At Close Range Read Free

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.
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œSo,” 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.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI’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 nightmareof 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