Read Online The Night Is Watching by Heather Graham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heather Graham
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and closed the door.
She’d much rather deal with a ghost than a young would-be lothario.
She leaned against the door for a moment, and then moved away, quickly turning to lock it.
Experience had taught her. The living were usually far more dangerous than the dead.
Usually...
3
S loan’s house wasn’t but a mile down Main Street where it crossed Arizona Highway 101. Although it was in the countryside, it was also within walking distance of the Gilded Lily. Only two properties sat between him and the old town. One belonged to Silvia Mills—eighty-eight and spry—and the second belonged to Mike Addison, who now owned the old sheriff’s office and jail bed-and-breakfast. Mike was seldom at his property; his ranch overseer was a good man of mixed Mexican, American and Indian descent, Barry Garcia. Neither Mike nor Silvia ever had any trouble at their properties.
Sloan’s house was ranch-style and had been built in the 1860s, first as a one-room log structure, and then gradually, as the years had gone by, as a far larger home. The front door still opened into the main section of the house, a parlor with leather and wood furniture, Indian artifacts, a stone fireplace and a stone counter that separated it from the kitchen. Beyond that was a screened-in porch with a pool; to the left were two bedrooms and to the right was a master suite. It was a comfortable home and had always been in his family. Wherever he chose to go in the future, he’d hang on to the house. Johnny Bearclaw, an Apache who’d come to help his grandfather before Sloan made it home, still lived here. Johnny’s wife had died of cancer and he had no children; running Sloan’s property and working with the horses seemed to be a good life for him. He had an apartment above the barn, which was about an acre back on the land. He looked after the house and grounds and the two buckskin quarter horses Sloan kept, Kanga and Roo.
It was late. Sloan had been out far longer than he’d expected, not thinking he’d actually stop by the Gilded Lily for dinner. But as he’d driven through town from the sheriff’s office, the theater had beckoned him—mainly because he was fascinated by their visiting artist.
And he did have to eat. That was a fact. He knew he’d been rude, so maybe taking a few minutes to be...not rude would be a smart idea. He reminded himself that Logan would never have sent him his own Krewe member if she weren’t good. He’d gone to Logan because they both knew there were forces in the world that weren’t obvious, that weren’t necessarily seen by everyone. Logan had sent him Jane, therefore Jane was good.
It wasn’t good that bothered him.
It was the fear that finding the skull was all some kind of catalyst, that something evil had begun—or come to the surface—when the skull was found. Dread had been building within him and he’d sensed it, felt it in the air, almost smelled it...but been unable to pin it down.
Maybe that was why he’d wanted the damned skull out of town!
They weren’t dealing with a current tragedy, accident or murder. Whatever had happened to the living, breathing person they now sought to identify, it had happened way before they could make an arrest or bring any responsible party to justice. So why his concern?
He didn’t know.
He walked into the kitchen and opened his refrigerator. For a moment he froze, brought to full attention as something plopped onto the counter next to him.
He refrained from pulling his gun and smiled to himself, shaking his head.
“Cougar. Where were you? Sleeping on top of the fridge?”
He stroked the pitch-black cat with the huge gold eyes that sidled up to him.
“Sorry, how inconsiderate of me. I’ve eaten, you haven’t. Hang on, okay?”
Sloan found the cat’s bowl, which was shoved up against the cabinets beneath the sink, and filled it with cat food, then checked the automatic water dispenser he had for his pet. It was still almost full.
“You needed
She’d much rather deal with a ghost than a young would-be lothario.
She leaned against the door for a moment, and then moved away, quickly turning to lock it.
Experience had taught her. The living were usually far more dangerous than the dead.
Usually...
3
S loan’s house wasn’t but a mile down Main Street where it crossed Arizona Highway 101. Although it was in the countryside, it was also within walking distance of the Gilded Lily. Only two properties sat between him and the old town. One belonged to Silvia Mills—eighty-eight and spry—and the second belonged to Mike Addison, who now owned the old sheriff’s office and jail bed-and-breakfast. Mike was seldom at his property; his ranch overseer was a good man of mixed Mexican, American and Indian descent, Barry Garcia. Neither Mike nor Silvia ever had any trouble at their properties.
Sloan’s house was ranch-style and had been built in the 1860s, first as a one-room log structure, and then gradually, as the years had gone by, as a far larger home. The front door still opened into the main section of the house, a parlor with leather and wood furniture, Indian artifacts, a stone fireplace and a stone counter that separated it from the kitchen. Beyond that was a screened-in porch with a pool; to the left were two bedrooms and to the right was a master suite. It was a comfortable home and had always been in his family. Wherever he chose to go in the future, he’d hang on to the house. Johnny Bearclaw, an Apache who’d come to help his grandfather before Sloan made it home, still lived here. Johnny’s wife had died of cancer and he had no children; running Sloan’s property and working with the horses seemed to be a good life for him. He had an apartment above the barn, which was about an acre back on the land. He looked after the house and grounds and the two buckskin quarter horses Sloan kept, Kanga and Roo.
It was late. Sloan had been out far longer than he’d expected, not thinking he’d actually stop by the Gilded Lily for dinner. But as he’d driven through town from the sheriff’s office, the theater had beckoned him—mainly because he was fascinated by their visiting artist.
And he did have to eat. That was a fact. He knew he’d been rude, so maybe taking a few minutes to be...not rude would be a smart idea. He reminded himself that Logan would never have sent him his own Krewe member if she weren’t good. He’d gone to Logan because they both knew there were forces in the world that weren’t obvious, that weren’t necessarily seen by everyone. Logan had sent him Jane, therefore Jane was good.
It wasn’t good that bothered him.
It was the fear that finding the skull was all some kind of catalyst, that something evil had begun—or come to the surface—when the skull was found. Dread had been building within him and he’d sensed it, felt it in the air, almost smelled it...but been unable to pin it down.
Maybe that was why he’d wanted the damned skull out of town!
They weren’t dealing with a current tragedy, accident or murder. Whatever had happened to the living, breathing person they now sought to identify, it had happened way before they could make an arrest or bring any responsible party to justice. So why his concern?
He didn’t know.
He walked into the kitchen and opened his refrigerator. For a moment he froze, brought to full attention as something plopped onto the counter next to him.
He refrained from pulling his gun and smiled to himself, shaking his head.
“Cougar. Where were you? Sleeping on top of the fridge?”
He stroked the pitch-black cat with the huge gold eyes that sidled up to him.
“Sorry, how inconsiderate of me. I’ve eaten, you haven’t. Hang on, okay?”
Sloan found the cat’s bowl, which was shoved up against the cabinets beneath the sink, and filled it with cat food, then checked the automatic water dispenser he had for his pet. It was still almost full.
“You needed
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