“Good that you’re going. Montana isn’t good for Jack Slades, Jackson Zachary Slade.” Larry smirked.

Zach had never wanted to hit him more, but kept his temper reined in, his voice cool. He disliked those who compared him to the gunman. “I guess I learned that; a lot of jerks in Montana.”

He stared at the couple. “At least I won’t be lynched by vigilantes here like that Jack Slade.” He paused a little. “I’m not a drunk, and I believe in justice.”

Lauren paled. Larry’s hands fisted. The whole nasty business that had led to Zach’s wound had been because of a drunk ex-policeman who didn’t want to be charged with a DUI.

But the two before him didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was justice. He’d done his duty and what he thought was right. And a drunk driver who could have killed others, broken other families, was off the streets and sitting in a prison cell.

The August heat seemed to wrap around the three of them until Zach could almost believe he felt heat waves radiating from their bodies, see those waves as pale colors.

A crow cawed and he tensed, seeing four of them on the back fence.

Dread hit him. He didn’t like crows. He’d never forgotten the crow-counting rhyme taught to him by his mother’s mother, a wealthy and superstitious woman. Four for death.

He thought he caught a whiff of rotting. Damn crows.

Time to get Lauren and Larry gone so Zach could move on with his life. He nodded to his ex-partner. “You take care, now.” His voice held an edge of bitterness that slipped out despite him.

“I am sorry,” she said.

Once more he nodded, then watched as she tugged on the deputy’s arm to make him break the stare with Zach. Larry shrugged and turned, adjusting his hat.

They got into their car and drove away.

Zach was glad to see them go, and he forced the black rancor aside once more as he limped into the diner. He ate and managed to be more than polite, sincere, as he said good-bye to the cook and waitress.

A half hour later, under stormy skies and sleeting rain, he’d left the county behind. He’d press on through bad weather and be out of Montana before nightfall.

No, Montana wasn’t good for Jack—or Jackson Zachary—Slades, and he never intended to come back.

DENVER, COLORADO, THE SAME MORNING

I like the way you smell. I’m staying, the figment of her imagination, a “ghost” dog, said. It—he?—sat on the end of her bed.

“No,” Clare Cermak whispered as she slapped a palm down on her buzzing alarm clock. She stared at him in shock. Well, through him. He didn’t have a touch of color.

“This can’t be happening,” she muttered. She was on her third day of denial of ghosts, but that still worked for her. A year might work for her. Forever.

She closed her eyes and scooted under the sheet.

Coldness touched her shoulder, and her eyelids sprang open.

The Labrador looked at her with big, dark gray eyes that had been chocolate brown when he was alive. He was too close up and far too personal.

She gulped. “You aren’t—weren’t—even my dog, Enzo.” He’d been her weird great-aunt Sandra’s. Sandra, who said she saw ghosts and helped them “transition.” Who’d recently made her own transition, and had bypassed Clare’s parents and brother and made Clare the sole heir of her estate, leaving Clare a fortune.

Yes, there was family money and trusts, but Sandra had added to it. Who knew pretending to talk to ghosts was so lucrative?

I’m your dog now. Enzo’s tongue lolled as he gave her a too-perky doggie grin. We should play, too.

“I don’t believe this.” She sat up, hardening her heart against his large, dark eyes and wagging tail. Hardening her expression. “I don’t believe in you. In any . . . ghosts.” Though something was wrong with her vision, because she’d begun to “see” gray and white and shadowy and transparent images of people. She’d made a doctor’s appointment for extensive testing.

Now a shadow was “talking” to her in her head.

That’s all right. I believe in you! Enzo’s imaginary tongue shot out and swiped at her face . . . and she felt a clammy touch on her cheek. Enough that she reared back and banged her head on the curved wood of her sleigh bed.

This invasion of the visions right here in her home and her own bedroom was new and unwelcome. Chicago, where her aunt had lived, was one thing. Right here . . . not at all good.

But you hear me, right? Huh, huh? I looove you, Clare. Always liked when you came. You brought treats. Do you have treats here? Enzo bounded off her bed, leaving no sign he’d been there, and whisked straight through her closed and solid bedroom door.

“I’m seeing things,” she said weakly.

The spectral dog loped back into the room, drool dripping. Again Clare stared. The shiny droplets vanished before they hit her rug. Which was weird.

The whole thing was weird.

She’d turned weird.

You have no treats, Enzo said, giving her the big puppy eyes.

“I have no clue what you eat,” she said, talking to an imaginary being—to herself. Despite living alone, she’d never done that. She grabbed a feather pillow and clutched it tight, as if it could be a shield to visions in her own mind.

Breathing fast, she glanced at the tablet computer propped on her bedside table. She was due in the doctor’s office in two hours. Good. She’d try to determine if something was wrong physically, first.

Enzo must be a figment of her recently shattered, uneasy, and all-too-real-feeling dreams.

The imaginary dog hopped back up onto her bed, tilted his head, and wrinkled his forehead in mute begging.

Clare swallowed. She was an accountant, darn it. She loved a logical life . . . but she wasn’t heartless. Even if the thing was only a memory, a figment of her imagination, she couldn’t ignore the big doggie eyes any longer. And touching it would be more proof it didn’t exist. Tentatively she reached out . . .

But as she slid her hands along the dog and into cold mistiness and shifted under the sheet to keep her legs warm, she recalled the other things she’d seen as the cab had driven her home from the airport the day before, and her heart thumped fast.

Outlaws and miners and cowboys had sauntered translucently down the streets. One had actually stopped and tipped his hat at her! She’d seen the arrogant strides of the rich founding businessmen, the swaying rolled-hip stroll of past madams. Not to mention horses.

Now this filmy dog whimpered in bliss, and Clare’s hands got colder and colder, as if she’d plunged them into an ice bath.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, along Enzo’s side . . . He leaned into her. She should stop, but more than her hands were frozen. The thoughts in her head seemed nothing but icy crystals, she was so cold. He rolled over on his back so she could reach his belly. She felt no solid dog, of course, and energy seemed to drain right out of her.

Cold hands, cold crawling up her arms so that her teeth might soon chatter.

Enzo opened his eyes, and for an instant she thought she saw a glint of something more than dog, something older, wiser.

Again she pulled back and tucked her freezing hands into her armpits. “No. You’re not here. You’re definitely not real.”

It is time for the gift to pass to you, and with the riches comes the gift. You must accept and learn. The echoey words weren’t doglike, again held an edge of something else.

Clare shuddered.

Then Enzo blinked and rolled to sit and looked like a goofy pooch again. I will help. It will be fun! I love you and you love me! Thank you for the petting!

Cold, cold, cold, she scrunched down into the bed and pulled the sheet up, staring at the vaporous dog.

I’ll be your sidekick! Enzo grinned and licked her cheek. She noted that his touch didn’t seem as cold as when she’d initiated the contact. Rules. There might be rules in this madness. In seeing ghosts . . .