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can’t hang a ghost.”
    “That is quite the conundrum.”
    “I’ll say.”

    “To truly understand the method of his violence, I believe we need to understand the rules a little better,” Ezra insisted. They’d returned to his hotel room under the guise of allowing him to collect his investigative implements. He didn’t have investigative implements, though, because he hadn’t been intending to investigate in San Francisco, so he’d have to remember to find some before he returned to the scene of the crime.
    “What rules?” Ambrose asked. He was in his rocking chair, the creak of it the only other sound in the room.
    “There have to be rules. We’ve already discerned some of them. You can’t seem to touch objects unless you’re emotional. You always return to a certain location, in your case the saloon or this hotel room. What else?”
    Ambrose shrugged, glancing around the room. “Only thing I got on me is what I had when I died. Means Jennings won’t even have his boots on. I can take off my hat and toss it away, but then I’m back in the saloon wearing it again.”
    “Aside from making you look quite dashing, what’s the significance of that?”
    “He died with a hood over his face.”
    Ezra frowned for a few seconds, confused. Then it hit him. “Which means whenever he returns to his . . . wherever, he’ll be wearing the hood again. He won’t be able to see an attack coming!”
    “That’s real convenient, if you know where and when he’ll poof back up.” The wry tinge to his words made Ezra both want to hit him and kiss him again. Ambrose raised an eyebrow, his grin rematerializing. “What’s that look for?”
    Ezra shook his head, glancing away and running his hand over his eyes. “Nothing. You said no one else could see you, correct?”
    “Not that I’ve noticed. Folks ain’t never been in the habit of coming up to say howdy to me, though. Ghost or not. So I suppose it’s hard to say who sees me and who don’t.”
    “Why can I see you?”
    “I told you, I don’t know.”
    “Perhaps it was some sort of spiritual link between us. Something . . .”
    “I don’t know what that means,” Ambrose admitted.
    “I mean . . . perhaps I can see you because we’re special to one another.”
    Ambrose’s expression softened, and he lowered his head, examining his hands for several silent moments. “Don’t explain why you could see me before we were . . . special to each other. I’m a sight more willing to believe that explanation than any other, though. Maybe . . . maybe I knew you were my only hope. You can see me ’cause I needed you so damn bad.”
    The admission sent warmth spiraling through Ezra’s body, but it was followed swiftly with the melancholy of reality. He was rapidly falling in love with a man who’d died over a fortnight ago. Back east it was difficult enough to introduce a living man as your companion.
    The progression of his thoughts made him smile, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
    “What’s funny?” Ambrose asked. He was observant, even in death. Perhaps especially in death. It was hard to get anything by him.
    “I was thinking . . . it would be so difficult to explain you to my family.”
    Ambrose sat staring at him for several seconds before he burst out laughing, covering his eyes with one hand. Ezra smiled as he watched him, idly wondering if the other guests in the hotel could hear Ambrose. He hoped so.
    “So if you can see me ’cause we’re . . . special,” Ambrose finally drawled, “how is anyone going to see Boone Jennings until it’s too late?”
    “That’s where we once again rely on you. You said his victims were all waiting outside the hotel during his trial. You could see them.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And you’re sure they were . . . otherwise deceased?”
    Ambrose smiled gently. “Yeah, I’m sure. Saw a few of them put in the ground myself.”
    “Then it stands to reason that you’ll be able to