At Close Range. Marilyn Tracy

like the plague. “How about later?” he asked.

      “Exactly the same—always a follower, never a leader. A true coward, in essence.”

      He shook his head, not necessarily disagreeing with her but unable to reconcile his preconceptions of her with what she stated was the reality. The Public Broadcasting System’s motto for her ran through his mind. “When Corrie Stratton says it’s true, it’s a fact.”

      “I’d better get going,” he said. Once upon a time, he’d have lingered on this veranda, clung to the time with a pretty woman and a chilly night. Back in that time, he’d have believed in futures, been blind to the pitfalls and dangers that lurked in the shadows.

      “Oh. Okay.” She looked understandably confused.

      “Good night,” he said gruffly. He curled his hand into a fist to avoid raising it to her silken face.

      “Do you want a flashlight to get back to the bunkhouse?” She turned to face him. The movement was abrupt and unexpected.

      He wished she hadn’t turned to face him. Her eyes were too luminous in the light cast from the windows, her face too guileless and, for some reason, wistful. He could read the curiosity there and a tinge of sorrow or pity. But he couldn’t see the quest for the news story he’d half accused her of pursuing only moments before. He saw a lovely woman on a cold, moonless night, a woman who had come to offer comfort or perhaps mere camaraderie, and he’d closed her out.

      It was best that way, he thought. As he’d told her, he didn’t believe in promises. Lost in his thoughts, he’d forgotten her offer of a flashlight.

      “No, thanks,” he said, “I can see my way. You’d better get in before you freeze.” But he was the one who turned to go.

      “As Juan Carlos would say, watch out for ghosts,” she said.

      “I’m used to them,” he said.

      “Plural?”

      She was too quick, could hear too much. He turned back to face her but didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Plural.”

      “As in, you’re used to more than one ghost.”

      “As in,” he agreed, almost enjoying the interplay.

      “Are you speaking metaphorically or literally?”

      “Both,” he said.

      “A man who speaks on multiple levels. Hmm. And talks in riddles.”

      “We all have ghosts,” he said.

      “But most people call them baggage, not ghosts.”

      “I could say I’m not most people.”

      She gave a slow smile. “I think I’d agree.”

      He tried a smile in return, but it felt odd on his lips. “I think I’ll turn in,” he said, lying through his teeth. If tonight were like any other, he wouldn’t sleep until nearly dawn.

      “Good night, then,” she said. “Dream of the angels.”

      One angel in particular, he thought. “Right,” he said. “You, too.”

      “Always,” she said, rocking against the cold. She didn’t seem like a child then; she was everything a man could possibly want on a lonely night. And if he didn’t walk away from her that very minute, he’d find out exactly what kind of a miracle it would feel like to have her in his arms.

      He gave her a stiff half wave and got off the veranda as quickly as he possibly could. He wasn’t far enough away, however, not to hear her clear voice murmur, “What are you hiding, Mack Dorsey?”