Slightly Psychic. Sandra Steffen

house when someone new inherited the old place. Joe had most likely already overstayed his welcome. No matter what they said about possession being nine-tenths of the law, the cabin by the pond wasn’t his.

      Hoofs clattered up the steps, and the world’s most ornery goat butted Joe from behind. Giving the animal a guiding shove, he said, “Get off the porch, Nanny. Go on. You know better.”

      “So her name’s Nanny.”

      The soft, plaintive sound drew Joe around. The woman stood in the doorway, her light brown hair hanging past her shoulders. He couldn’t tell how old she was, mid- to late thirties, maybe. She was barefoot and sleepy-looking, her dress long and loose and the color of burnished copper. Over her shoulders she wore a sweater that was severely wrinkled, as if she’d just pulled it from a packing crate. Slipping her arms into the sleeves, she said, “She wouldn’t tell me.”

      “Who?” he asked.

      “The goat. You called her Nanny.”

      He found himself staring at the open door, puzzled. “That old relic is solid mahogany and has been sticking for years. How did you open it soundlessly?”

      “Some things respond best to a gentle touch.”

      Something erotic seared the back of his mind. Dousing it at the source, he looked at her again.

      She pulled the door shut as quietly as she’d opened it and joined him on the side porch. “What are the others’ names?”

      “The others?” he asked.

      She motioned to the goats.

      His father had been telling him he was becoming a hermit. Obviously, Joe had lost whatever paltry conversational skills he’d once had. He sure wasn’t following her very well. But he tried. “That big one there? He’s the only male. His name is Buck. The other two are Mo and Curly. Myrtle Ann’s doings, not mine.”

      She seemed to take her time absorbing that. “Is there a Larry?”

      He shook his head. They’d gotten off track. Drawing himself up and slightly away—how he’d gotten so close, he didn’t know—he said, “I’m Joe McCaffrey. I’ve been looking after the place and feeding the animals for Myrtle Ann the past few years.”

      She nodded slowly without taking her eyes off him.

      “Are you all right?” he asked.

      He wouldn’t have thought it was a difficult question, but she swallowed and took her sweet time replying. “Just really, really tired, so please don’t feel obligated to kill me with kindness.”

      Kill her? Something inside Joe curled up like a sail furled inward. Did she know who he was? What people said? What it had cost him?

      “It was a bad joke, Mr. McCaffrey.”

      The flatness was gone from her voice. In its place was a soreness he recognized all too well.

      “I didn’t mean to insult you by implying you’re an ax murderer. I don’t think Myrtle Ann would have let someone she didn’t trust feed her animals.”

      A lot of people believed differently. Uneasy, he backed up a little more. Did she know or didn’t she? She continued watching him, her hazel eyes guileless, causing him to wonder what, if anything, was going on behind them. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

      “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m not a murderer, either.”

      The notion hadn’t occurred to him. “That takes a load off my mind, ma’am.”

      The “ma’am” must have done it. Her eyes widened, and he saw a lighting in them. Maybe she was just tired. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t want him living in the cabin now that she owned the place.

      “Do you have a name?” he asked.

      “Everybody has a name, Mr. McCaffrey.” She was looking at Myrtle Ann’s goats as if she’d never seen farm animals up close.

      Again, he waited. Finally, he decided to try another tack. “Have you had a chance to get acquainted with your own private piece of paradise?”

      “I’m trying not to rush it.”

      She was teasing him. He had to look closely, but it showed in the softening of her mouth and the gentling of her expression.

      A rooster crowed from the roof of a Studebaker nearly covered with vines. When the woman glanced at her watch, Joe felt compelled to explain. “That’s Louie. His internal clock’s a little off.”

      This time she smiled. “That sounds like my old college roommate. She’s sleeping inside, still on Paris time. I take it you’re also responsible for mending the fences and stacking that wood?”

      He couldn’t bring himself to ask her to consider letting him continue. To beg. A man had his pride. So instead, he went down the remaining steps and asked, “What are your plans?”

      The question brought Lila up short. It occurred to her that she probably should have asked for some identification. Joe McCaffrey didn’t look untrustworthy, and it was obvious that he was trying to keep a respectable distance between them. Extremely polite, he wore battered work boots and blue jeans faded nearly white at the major stress points: knees, seat and fly. His T-shirt was gray, his cropped hair the color of freshly ground coffee beans. There were three lines across his forehead and two more framing his upper lip. The lower half of his face was shiny, as if he’d shaved before coming over. He’d taken some trouble with his appearance before meeting her. That said something about him. She wasn’t sure what.

      How did people do this? How did they make assessments, judgments and decisions without the universe’s input?

      Lila had come to Virginia to learn.

      “My plans?” she asked, wondering how long it had been since he’d asked the question.

      “What are you going to do with the place now that it’s yours?” he asked.

      “I’ve been thinking a lot about that. Myrtle Ann Canfield was a generous woman.”

      “Yes, she was,” Joe said quietly.

      They stared at each other. He was the first to shift awkwardly, drawing away.

      One of the goats butted a post. The chickens clucked nearby and the rooster crowed again in the distance. Lila felt overwhelmed. “I’m a city girl.”

      “Not anymore.”

      She pondered that. From here she could see much of her property. There was a stand of pines to the west and a cabin near a pond, and a rowboat was tied to a dock. The grass had been mowed around the cabin just as it had been around the main house. Despite the recent improvements, orderliness began and ended there. She’d envisioned a gentleman’s farm with painted white barns and fields of grain swaying in the breeze and perhaps a small garden where vegetables grew in neat rows and hills where fruit trees stood watch like guards of the property. Instead, The Meadows was overgrown and unkempt, animals roamed freely and a rooster crowed long past dawn. She wasn’t quite sure what part Joe McCaffrey played in all of this. He seemed standoffish and emotionally wounded. But who wasn’t?

      “I have no idea how to care for these animals.”

      “It isn’t difficult.”

      “Would you show me?” she asked.

      A muscle worked in his cheek. “Before I clear out, you mean?”

      “Clear out?”

      He gestured to the cabin. “I’ve been living there almost two years now.”

      She stored the information. This inheritance may have been a godsend, but it hadn’t come without responsibilities. The trip had exhausted her, and she had no idea what she was supposed to do next. She tried to go to that place she used to go where white energy radiated and the universe was orderly and systematic and