At Close Range. Marilyn Tracy
makeup and inexplicably trembling hands.
“Corrie Stratton. Aren’t you one of the owners of Rancho Milagro?” he asked finally, though the moment she’d spoken to him he’d known exactly who she was. “And from your National Public Radio network, this is Corrie Stratton. Good night.” Maybe she played a larger role in his reasons for appearing at the ranch in the first place.
He watched as her shoulders straightened and her head lifted before she turned around. Her face was composed now, almost as if she’d never had a stray nerve in her life. He was struck by the change in her. Before, she’d seemed disconcerted, even a little frightened. Now she kept her expression neutral, a small smile playing on her full lips.
She nodded as she walked up to him. She held out her hand, and he had the feeling she’d accomplished the simple act by sheer force of will and, moreover, that she’d rather be on any other planet than standing there about to shake hands with him. And because of that he had no choice but to take that slim hand into his.
As always, the shock of feeling someone else touching the new skin on his hands gave him the sense of déjà vu, as if he simultaneously remembered how he was supposed to feel another’s palm and the reality of encountering it through new skin.
He imagined there was something different in Corrie Stratton’s fluttering touch. And that something struck him purely viscerally. Whatever the feeling was, it had nothing whatsoever to do with scars, nerve endings or wounds too recently healed.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He released her hand. He wasn’t sure what she was sorry about, but hid a smile as she curled her hand into a fist and cradled it against her chest, almost as though she were holding his imprint to her.
Or, perhaps, as if he’d injured her.
“Leeza and Jeannie aren’t here today.”
He frowned. “My interview is with you, I believe.”
She blinked. “It is?”
“That’s what I was told,” he said. He glanced down at the business card Jeannie Salazar had given him, though he knew Corrie Stratton’s name was scrawled on the back with the time of the interview beneath it. He flipped it over and held it out.
He thought of the endless hours he’d spent listening to her on the radio and wondering if any woman could measure up to that incredible voice. She did and then some. “Yep, here it is.”
She glanced at the card but didn’t reach for it. “You’ll have to forgive me. I must have forgotten to jot it down in my book.”
She wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d heard her voice a million times, a thousand hours beyond that. Low and sultry, her subdued voice, with its inherent sexuality, had led him to picture her to be long-legged, lush and ultraseductive.
Instead, she appeared scarcely tethered to this planet, held down by sheer gravity only. The epitome of petite, she was an almost elfin creature, only some five foot something, all long, delicate fingers, sloe eyes and cheery red toenails. And yet, her gaze, somewhat shy and attempting to hide her nervousness, spoke volumes. And let him know she was lying.
Someone had neglected to tell her about the interview. How he knew this, he wasn’t sure, but he knew it nonetheless. Corrie Stratton wasn’t the kind of person who might blame another. He wondered if she’d have been more nervous or less had she known he was coming there this afternoon. For the first time in a long, long time, he found himself curious about a real someone; he wanted to know what made a renowned radio journalist like Corrie Stratton so skittish.
She pulled her hair up into a rough ponytail that she held with her fist and walked past him to a long credenza-like entry table, rummaged in the upper drawer and retrieved a couple of pens. One she stabbed through her hair—and, amazing him, it held the mass of brown locks—and the other she tucked over an ear. She tugged a notepad free from beneath the hall telephone, flipped over the top few pages, smoothed them down and turned to him, all cool, calm and collected prospective employer.
“If you’ll follow me,” she said, and led the way across the massive living room through an archway into a dining room that could easily sit twenty people. She took a seat at the head of the table and gestured to a chair flanking hers.
He waited until she sat, then joined her at the table. He took in the children’s drawings over a long sideboard flanking the dining table. At least twenty of them had been carefully matted and framed and hung in rows beside a low mirror. The mirror reflected the living room he’d passed through, the fireplace on the wall behind him, some hand-woven baskets, a couple of original Holly Huber oil paintings, and an R. C. Gorman print.
His eyes continued their survey of the room and rested thoughtfully on a simple but highly effective alarm system on the dining room wall. It was the kind that could be triggered by hand, excessive heat or smoke. If he remembered the shriek it produced, it was worse than deafening.
“So,” she said, after drawing a deep breath. “Please tell me a little about yourself.” To his delight, she lifted her feet to the seat of the chair and wrapped an arm around her legs. After a glance in his direction, she cleared her throat and lowered her bare feet to the floor, crossing her legs in a decidedly studied, ladylike fashion.
He swallowed the smile threatening to surface. And admired the way she’d pulled herself together for an interview she obviously knew nothing about.
“I’ve taught for twelve years, have a master’s degree in history from Texas Tech and am certified in Texas, New Mexico and Colorado, grades K through 12. And, if you have tennis courts, I can coach tennis, too.”
“I see,” she said, jotting down something in her notepad. “And what is it that makes you want to work at Rancho Milagro?”
He hesitated and she looked up to meet his eyes. Hers were a deep, rich brown, he saw, like coffee liqueur. Eyes a man could get drunk and drown in. He thought it was a lucky thing she’d made her mark in radio broadcasting; those eyes on television would have made the male population newsaholics.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you ask?”
She paraphrased her question about working at the ranch.
He looked away from those liquid brown eyes. “I heard what you were trying to do out here. I liked the sound of it. And wanted to be a part of the miracles.” He attempted a chuckle as he finished blurting the raw truth.
He couldn’t tell her that he’d wanted to be around the woman who had pulled him through a nightmare of torturous procedures, that he craved a slice of the joy Rancho Milagro apparently served for breakfast. At least he hadn’t blurted out that he wanted a new life.
Simply wanted.
He didn’t really believe wanting made anything so. He used to, once upon a distant time, but not any longer. He fought the nightmare images that threatened to rise to the surface, the tragic sound of children crying for help, the scent of burning linoleum and, ultimately, the stench of despair. He didn’t believe miracles were possible, but he wanted any and all to come his way so much more than he could ever begin to tell her.
He felt dazed as she gave him a swift, conspiratorial smile. A knee tucked back up into her chest. She clasped it and leaned forward. “Me, too,” she said.
She, who seemingly had everything, wanted a miracle? What could she possibly want? To meet another king, interview another world leader? What was she even doing on this lonely ranch, miles away from everything?
He didn’t voice any of his questions, but apparently his silence seemed to make her potential-employer consciousness take over again. Her leg lowered and crossed again. He resisted the urge to look beneath the table to see if her toes even touched the floor.
She asked, “What was it that you liked the sound of?”
The miracles—and you, he almost said, lured by her eyes into telling more unvarnished truth. “The kids. Taking foster kids and orphans, giving