Randy White - Haunted

Brit followed when she turned left. I veered to the right and felt a sudden tension, figuring Joey would follow. So far, both had been respectful and polite, but these were two high-testosterone men. They rode horses and carried guns, as they’d told us, and often had to sleep rough with nothing but mosquito netting and the stars. Nice guys, true, but this was a rare weekend in town for them. The advantages of two single women sleeping in separate rooms had to be on their minds.

Pointless, my worrying. When I reached the door, I was alone. My escort was standing, lanky and long, in the moonlight, a discreet distance separating us. I felt relief at first, then it stung my ego. Three doors down, a latch clicked. Birdy, for our benefit, warned Brit, “Okay, but just for a minute,” then they both disappeared into her room.

I had to say something. Inanities such as “Thanks for a nice evening” had already been exchanged, so I decided to soften my escort’s disappointment. “I still have some work to do,” I explained from the railing.

No need for that either. He had already started toward the dock but did manage to reply, “Good luck,” over his shoulder and wave.

He’s married or real, real tired. That’s what my ego decided. Then reminded me, You’re not interested anyway.

True enough. Even so, I felt a spark of girlish redemption when the man stopped, thought for a moment, then turned. “Do you drink coffee in the morning? I get up awful early, but you’re welcome to drop by.”

“Coffee or hot tea,” I answered. “Either’s fine, but how early’s early?”

“Before sunrise. I gotta have my horse trailered by six.” A pause before explaining, “Brit’s off ’cause of his fire-starting class. So I’m working alone.”

He sensed me smiling. “Is that funny?”

I said, “If Brit’s learning how to build a fire, I suppose it is.”

“The boy could use some help in that area, too. But this is a state certification thing. Ranches do a lot of controlled burns to clear out undergrowth. I could explain it to you over coffee.”

I already knew about burn backs yet it made me feel better. “I appreciate that, Joey. If I’m up, I’ll knock on the hull. Do you prefer Joey to Joe?”

“Either,” he said, “but not Joseph. That was my father-according to Mom.” Dark laughter while he added, “That man got around a lot, but never stuck around, if you know what I’m saying.”

I replied, “I’m sorry to say I do.”

“His last name was Egret. Like the bird. If I wasn’t used to the darn thing, I’d think about changing.”

“Joe Egret,” I repeated softly.

“And you?”

“Plain Hannah Smith. Your name sounds familiar for some reason.” It was true. Joey Egret… Joseph Egret… it was attached to some person or memory in the back of my mind.

“Same with Smith,” Joey said. “Nothing plain about that name… Captain Hannah.”

Laughter, and he was gone.

AT ONE-FIFTEEN A.M. I gave up trying to sleep and settled back with my great-uncle’s journal. Written on the cover was:

Receipts & Expenditures

Benjamin F. Summerlin

Master/Owner Vessels for Hire

Widow’s Son (40' Sharpie)

Sodbuster (24' Dory)

The first entry that referenced the Civil War was twenty pages in:

13 August 1861 (Habana, Cuba): $3 silver for a new hat mine being stoled by a drunkard on Duval St. War-he says the dumb bastards finely dun it & the Greys has kilt thousands at a place called Bull Run but the Blues won Pensacola & kilt only 100. These numbers do not seem right to me. I have been learning my Spanish rather than risk Yankees for neighbors…

Captain Summerlin had been a candid, insightful man. The book smelled of incense and smoke after sitting over the fireplace-chrysanthemum resin, Theo claimed-a scent so strong it made me wince. Hopefully, the thing would air. It had already benefited from the dry heat. New pages could be separated with the help of gentle pressure or a fingernail.

Not all, though.

Spiral notebook at my side, I started at the beginning, after reinspecting the fresh cracks and newly dog-eared pages. It was a leather-bound volume produced by Wilmington Maritime of North Carolina. Designed for bookkeepers, not a seagoing cattleman who cared more about numbers than spelling. Captain Summerlin had used it as a ship’s log and a notebook and also a place to doodle. On the inside cover were clumsy attempts at birds, a dolphin, and what might have been a cow.

On the next pages were sketches of women. Much attention had been devoted to their hefty breasts and hair, but no effort made to adorn them with clothing, let alone the kindness of a nose that resembled a nose. They all beamed back at me, however, with cheery, inviting smiles. Two wore flowers where Eve would have worn them.

You lecherous old man, I thought yet smiled. The sketches breathed life into my long-dead relative. He wasn’t old when he’d taken pen in hand-early thirties, which was my own age. He had found a way to entertain himself when he was alone. No harm in that. Better still, the sketches proved that indecent thoughts weren’t new to our family’s bloodline.

That alone provided some comfort after the thoughts I had been battling.

No wonder. I was lying in the chill of a wall air conditioner, wearing only a T-shirt, while Birdy and her cowboy guest did god-knows-what just three rooms away. The marine biologist was on my mind. Officially, we had stopped dating, but he was still an occasional late-night visitor-a welcome visitor-and it had been a while since he had come tapping at my door. He was out of the country or I might have called him to talk.

Restless didn’t accurately describe my current state of mind.

I had no physical interest in the airline pilot or the attorney I’d been seeing. No commitments either. There was no reason in the world I shouldn’t replace my sleeplessness with harmless conversation if, say, someone within walking distance was also awake-aboard the houseboat, for instance.

I was rationalizing. I knew it but didn’t care.

So far, I had refused to allow myself to go to the window and check. Captain Summerlin’s bawdy sketches, however, seemed to grant full permission. I laid the book aside and opened the curtains: a light was still on in an aft cabin of the boat.

Joe Egret. I thought the name softly, trying to nail the connection. The window didn’t provide sufficient motive, so I cracked the door and used my ears: trilling frogs and wind cloaked the river’s silence, but Garth Brooks would have been easy enough to hear. There was no music.

Damn… damn it to hell.

I felt free to say whatever I felt because I was alone. Several sharp comments later, I decided, Instead of complaining, do something productive.

I returned to the journal.

Theo-or someone-had found the entry about the missing hundred silver dollars. I was certain because the book opened naturally to the place as if it had been butterflied open and mashed flat. That angered me, angered me enough to push biologists and cow hunters out of my mind.

Men-nothing but trouble.

Yes, they were, especially with none around to show an interest in me.

I turned the air down, got back in bed, and tried to put myself in Theo’s place if he had, indeed, copied entries from the journal. The Civil War and the missing silver dollars would have been his only interest. So I referenced dates and tried to create a bare-bones time line that might point me to where Capt. Summerlin had scuttled his dory, then buried or hid or dumped a box of coins.