At Close Range. Marilyn Tracy

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      “And it’s one now.”

      “So it is,” Corrie agreed, though, typically, she had no idea what time it might be. She was quaking inside. No matter how many interviews she’d done over how many years, and discounting the numerous tough situations she’d found herself in, she nevertheless still suffered from nervous qualms at bridging the first question. The obvious one seemed easier than most. “Won’t you come in?”

      She pushed the screen door out and waited for him to take it, pulling her hand back before his could come within inches of it.

      “Thanks,” he said, and let the door fall softly closed behind him as he brushed past her.

      She felt the heat he carried on him, and told herself she was imagining things as the day had dawned with frost that covered the ranch. Still, they were in the desert and temperatures could easily soar into the nineties during the daylight hours.

      Her hands were shaking as she closed the heavy wood door behind him. Before turning around, she drew a deep breath and whispered the oft-repeated litany that had gotten her through so many bad times in the past and countless interviews after that, “I’m Corrie Stratton, and if I survived my childhood, I can survive this.”

      Mack waited for Corrie to turn around and wondered if she might just stay there, forehead pressed against the wood of the oak door, whispering to herself.

      Not that he minded the view, he thought. Corrie Stratton was small in stature with a slender frame. Her curves were imperfectly hidden by her long fall of silky chestnut hair, a baggy but elegant emerald shirt and sweatpants that had seen better days. Her feet were bare and her toenails painted a cheery red that seemed at odds with her lack of 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.”

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