“Logan!” Daddy leans over the bar toward us. “Look up at the news, son!”
The local newscaster is standing in front of a fake backdrop of an old English countryside. The book jacket of Pride and Prejudice dominates the corner of the screen.
“Gigi Phillips as Darcy’s heroine is a very romantic tale,” the newscaster says. “She was swept off her feet in the deserts of West Texas by our town’s Mr. Darcy, the dashing, ruggedly handsome, extremely witty…”
I elbow Logan in the side.
“Mr. Logan Wild. Logan is the youngest of four sons of Hank and Brenda Wild, who run Wild Ranch in Darcy. Logan, sometimes affectionately called Little Lo by his older brothers, fell hard and fast for the blond New Yorker, and one only has to look at her…” Here comes Gigi’s big head again on the screen. “To see why. The girl is gorgeous!”
Loud screams from the booth across the bar can only be a match to Gigi and her two sisters.
“However, while the Gigi and Logan pairing may be the most Hollywood story out there,” the newscaster continues, “The Ginny Rattles and David Lucas pairing is a local favorite.” The TV suddenly shows my face on the screen. “Macey Henwood, manager for The Cowherd Whiskey Saloon & Chapel, is firmly on Team Ginny and Dave and is heavily involved in the planning process of their wedding. We think of this as an extra touch of good luck. Macey, with her office in the liquor room where the jail cell sits, has closest tabs on Jane Austen’s ghost, and her opinion may be the most important one of all.”
The whole bar cheers as the broadcast mercifully comes to an end.
Skip takes a seat on the barstool closest to me, and I glance behind him as Jon positions his camera on Gigi’s sisters.
“Hi Skip,” I say with forced friendliness. “How are you?”
“This last week has been the greatest of my life. Such rich history here in Darcy. I’m thrilled to be a part of it.”
I nod and start to walk away, but Skip says, “Miss Macey? I have a huge request.”
I turn back to him hesitantly.
He tips his hat and then takes it off politely. “You’re a fountain of information. We got your photo the other day. How about a quote to go along with it?”
I’m dying to say something. But it wouldn’t be fit for print.
Logan’s watching me fight with myself. “Come on, say something.”
I look at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re the one who’s here all the time. So tell your side of things.”
I furrow my brow at him. But his eyes are warm and safe, and I turn to Skip hesitantly. He readies his iPad for my quote, and for just a moment, I get caught up in the attention, in the idea that my side of the story matters.
“It’s not just pieces of The Cowherd walls that are bulletproof,” I say. “If you believe in the legend, then the entire bar seems to be bulletproof from love because Jane Austen’s ghost hasn’t been impressed enough with any wedding yet to open that jail door. I like to say The Cowherd protects us all from wrong love, but maybe I’m just cynical.”
Skip types furiously into his iPad as he takes down every word. “Macey, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to sit near you tonight. Shadow you, if you will.”
Logan leaves to return to his booth just as Mama pipes in. “Skip, have you seen the photos of Jane’s ghost yet?” She points above her head. “Fascinating, aren’t they?”
Skip’s mouth drops open as he looks at them. “Amazing! When are they from?”
Without looking up, I point at each frame above my head in turn as I recite, “1892. My great-great grandfather took it with the first camera our family owned. He swore that white blurry mess was Jane inside her cell at midnight, crying for all the racket of card-playing drunk men to stop so she could get some sleep.”
I move my finger to the left. “1925. Flapper-era. Miss Reginald took this one, and she was convinced she saw Jane’s spirit in a flapper dress at two a.m., dancing inside her cell to the loud music in the saloon.”
My finger shifts further left. “1963. The night JFK was assassinated. My great-aunt Selma Door Henwood snuck into the liquor room at four a.m. for a little nip of brandy, and she heard crying. Anguished sobs coming from Cell Number One. She took a photo.”
“You can see her eyes,” Skip says in a tone of awe.
“That’s what I always said!” Mama says. “The whites of her eyes are obvious, and I’m pretty sure that blue hue is her dress. Pretty color, isn’t it?”
I sigh and point to the last frame. “And this one was taken just last year by Dye Jenkins, current bar patron. He was the last one here one night, and the bartender—me—was outside briefly. Dye crept down the hall to the liquor room to say hi to the ghost and he claims she said hi back. He said she complained to him about how dank and dark the room gets at night, especially after daylight savings time.”
“I tell Macey all the time to leave a light on for Jane at night,” Mama says to Skip. “But she often forgets. People just don’t think about ghosts the way they should.”
