Ms. Miller and the Midas Man by Mary Kay McComas Page B

disturbed woman speaking, this was a woman in pain. Hurt and beaten. A strong woman clinging to negatives to survive because they were simple and true, and all she had left.
    “What about dreams?” he asked, betting himself that she had none left.
    “What about them?”
    “Aren’t dreams food to the human spirit? Don’t people need dreams, as unrealistic as they might be sometimes, to keep them moving forward? To give their life meaning?”
    “Why do they have to be dreams? Can’t they simply be goals you set for yourself? Can’t they be realistic, one-step-at-a-time goals? Dreams are too easy to blow out of proportion. It’s crazy to believe in things that may or may not be real, things that can’t be, can’t happen.”
    “Crazy or painful?”
    She opened her mouth to answer then closed it. He knew. Two days, and already he knew she was a failure, a disappointment. Well, so what? She’d tried to warn him.
    “Yes. Crazy and painful,” she said, turning away to finish picking up. Unfortunately, there was nothing left to pick up. But to turn around and face him again was an intolerable thought.
    She could hear him coming up behind her and braced herself. Still she trembled, as if hit by lightning, when he touched her shoulders.
    “What happened to you?” he asked softly, the tenderness in his voice bringing tears to press and sting against the backs of her eyes. “Who hurt you?”
    He wanted to turn her around and hold her in his arms, but she was so tense under his hands, he knew it would be like holding a plank of wood. The tightness in his chest began to ache, making it hard to breathe.
    “No one,” she murmured, more than a little uncomfortable with the topic...and his proximity. She attempted to step away but was held fast at the shoulders, then turned, so he could see her face.
    “Tell me,” he whispered, his eyes black and bottomless in the porch light.
    If he hadn’t sounded so caring, been so gentle, she wouldn’t have laughed, wouldn’t have pushed his hands away so forcefully.
    “Look, I appreciate the help with the table, but it doesn’t entitle you to butt into my life. Why don’t you go turn something to gold and leave me alone?”
    She took steps to walk away from him, but he snagged her left wrist and held tight.
    “I can’t,” he said. “God knows I should. You’re mean and you’re nasty and...I can’t. I don’t want to leave you alone.”
    Had she thought him strange? He was just plain nuts. Couldn’t he see she was trying to save him from the curse of her life? Didn’t he know he was better off if her life didn’t touch his?
    “I’ll hurt you,” she said, explaining as best she could.
    “Go ahead. Take your best shot. I’m not leaving.”
    She shook her head. He didn’t understand.
    “No. I mean I’ll really hurt you.” He frowned in confusion at her seriousness and slackened his hold on her wrist. She stepped away from him. “Stay if you want to, Scotty. I’m going inside. I’m doing you a favor, believe me.”
    Okay. The best he could do was give her a high score for originality and watch as she walked into the house and closed the door.
    She was doing him a favor by not opening up to him? She was afraid of hurting him, not the other way around? Well, that was one for the books. Reverse rejection?
    The porch light didn’t go out until he was through the gate, which meant she was still watching him. But when he turned, the house was dark and he couldn’t tell from where.
    “I’m not afraid of you. You hear me, Ms. Miller?” he bellowed into the darkness, his voice echoing through the quiet neighborhood. “You don’t scare me. I’ll be coming back.”

FOUR
    H E GAVE HER MONDAY to reflect on and reconsider her hasty decision to ignore him, to think about him and anxiously anticipate his next move. He gave her Monday to miss him—and because he wasn’t sure what he’d do next until Monday evening.
    Growing up, it had been a joke at his house when