
squatting. They were behind the billboards. “Look here,” Zach said. “No grass here
and there should be. Patch of bare ground, probably a lot of trampling went on.”
Clare’s stomach dipped and her throat tightened. “You think that’s where the murder-suicide
took place.”
“That’s right.” He stood and walked back up to her. “Let’s look at this outcropping.”
So they did. Straight on it blended against the rest of the cliff; from the east side
it wasn’t too imposing, just part of the cliff. And when Clare looked at it at one
particular angle, when it was framed between two other jutting rocks, it appeared
to be a triangular witch’s hat.
“If I were an evil ghost, I’d hang out here.”
She answered through cold lips. “If you were stationary. From what Caden says, it’s
not stationary.”
Zach’s brows
They got into the canyon proper and Zach’s breath caught at the same time hers did
at the striking rock formations.
“Amazing,” Zach said.
“Yes. Incredible rocks and gorgeous views, even more so with the aspen turning gold.”
They drove past the firehouse built into the side of a hill, the mining museum, and
the community center—also underground—passed ponds on their right where Willow Creek
was, then bushes masked the running water. The asphalt road gave way to packed dirt
with some sharp rocks and Zach slowed, taking more care.
“This was Stringtown,” Clare said. “It was up against the canyon walls, though I think
the stream moved some. There was both a fire and a flood in 1892, the year of Robert
Ford’s death, and the fire took out most of Jimtown.”
“Jimtown?”
“Jimtown or Gintown.”
“I’d suspect the latter was the first name, then it slid into respectability.”
“Probably. We’re heading for the Bachelor Historic Driving Loop. It starts where the
creeks join.”
“Lots of history. Still no ghosts?”
“No, and it’s creeping me out.” Because there should be plenty in such a mining town.
How soon she’d become accustomed to catching sight of shadows from the corners of
her eyes.
Ahead of them the road split. On the right above the confluence of the streams, it
became a large parking area before snaking up another canyon. On the left, it narrowed
and headed around a rocky cliff.
“This is it,” Clare said at the same time the nav did. She turned it off. The roads
were sparse enough that they wouldn’t be needing it.
Zach pulled into the lot where the point of the cliff twisted into a spar, thrusting
into the sky. He parked near the three covered tourist information billboards, farther
away from the triangle of land piled with rocks that dropped off into the junction
of the streams. Where Caden had said the scary spot had been.
Zach got out and so did Clare. Drawing in a big breath of cool and misty air that
had nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with oncoming winter, Clare stretched.
Naturally, she’d gravitate to the billboards, but she set her shoulders and followed
Zach toward the point of land in a Y with the arms embracing them. Mid-sized sharp
boulders were stacked near the drop-off, no doubt in an endeavor to keep people from
standing at the very edge and falling into the shallow but tumbling stream.
Bushes mostly concealed East Willow Creek, the one against the canyon wall.
“Feel anything?” Zach asked, swinging his cane a little like he might be dowsing,
sensing energies or something.
“Do you?” she shot back.
His smile was quick, sincere, lethal. “I asked you first.”
So she gingerly walked around, closing her eyes now and again.
“Don’t do that,” Zach said roughly. “Not when I’m here to help you.” He took her arm
and began to walk her around and she kept her eyelids shut. “Stop. Here.” She scowled.
“Just the faintest tingle.”
He let go of her and when she opened her eyes he was several feet ahead of her and
squatting. They were behind the billboards. “Look here,” Zach said. “No grass here
and there should be. Patch of bare ground, probably a lot of trampling went on.”
Clare’s stomach dipped and her throat tightened. “You think that’s where the murder-suicide
took place.”
“That’s right.” He stood and walked back up to her. “Let’s look at this outcropping.”
So they did. Straight on it blended against the rest of the cliff; from the east side
it wasn’t too imposing, just part of the cliff. And when Clare looked at it at one
particular angle, when it was framed between two other jutting rocks, it appeared
to be a triangular witch’s hat.
“If I were an evil ghost, I’d hang out here.”
She answered through cold lips. “If you were stationary. From what Caden says, it’s
not stationary.”
Zach’s brows
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