American Ghost by Janis Owens Read Free Book Online Page A

near twin. “Your mother?” he asked, and got a quick nod.
    â€œHer graduation picture. She died when I was three,” Jolie added quickly, as if used to the order of question and adept at heading it off.
    Sam raised his eyebrows at the quickness of her response, but didn’t press for more details. He didn’t comment at all other than for a mild “She’s beautiful. Looks Apache, or Otomi. Hell, maybe they were Blackfoot. Was she from Hendrix?”
    â€œSure,” Jolie answered as she dropped onto the sofa. “Her and Daddy really are third cousins, or something—which if you ever meet my brother will explain a lot .”
    She smiled at his laugh—a smile of uncomplicated pleasure and unexpected sweetness, which, in its way, was as fetching as the abbreviated robe and long, bare legs. She threw them out on the sofa before her with such innocence and lanky country ease that it was apparent she hadn’t a clue to their power. He made an effort to ignore them, returning to the wall and her equally intriguing history, asking over his shoulder, “What was her maiden name? Ammons?” as he’d noticed a generational alliance between the two families on the census.
    â€œYeah. She was an Ammons. A lot of my cousins are Ammonses,” she volunteered, seemingly impressed. She paused, then added after a moment, more in statement than question, “You really have dug up the county, haven’t you?”
    Sam was brought up short by the offhand observation, enough that he turned and met her eye and found her face interested and speculative, as if she were adding up a few internal figures of her own.
    He would later regret not telling her the curious truth of his search right then—casually, no tangled loyalties, just a blunt statement of fact.But he was too unsure of his reception to trust her with so strange an obsession and sidestepped her smoothly, with a mild admission: “That’s why they pay me.”
    He said nothing more, just returned to the wall to inspect the other photos, many of a little boy, presumably her brother, Carl, and a cache of vintage photographs, the largest of a worn, rawboned old farmer in a slouch hat and overalls, holding a horse by the reins. March 26, 1926 was written in labored cursive on the face of the photo, the date catching Sam’s eye, as the old man was almost certainly a citizen of the 1930 census.
    â€œSo who’s the old guy, with the horse?”
    Jolie sat up a little to make sure they were talking about the same picture. “That ain’t a horse,” she murmured. “That’s my great-granddaddy and his mule, Old Grey.”
    The blazed forehead and lanky ears looked pretty horsey to Sam, who peered closer. “How d’you tell the difference?”
    Jolie’s face took on a hint of amazement. “Well, try breeding them, for one thing.”
    The remark meant nothing to Sam, who continued down the line, occasionally asking for clarification, though the old boy with the mule was by far the most interesting find. He was itching to ask her outright if she knew the location of the old turpentine camp that had gone by the strangely generic name Camp Six, but once he finished with the Rogues’ Gallery, there was nothing to interest him but her legs, which were indeed distracting.
    Family history, and history in general, suddenly seemed of small consequence, and with no more talk of mules and men, he took a seat in the only chair in the room: an ancient recliner upholstered in a beaten and faded olive plaid.
    â€œSo how are you holding up?” he asked solicitously. “With Lena gone? Vic says it’s been tough.”
    â€œI’m all right,” she said, so stoically it seemed automatic and hardly felt, then, in a closer stab to truth: “I wish I could cry.”
    Sam had never met a buried neurosis he didn’t like and asked, “Why can’t you cry?”
    She