The Ghost in the Machine

By Jane Senese

For two years, widowed photographer Naddy Lewison has lived with her husband's ghost. Now she finds herself drawn to a living man. Marshal Bill Crawford is handsome and cynical, yet beneath his bluff exterior Naddy sees a kind heart, and a loneliness to match her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091173

Book preview

Dedication

To all my fellow Quadra authors, past, present and future. Keep on writing!

Prologue

Acrescent moon hung over Lake Tahoe. Charlie Franklin picked her way down the narrow path, careful not to trip on loose stones. The darkness forced her to walk like a hobbled horse, and she couldn’t help but laugh inwardly. But for her arms held out to steady her, she had finally mastered the mincing gait of a proper young lady. Granted, proper young ladies did not leave the house bare-headed and bare-legged under their skirts. And they certainly did not go hiking in the bush at a quarter past midnight.

Connor led the way a few paces ahead. His steps showed no hesitation, even as the trail petered out into a fall of rocks at the top of the beach. But then that was only to be expected. The waning moonlight might as well have been broad daylight for him—except that he had probably forgotten what broad daylight looked like.

He turned back to help her over the rocks, and she saw that he was grinning.

Here, watch your step. Isn’t this perfect? I was afraid they had cut down the rest of the trees. Look at that water. You just don’t get water that clear anymore.

She would have to take his word for it. The lake was black as ink to her, save where it twinkled silver against the white stones. The far shore was lost in shadow, and only a handful of modest lights continued to burn from across the lake. Still, the night sky was crowded with stars. She tipped her head back and looked for familiar constellations. She had started making a study of astronomy in the last few weeks—just one of the natural consequences of marrying a night owl.

Charlie took a few experimental steps onto the beach. It was all pale sand and large, egg-shaped stones, polished smooth as marble by some ancient force. The thick stand of evergreens the lumber companies had yet to harvest shielded them from the small community of shops and hotels a half-mile to the north. She drew in a breath rich with the scent of pines.

Connor was right. She had fallen in love with the mountains, just as he had predicted. It had been less than two months since she ridden the train up from San Francisco, and already she couldn’t imagine going back to the crowded city. There were moments when she had to laugh at the path her life had taken.

She had grown up wild in the heavy air of the Bay, the tomboy substitute for the son her father had always wanted. Only on his deathbed did he seem to remember how the world treated single young women. So he had ordered her to the mountains of Nevada, expecting his kin to turn her into a proper lady with a chance at a decent marriage.

She wondered what her da would make of the future she had chosen. Had he known all along that she would find herself a husband who appreciated her rebellious nature? Was his ghost proud of her?

Well, if he wasn’t, that was his problem to solve, not hers. She was thoroughly sick of living her life trying to please someone else. She had found a man who demanded nothing from her save her happiness, or failing that, specific instructions on how he could achieve it.

And occasional forays outside of her comfort zone. She had nothing against swimming in principle. But she had always conceived of bathing as an activity to be done in bright sunlight, and in full costume.

She glanced back at her husband to find him already removing his clothes. He tossed his coat and shirt on a rock just shy of the sand line, then lowered his jeans and drawers with the same matter-of-factness. Charlie felt her cheeks prickle with sudden bashfulness.

She watched him stride down the beach, admiring the way his muscles moved under his skin, how the moonlight played off his back. He was halfway to the water when he realized Charlie hadn’t budged from the edge of the sand. You coming?

Gingerly, Charlie set down the towel she had been carrying. After a quick glance around the beach, she started to unbutton her heavy coat. Is that ’cause you’re a revenant, or just ’cause you’re a man?

Is what ’cause?

You’re just...walking around in the open, butt naked, not a care in the world.

He laughed at her chiding tone. Well, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before, is it?

That’s not the point. Anyway...we were indoors, then.

Connor gave a chuckle and slight shake of the head at feminine logic, then waded into the dark water.

How is it? Charlie asked.

He walked out until he was waist-deep, then dove in and started to swim. She heard no sharp hiss of pain over the splash, though Connor was hardly a reliable judge of temperature. Charlie slipped off her coat, then set about slowly unfastening her skirt. When she was stripped down to her knee-length shift, she hesitated, and cast a nervous glance at the line of trees. She crossed her arms across her breasts to fight off a shiver. Even at the height of summer, the nights were brisk six thousand feet above the sea.

Come on, Connor called, motioning her in.

What if someone comes by?

Charlie-girl, we are the only two people awake within a mile of here.

Maybe so, but an upbringing infused with a generous dose of shame regarding the naked body was not something shed overnight. But what if someone did? she pressed.

He sighed and raised his hand solemnly. I promise, if anyone else sees you, I will kill them and drink their blood. That better?

Yes, thank you, she replied archly, then reluctantly peeled off her shift.

The sand was cold on her bare feet. She tiptoed her way to the water with as much dignity as she could muster—dignity she promptly lost the moment she put her foot to the water.

"Son of a bitch!"

Connor burst out laughing. Charlie fixed him with a murderous glare and made another attempt. This time she got both feet wet before she had to retreat to dry land.

It’s not that cold, Connor teased.

"Only ’cause you’re cold-blooded!"

Connor slapped the water, sending a splash in her direction. Oh, come on, you big sissy.

Calling me what you call the dog is not going to get me in there any faster!

This time Connor held his tongue and waited patiently. Charlie winced and hopped in the ankle-deep water, then took the rest at a run before she could lose her nerve. Icy water stung her all over, and she started swimming in a furious dog-paddle to keep warm.

Connor held out his hands for her. He drew in a sharp breath as he gathered her up in his arms. You’re so warm, he murmured huskily.

I’m freezing! She hugged him tightly and felt little difference between his flesh and the cold lake water. When she kissed him, his lips were cold, but his tongue was scalding against hers, and she drank in the heat.

How are you liking your honeymoon, Mrs. Franklin? he asked when they parted.

I’m loving it, Mr. Franklin. She gave him a broad grin, but her teeth began to chatter. He laughed and she slapped a handful of water in his face.

Don’t make fun of me! It’s not my fault skinny girls can’t take the cold.

"You’re not skinny. You’re wiry," he uttered the last word in an approving growl.

She made a face. And that’s what every girl likes to hear.

It’s a good thing! Skinny couldn’t beat that bartender at arm-wrestling last night.

I still can’t believe you got me to do that.

"I can’t believe I got him to do it! But we got free drinks out of it, didn’t we?"

Mm, saved a whole quarter, you miser. Anyway I only beat him because he wasn’t expecting it.

So we’ll pick another mark next time. There’s more than enough saloons around here.

Uh-uh, you promised to sneak me into that men’s club.

Connor smirked. All right, but first you gotta buy some looser-fitting pants. ’Cause you can hide what you’re leading with, but you’ll never get in the door with what you got behind you. He gave one haunch an appreciative squeeze. Charlie laughed.

"See? That’s what a girl wants to hear. ‘You may be flat-chested and wiry as hell, but at least you’ve got a damn fine ass.’"

Damn fine, Connor agreed huskily. And the prettiest neck this side of Heaven. He pulled her close against him once more, so he could bury his face in the crook of that neck. She gave a shiver he took for encouragement, and he dipped his head to nuzzle her collarbone.

Her teeth began to chatter again.

Shall we go in now? he asked.

Yes, please!

They paddled back to the shore, and Charlie bolted for her towel. Her teeth were still clacking hard enough to hurt by the time she pulled on her clothes.

You’re not even shivering! she challenged as Connor calmly dried himself and shook the sand from his clothes.

Believe me, wish I could. His expression was stoic, but now that she looked, she could make out the pain just under the surface. You don’t realize how well it warms you up until you can’t do it anymore. Even rubbing my arms only spreads the cold around. He reached for his shirt and she saw how his fingers were beginning to clench up from numbness. He scowled and tried to shake the cramp out of his hand.

A swell of sympathy made her forget her own discomfort, and she took his hand and warmed it against her cheek.

Let’s get back to the hotel as fast as we can. Then you go wake the cook, and I’ll tip the maid enough to heat up a bath without complaining. Her eyes shone with mischief. And then...I thought up another game we can play.

Connor perked up at that. Oh, did you now? His lips parted over his sharp eyeteeth. The sight of them always brought out the devil in Charlie. How do you play this one?

The usual way. Only in this one you can bite me anywhere you want... she hesitated just long enough to let him consider the possibilities, then added, so long as you don’t break the skin.

He stared at her dumbfounded, before his knowing smile slowly returned. You’re trying to do me in, Mrs. Franklin. His hand slid up along her jawline to wrap about the back of her head. And what do I get if I win this game?

She grinned. Same as always, Mr. Franklin. You get to pick the next one.

One

Nadia Lewison awoke to the warmth of the morning sun on her face. She moaned softly and pressed her face against her pillow. Not yet. When she felt a pair of fingers playfully walk across her bare shoulder, she gave a groan of annoyance.

Time to get up, a voice purred against her hair.

Don’t want to. Groggily, she reached around behind her and took his hand. Stay here, she begged, as she pulled his arm snug about her waist.

His warm breath teased at the nape of her neck. But I have to go.

She felt him slowly disengage his hand from hers. She rolled over to stop him before he could rise. Walter... she mumbled, hearing the childish whine in her voice and hating herself for it. After ten years of gentle rebukes, her only excuse was that she would never be a morning person.

He was. He was made for the mornings. The same sunbeams that burned her eyes and set the dust motes dancing seemed to electrify him. The light turned his dark blond hair golden; his skin took on a youthful flush, the fine lines under his blue eyes seemed to melt away. He was handsome in all lights, her Walter, but never so radiant as at dawn.

She was seized by a need to tell him so, an irrational fear that this would be her last chance. But sleep had drugged her tongue, and she was only able to manage a slurred string of sounds she hoped he could decipher as You’re beautiful.

He grinned, wide enough to crinkle his eyes, and flash his crooked right incisor. For some reason she thought back to their early courtship, when he had been so reluctant to smile.

Sleepyhead. He bent his head to kiss her brow.

She snuggled against him gratefully, closing her eyes against a rain of feather kisses as he tried to coax her out of sleep. Their old morning ritual, from half-forgotten newlywed days.

She felt his touch withdraw. Don’t go...

But, Naddy, it’s time to wake up.

WHEN SHE LIFTED HER head from the pillow, Walter was gone. His side of the bed was still warm, the linens untucked. She stretched out across the bed, trying to find some imprint of his body in the mattress. A small hand knocked on the door. Ma?

I’m here, she called back. Reluctantly she sat up and righted her nightgown. I’m coming. Help Henry to wash and I’ll be down in the kitchen in a few minutes.

She quickly made the bed, a much more haphazard affair these days. As long as the sheets didn’t trail on the floor, she was happy. She washed at her bedside stand, then began to dress. She noted with some annoyance that her corset seemed a little loose of late. She had always prided herself on maintaining an exact figure.

She stared at the skirts hanging in the wardrobe. Every morning, the same choice—which one of the four variants of gray would it be? The smoky broadcloth? The pewter trumpet skirt? The slate walking suit? Some days it seemed she spent hours contemplating her options.

She finally settled on the black-and-white pinstripe with the lavender trim. Then she sat down at her vanity to scrutinize her reflection. Had any new lines of weariness etched their way under her eyes? She was losing the war against time, morning by morning. Her fair skin was slowly hardening in the dry climate, the bloom of youth had to be mimicked with carmine. It was a defect of her character, she knew, to worry about such things when she had a business and a family to tend to. It made no difference to her customers nor her children if she was a fresh beauty or a faded matron.

I’m only thirty-two, she mouthed to the mirror. But she felt so much older.

She brushed out her hair until it fell heavy as winter silk against her shoulders, and she took some consolation from its healthy sheen, the color of oiled teak. She gathered it into a long braid and pinned it up. The green glass bottle labeled Dr. Harper’s Female Nerve Tonic lay just beside her box of hairpins. She waited until she had finished with her toilette before filling the teaspoon and swallowing the bitter concoction. Only one spoonful for now. There was no need to be a glutton, even with one’s medicine.

She still looked too pale. With a tut of irritation she withdrew her little tin of rouge from the middle drawer and dabbed some color to her lips and cheeks. Satisfied she was at last ready to face the world, she slipped into her shoes and made her way downstairs.

The kitchen already smelled of breakfast. Freshly buttered toast sat on the table in front of little Henry, who ate greedily with his fingers. Eight-year-old Rose knelt in front of the wood stove, stoking a miniature fire.

Rose! Naddy scolded. Come away from there. You know you’re not to play with the matches.

Rose shot her a sullen glare. I only wanted to help.

Naddy shooed her away. Just go fill up the kettle.

Kettle’s already filled and on the stove. Aunt Vicky lets her girls light the stove!

Bully for Aunt Vicky. Naddy knelt to inspect the fire: Rose had built it well, she had to admit. I suppose you were planning on going to see your cousins this morning.

"Ma, I already told you. I’m going up to Gemma’s to work on our clubhouse."

Well, take Henry with you.

The four-year-old looked up at the sound of his name. His sister was far less pleased.

Ma! Can’t you just keep him with you?

Lovey, I have to work.

You always have to work!

Naddy sighed. Yes, Rose. I always have to work. Just like you always have to eat. Can’t do one without the other.

Can’t Aunt Vicky watch him?

She probably could. And then whisper around her tea circle how her brother’s lazy wife couldn’t be bothered to raise her own children. Naddy could hear Victoria’s scornful voice even now. And she only has the pair of them. Honestly, a decent woman considers children a blessing.

I am not going to impose on your aunt just because you are feeling selfish. I indulge you horribly during the school year, but it’s high time you started to pull your own weight come the summer. She tied on her apron and set to work making the oatmeal. Her daughter watched the process with barely concealed distaste.

Can’t we have bacon? Rose asked.

Not today. I’ll see if we can get some at the end of the week.

"We always used to have bacon."

She tried to keep her voice cheerful. Well, today we’re having some nice porridge with brown sugar and dried bananas. You like bananas, don’t you, Henry?

Henry grinned and clapped his hands. Bana-na-nas!

You’re saying it wrong. Dummy.

"I know that! Mumma thinks it’s funny."

No, she doesn’t.

Enough! Naddy snapped. Rose, sit down and hush up, or there’ll be no clubhouse today.

Rebellion flashed in the girl’s eyes. She had Walter’s eyes, pale and prone to hardness. You promised! she stamped her foot. You can’t take back a promise.

One more word, and you’re housebound for the week.

Rose crossed her arms defiantly and sat down with as much vehemence as her sixty-pound frame could muster. She could pass for a tiny adolescent with her hellcat temper. Naddy tried to think when this vicious, defiant streak had first begun to surface. Certainly when she started walking to school with Gemma and the other girls, all a grade ahead of Rose and full of false sophistication. Nothing good ever came of children trying to act older than they were.

No, truth be told, her fits of temper dated back at least two years.

Had it been two years already? Naddy did not like to think of the passage of time.

They ate in silence, but for Henry’s noisy lip smacking. More than once Rose shot him a look that said she longed to smack him. Naddy wondered what sort of complaints Rose unburdened on her friends. Or her aunt.

Her head was beginning to ache by the time she sent her children off for the day. But she resisted the temptation to slip upstairs and fortify herself with another spoonful of tonic. She couldn’t afford to be light-headed. It was time for work.

LEWISON PHOTOGRAPHY had been a bustling little enterprise when she had first joined her husband in Virginia City. But ten years of dwindling returns had emptied out the mining town. Anyone with foresight had fled for the coast long ago. And the few who were stuck on the Comstock, either out of habit or poverty, seldom wanted their pictures taken.

Still, she made sure to be ready at ten o’clock sharp, to unlock the front door and turn the sign to read OPEN. Though a week could easily go by without a morning customer, she refused to shorten her workday, or sneak in chores at the back of the house when she was meant to be minding the shop. To fill the hours, she dusted the many props Walter had collected over the years, or reorganized her supply of postcards in the display racks. Most were generic shots of the city— the bustle on C Street in better days, dirty-faced miners posing around one of the mine hoists, St. Mary of the Mountains and Piper’s Opera House. Her favorite was a picture of little Henry, struggling to sit upright atop their stuffed buffalo, with the caption Home on the Range, Virginia City, Nevada.

Nevermind that the elusive buffalo was a prairie beast, or that the range originally referred to the sprawling fields of Kansas. The tourists who came to Virginia City in hopes of glimpsing the Wild West did not care about the particulars.

When the boredom grew oppressive, but a sense of duty kept her from brewing fresh coffee, she would sort through the family snapshots. A stack of shoeboxes held a decade of memories. She found moments as solemn as births and deaths, and as trivial as a Sunday picnic. There was Henry in his first pair of short pants, and there Rose perched on a swing over the creek, eyes crinkled shut, mouth agape with laughter. Half the shots were blurry, or poorly framed. Naddy clucked her tongue absently. How much money had they burned into film every month? Perhaps their finances now would not be so precarious, if they had showed more thrift in those times of plenty.

But Walter would never hear of economy where his trade was concerned. She could almost hear his voice at her ear, reciting his personal creed.

"A photograph is a moment pulled out of time. It never lies. It takes what we give it, and it reproduces it faithfully, the good and the bad. A man’s memory may fail him, but a photograph never will. These are true memories; we have to hold onto them."

She flipped backwards through the years, watching the children grow younger and disappear from the record. Eventually the family portraits gave way to stiffer, faded compositions of a childless couple, until Naddy and Walter themselves parted ways, to occupy their own pocket-sized prints, taken on opposite sides of the continent.

So many years...

She knew she would find the newspaper clipping at the very front of the box marked 1887-1890. She plucked it out and carefully unfolded it, mindful of its yellowing edges.

A bachelor photographer, aged 26, seeks a partner in life and business. She must be an amiable and industrious lady of some education, under the age of 30, preferably with a basic understanding of the photographic arts. Initial financial investment not required.

A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips. He was no poet, her Walter. Still, she would have framed the clipping and hung it proudly in their parlor, had he not been so embarrassed by it. She had read