The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

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He never should have opened the door.

Neal Carey knew better, too-when you open a door, you’re never really sure what you’re letting in.

But he had been expecting Hardin, the old shepherd who came every day at teatime to sip whiskey with him. It was raining-had been raining for five solid days-and by all rights Hardin should have arrived for “a bit of wet to take the chill off.”

Neal pulled his wool cardigan tighter around his neck, edged his chair a little closer to the fire, and hunched down lower over the table to read. The fire was waging a brave but losing battle against the cold and damp, which was miserable even for March in the Yorkshire moors. He took another hit of coffee and tried to settle back into Tobias Smollett’s Ferdinand Count Fathom, but his mind just wasn’t on it. He’d been at it all day, and now he was ready for a little conversation and a spot of whiskey. Where the hell was Hardin?

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