LITMIR.BIZ

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on top of all his other problems. He sighed in frustration as he eyed all the maintenance reports still awaiting his signature. With so many bases and stations being closed, Luke was getting extra squadrons, and more hangars were being built to accommodate the heavy influx of fighters and pilot personnel. Hangars 13, 14 and 15 had recently been completed, and construction was still underway on three more. The paperwork showed no signs of abating.

      Flying had always helped Mac solve the multitude of problems he handled on a daily basis. He wanted to leave his office, hitch on a pair of g-chaps and grab his helmet from the squadron locker. But it seemed that, for today at least, he was grounded.

      Tonight, he’d check out this Ellie O’Gentry on his way home. He’d have to be careful, though—he couldn’t let his bosses find out he was chasing this kind of lead. He decided to change out of his air force uniform and get into some civvies before he went to see her. That way, if he didn’t like her, she’d never know who he was or why he’d come. Mac couldn’t take any chances—if his superiors ever learned about this, he’d lose his chance for an early promotion. Hell, they’d probably drum him right out of the air force.

      Ellie O’Gentry was kneeling in the backyard at her small Santa Fe-style house, tending her garden. At six p.m. the May sunlight had gone westward, and the temperature had cooled down enough for her to get some work done. She was dressed casually in jeans and a short-sleeved, mint green blouse, minus her usual sandals—Ellie always went barefoot when weeding. Her long, black hair was tamed into one thick braid down the center of her back, tendrils clinging damply to her brow and temples as she worked.

      Sinking her long fingers into the warm, fertile earth, she smiled to herself. Gardening gave her such a grounded feeling; it always seemed to bring her closer to the natural energy of Mother Earth. Using the trowel, she dug around each of her carefully tended tomato plants. The song that she’d been humming, a sweat-lodge song used for healing, spilled softly from her lips. It was a song her mother had taught her, a lullaby used to help the seriously ill gather hope and strength to heal.

      Ellie stopped humming abruptly and looked up. Had she heard something? She wasn’t sure. She sat up, her dirt-encrusted hands coming to rest on the thighs of her jeans. What had snagged her peripheral attention?

      She quickly switched to her more intuitive side, a subtle transfer of attention through another lens of her being, and tilted her head. No, the sound she’d heard hadn’t been verbal. Her gaze riveted on the corner of the house that led to the front door. Someone was coming. She could sense him—and he was a male. Who? Brushing some of the dirt from her hands, Ellie was perplexed. She didn’t have any appointments scheduled for today.

      Before she could muse further, she saw a man—a scowling man—very quietly turn the corner of the house. He halted and stared at her, his scowl deepening. Automatically, she scanned him with her intuitive “eyes,” a kind of sixth sense that allowed her to see inside her unexpected visitor.

      Instantly, Ellie got in touch with the stranger’s tenseness. He was wary. And frustrated. With whom? Her? She certainly had never seen this man before. If she had, she would never have forgotten him—he made too vivid an impression. She sensed nothing dangerous about him, so she switched back to her visual eyes and took a good long look at him. He was tall and wiry, reminding her of a cougar she’d seen from time to time while she was growing up in the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. His hazel eyes were large and intelligent looking, though shadowed. He had a square face, with a stubborn-looking chin. His dark brown hair was very short and neatly cut. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way. Ellie liked the crinkles at the corners of his eyes; they suggested he smiled a great deal. But he wasn’t smiling now, and his hands were draped tensely across the hips of the tan chino pants he was wearing.

      He had a decided charisma, and Ellie found herself drawn very powerfully to the man. Was it his proud posture, his broad shoulders thrown back with confidence? The look of the eagle in his eyes, which told her he missed very little? Or something else? He seemed as if he were a warrior of some kind, a fighter, or someone who enjoyed challenging life in some way. There were a lot of angles to the man—sharp edges, perhaps, she mused, as she slowly got to her feet.

      As Ellie approached him, she could feel his perusal, direct, intense and assessing. A part of her wanted to throw up a wall of defense, to guard herself against his almost-violating look, but something told her she didn’t have to.

      For an instant, she felt the man’s surprise, and then, on its heels, his heat and desire. Desire? None of her impressions made any sense to her. The surprise lingered in his eyes, and she wondered what he wanted from her. Perhaps he was lost and looking for directions.

      “Can I help you?” Ellie asked.

      Mac tried to cover his surprise. The barefoot woman walking toward him was nothing like what he had expected. She was in her late twenties, he guessed; her gold-colored skin accentuated the oval face and high cheekbones typical of Native Americans. Strands of her thick black hair were loose around her hairline, some tendrils sticking to her brow and temples, emphasizing her earthy beauty. Could this woman be the shamaness? She looked so…normal.

      Her gaze was direct, inquiring, and Mac felt her confidence and strength. She walked with a sureness, a serene kind of balance that was undeniable. He allowed his hands to fall from his hips.

      “Yes, I was looking for a Ms. Ellie O’Gentry.”

      Ellie halted a good six feet away from him. “That’s me. Who are you?”

      “I’m Mac Stanford.”

      “Are you lost, Mr. Stanford?”

      “Excuse me?”

      Ellie watched the play of surprise and hesitation in his eyes. “Are you lost?”

      His mouth pulled into a grin. “No.”

      She liked his eyes. They were a mixture of green, gold and brown, reminding her of the green trees, the fertile brown earth and the gold of Father Sun. And when the corners of his mouth drew hesitantly into a brief smile, she felt an incredible blanket of warmth surround her. The feeling caught Ellie off guard.

      Mac pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He’d worn a conservative blue-and-white striped shirt and comfortable jogging shoes. “Your name was given to me by Mrs. Shelly Calhoon.”

      “Oh…yes.” Ellie held his interested gaze. “You’re here regarding soul recovery and extraction?”

      “Excuse me?”

      It was her turn to smile. “I’m making assumptions, Mr. Stanford. Why are you here? You don’t have an appointment. At this time of day, I reserve my time for my garden.”

      “I see….” Mac scrambled for a reply, because he knew she was going to ask him to make an appointment and leave. There was something fascinating about Ellie O’Gentry. She was decidedly Native American in appearance—so why was her last name O’Gentry? All of a sudden, Mac had a lot of questions that had nothing to do with his original reason for coming.

      “Look,” he murmured apologetically, “I’m sorry for not calling first. But…something’s come up and your name was given to me. If I could just have about fifteen minutes of your time?”

      Rubbing the last of the drying soil off her hands, Ellie asked, “Then you’re a friend of Shelly’s?”

      “In a roundabout way,” Mac hedged. He watched as she leaned down to the faucet and rinsed her hands. Ellie’s movements were sure and graceful. It wasn’t often he met a woman with so much confidence. Whatever life had dealt Ellie, she’d come out stronger for it.

      Ellie straightened and dried her hands on her jeans. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not who you seem to be?”

      Heat nettled Mac’s cheeks, and he realized with a start that he was blushing. Unsettled, he said, “I’m looking for a psychic, somebody who can help answer a question I have.”

      “I’m a shamaness, Mr. Stanford, not a psychic. There’s a difference.”

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