Lindsay McKenna - Hangar 13

Ellie was listening with her ears, but she had allowed her senses to blossom fully and take in the complete spectrum of Mac Stanford. She liked that fact that he talked with his hands, that he was animated about the story he was sharing with her. Still, she could see that part of his attention was diverted toward studying her face, and that his interest was on more than just a professional level. Smiling to herself, she admitted that she was just a little interested in Mac Stanford on a personal level, too.

“So,” Mac said, “that’s the story.”

Ellie nodded. “And you’re looking for an explanation for this phenomena, Major?”

“I guess I am. I really don’t know.”

“What you’re really saying is that you don’t believe it could happen in the first place. That the phenomena has to have a human culprit behind it, not a ghostly one.”

“Are you always this direct?”

Ellie grinned. “It pays to be honest, don’t you think, Major?” She saw the amusement come to his hazel eyes and his mouth curve upward briefly. When Mac Stanford smiled, she felt the sunlight of his energy surround her like a warm, soft blanket.

“Yes.” Mac struggled inwardly for a moment. “I guess I’m not used to such directness in a woman like yourself.”

“Really?” Ellie tilted her head, her hands resting against her chin. “What did you expect?”

Uncomfortable, Mac muttered, “I had this picture in my head of an old woman in a gypsy outfit sitting over her crystal ball.”

Ellie laughed. It was a full laugh, rich yet soft.

Mac stared at her as she leaned back in the chair, tilted her head back and allowed the wonderful laughter to escape. In that moment, surrounded by her laughter, he felt an incredible need to know her better—as a woman.

“I can surmise two things about you, Major,” Ellie said, placing her hands on the table and engaging his stare. “First, you don’t believe in what I do any more than you believe the moon is made of green cheese. Secondly, you’re a prove-it-to-me kind of man, totally stuck in his left brain. I’ll bet you dismiss any intuitive thoughts if you can’t prove, weigh or see results. Am I right?”

“I believe what my eyes see,” Mac said, a bit defensively.

“And I don’t. We’re poles apart, Major. I live in worlds that you don’t believe exist.”

“Well—” Mac cleared his throat “—I don’t think that matters in this case. I came to you asking for an explanation. It doesn’t have to be one I believe in.”

“Perhaps,” Ellie said softly.

“I’m here. I think that proves something.”

“Maybe,” she agreed.

Getting a bit frustrated, Mac said, “Tell me what you charge and I’ll pay you for the information.”

She got up, went over to the refrigerator and drew out some vegetables. Twisting to look over her shoulder, she said, “There is no charge, Major.”

“Why not?”

“If I can answer your questions without going into a shamanic-journeying state to do it, I will. I never charge in this kind of a situation.” She began tearing lettuce into small pieces over a large ceramic bowl.

“I don’t know what to make of you.”

Ellie smiled and began cutting up a carrot. “At least you’re honest. That’s a good place to start, Major.” Her ex-husband, Brian, had pretended to be interested in what she did, but it had all been a grand lie for his grand plan. All he really wanted was a companion in bed—and a housekeeper. It soon became clear that Brian didn’t believe in her world, but Ellie had tried to make things work, hoping they could find some kind of common ground. Finally, after three years of Brian’s continuing abuse over her beliefs, she’d had to get out.

“I may not like the truth, Ms. O’Gentry, but it’s better than the alternative.”

Her smile broadened. “That is one thing we agree on completely, Major.”

“Call me Mac, will you?”

“Okay. You can call me Ellie if you want.” She sensed his defensive walls slowly dissolving, and that was good. As he sat sipping the coffee, she could see the questions in his eyes.

“I’m caught between a rock and a hard place,” Mac admitted. In a bittersweet way, he enjoyed watching Ellie prepare the salad. It reminded him of his broken marriage, of a happier time in his life. Mac missed the hominess that marriage had provided him.

But Ellie was nothing like Johanna. She wasn’t modellike as Johanna had been, but reminded Mac of a woman in a Titian painting—ample, curved and rounded in all the right places. Ellie reminded him of a true earth mother.

She placed the salad on the table between them. “Why don’t you get up and set the table, since you’re staying for dinner?”

Mildly shocked, Mac got up. He saw her eyes dancing with laughter.

“Are you stunned because you’re staying for dinner or because I’m asking you to help out?”

He smiled a little sheepishly as he moved to the cupboard that Ellie pointed to. “Both.”

“You don’t wear a wedding ring, but you behave like you’ve been married. Are you divorced?”

Struck by Ellie’s insights, Mac opened the cupboard and took down two white ceramic plates. “Are you psychic?”

Laughing, Ellie shook her head. “No, just a watcher of people in general. I saw this look of longing on your face, and noticed you had no wedding ring on your finger. I figured you were probably divorced and missing the good life that marriage provides.”

“Guilty,” Mac murmured, placing the plates on the table. “I’m divorced, and you’re right—I miss married life.”

“All of it or some of it?” she challenged.

Mac placed flatware at each plate. “Why do I get the impression you’re a feminist?”

“Because where I come from, there is none of this ‘man rules the roost.’ My people are matriarchal, and that means women are held in just as high esteem as any man. We own the land, and it’s passed on from one woman to another, instead of from man to man.”

“Reverse of what it is out in the real world.”

“Oh?” Ellie whispered. “My world is just as valid as yours, Major.”

“Touché.” Mac smiled a little and sat back down.

“You’re not done yet, Major.”

“I’m going to earn this dinner, I can tell.”

“And then some.” Ellie pointed to the top of the refrigerator. “Get a couple of those rolls and bring them down. Put them in the microwave, please.”

Ordinarily, Mac might have been annoyed, but he wasn’t. Ellie intrigued him. He liked her use of authority and the way she made him a part of the kitchen—whether he felt he should be helping or not. Johanna had always shooed him out of the kitchen and called him when dinner was ready. Retrieving the rolls, he placed them in the microwave. Then he took a butter dish from the refrigerator and set it on the table.

“Very good,” Ellie praised with a laugh as she put hamburger meat into the skillet she’d heated. “You’re getting the idea.”

“Is this called karma?” he teased as he stood next to her, leaning against the kitchen counter, his hands resting on it.

Ellie nodded. “Our whole life is karma as far as I’m concerned. The people we meet, the ones we work with, the ones we bump into on the street.” She glanced up at his face, which now seemed more relaxed. “Karma is about living life, Major.”

“Mac.”

“Yes…”

“I feel like I’ve stepped into a whole new world here.”

“You have. I’m Native American, raised to respect all people as equal. I’m a shamaness, and I’ve been trained to look at reality very differently than you.”

“I’m a city kid from Portland, Oregon,” Mac admitted. “My father was an electrical engineer until he died of a heart attack at forty-five. My mother stayed at home and raised me and kept house.”