Optical Delusions in Deadwood by Ann Charles Page A

night.

          Jeff caught me staring. A smile crept onto his cheeks, making him look even more handsome, younger. I could easily picture him as the hot quarterback on the high school football team with those broad shoulders and muscled arms. Addy’s whining this morning about me just giving Jeff a chance as a “future father” candidate echoed in my head.

          “Jeff, do you believe in ghosts?”

          His smile widened into a grin. “Is that a serious question?” At my nod, he continued. “Hell, no. That ghost shit is good for only one thing.”

          “What’s that?”

          “Scaring women into my arms.”  

          It had had the opposite effect on me so far, but I didn’t correct him. Finally, a fellow realist. Maybe Addy was onto something with Jeff and me, and I’d just been too blinded by Doc’s dark appeal to see it all this time.

          Grin still warming his face, he swayed toward me. “Violet Parker.” His voice sounded growly, husky. “You sure look good in my kitchen. I bet you’d look even better barefoot and pregnant.”

          Zap! I snapped out of my Prince Charming fantasy. I didn’t do kitchens—cooking or baking. Only eating. And I sure as hell didn’t need any more babies to raise and support.

          I changed my mind. Jeff and I were not peas in a pod, no matter how many pennies and eyelashes Addy went through wishing for it. We had a few things in common, and he looked mighty fine in a pair of jeans. But that wouldn’t get me through a first date, let alone a year.

          Jeff apparently couldn’t read my body language and didn’t notice that I’d flipped my Open sign to Closed. “Are you sure about that rule of yours?” he asked, reaching for me.

          “Positive.” I shoved his toothbrush into his hand and dodged past him. “We have cleaning to do, Mr. Wymonds.”

          He groaned. “Damn, you’re sexy when you play hard to get.”

          “Lots of cleaning!” I headed for the bucket of bleach water I’d left sitting on the bathroom floor.

          One scrubbed and prepped-for-painting bathroom later, Harvey showed up with my two munchkins in tow, per my phoned request. Supper was on Jeff: pizza. Harvey supplied dessert in the form of Neapolitan ice cream.

          After we’d filled our gullets, the kids went outside to play in the warm evening air. That left Jeff, Harvey, and me alone at the dining-room table, with strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate ice cream still coating the back of my tongue.

          “Do you know who Lila Beaumont is?” I asked Jeff. The leggy broad had been on my mind as I cleaned and tried to figure out how to unload the Carhart house ASAP. With Jeff looking for love in all the wrong places, she’d be right up his alley.

          “Never heard of her.”

          I turned to Harvey. “What about you?”

          He shook his head. “Should I?”

          Lila must not have been from this area, or one of these two guys would know her aunt or sister or second cousin. So, from under which rock had she emerged, and how had she gotten mixed up with Junior Carhart? “She was engaged to Millie Carhart’s brother.”

          “Oh.” Harvey smirked. “She’s that dark-haired looker who was gushin’ with fake tears and phony sobs at the funeral.”

          “Bingo.”

          “Why?” Harvey scooped up some more ice cream. “What about her?”

          “I met her yesterday. She showed up at the Carhart house.”

          Jeff leaned forward. “What were you doing there?”

          “She signed on to sell the place,” Harvey explained, a definite grumble in his tone.

          “No shit?” Jeff shook his head. “Violet Parker, you have an impressive set of balls on you.”

          “Because of the multiple murders there?” He couldn’t mean because of its “haunted”