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room.”
    “Thanks, Kelsey,” Sandy said. “But I’m sure I can manage.” She hesitated. “Uh, Kelsey? Are you interested in switching rooms with Corey? That would save me a lot of bother.”
    Kelsey thought about it for a moment, then said, “Sure.
    Why not?” She wondered whether she’d been too rash, IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012
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    but Sandy’s gratitude confirmed that she’d made the right decision.
    Kelsey took another look at the half-empty bottle of whiskey. Corey Simmons was either going to lie down and pass out soon, or he’d be seeing more ghosts. But Sandy smiled at her with confidence, and Kelsey figured she’d manage, just as she’d said. Sandy had supported both her parents through protracted deaths due to cancer, and Kelsey believed that was one reason she’d been so caught up in the restoration of the Longhorn. She’d pulled herself out of mourning and she’d done it by throwing herself into this massive project. She could be tough as nails when she chose. Not only that, her livelihood now depended on the inn.
    “I don’t even know what this meeting is,” she said. “So don’t worry about phoning if you need me.” Sandy nodded. As she started out, Corey Simmons called her back. “Miss—I’m sorry, Marshal! Miss O’Brien, thank you.”
    She gave him a tiny salute of acknowledgment. Leaving the kitchen, Kelsey hurried back up to her room to grab her handbag. She paused to study herself in the free standing Victorian swivel mirror. She felt she looked professional—
    something she hadn’t worried about in ages. She was five-nine, decked out in a black suit and simple white cotton tailored blouse. Her hair was a deep auburn, secured in a band at her nape. She had what she hoped were steady green eyes, and a lean sculpted face that lent her a look of maturity—at least in her own opinion. Despite Corey Simmons’s surprise that she was a woman who did “cop things,” IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012
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    she made the proper appearance for a U.S. Marshal. That seemed important in light of today’s meeting.
    She hurried out of her room, then walked down the hall to 207 again. Stepping inside, she held very still and closed her eyes. She’d come up here before because of Corey’s hysteria; now, she decided to take a moment to see what her intuition would show.
    She opened her eyes, but didn’t focus on the room as it was now. What she saw looked similar, but…different. Out of kilter. There was a wardrobe in the corner, but it was a slightly different wardrobe. Where the bathroom should have been, she saw a slatted Oriental divider: The bed was smaller, and a white chemise lay at the foot of it.
    There were two people in the room, a man and a woman.
    The woman was beautiful, dark curly hair piled atop her head, long legs clad in old-fashioned stockings and garters. She wore a white shirt and corset. Her dress had been thrown on a nearby chair. The man was wearing a dark suit, a tall hat and appeared to have stepped out of an 1850s fashion ad for gentlemen. He was tall and, despite his ap-parel, had the rugged look of a cowhand. He strode angrily across the room and grasped the woman by the shoulders.
    “You won’t hold out on me!” he shouted at her. “I want it, and I want it now.”
    “I don’t have it,” she said.
    “You’re a liar! I know what happened in Galveston that night, and I know your pretty-boy lover won it. I want it!”
    “No, it’s mine!” she responded.
    “You think you’ll get back to that no-good weakling?
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    Well, give up that dream. He moved on the moment you were gone.”
    “I hate you,” she told him, shaking herself free. “I hate you, Matt. I loathe you. You forced me here, and you’ve used me enough. Even if I had it, I’d never let you have