There was just enough light left filtering through the trees on the western horizon for Katie to see Monty had been right. His hook was bare. He cursed without heat, removed the hook and set his fishing pole aside.
“Sorry if I chased him off,” Katie mumbled.
“It’s not your fault. I know that devilfish. He’d been playing with me for fifteen minutes before you walked on the dock.”
It suddenly struck Katie that he probably didn’t know who she was. It was pretty dark out here, and he’d never fully looked at her. Besides, why would he expect her of all people to come sneaking up on him while he was fishing?
“It’s . . . er . . . me. Katie Hughes.”
He gave her a swift glance. “Thanks for informing me.”
“How’d you know it was me?” she asked, gleaning from the sarcastic edge to the older man’s voice he’d known who sat next to him the whole time.
“Heard that monstrosity of a car of yours roaring down the road from three miles away.”
Katie flushed. She really had been gunning it, and she was learning quickly that sound traveled eerily far through these silent hills.
“I came to see how Errol was doing.” She let her boots drop down over the side of the dock, figuring Monty wouldn’t mind since he was no longer fishing.
“What’d you come out here for?” Monty asked bluntly.
“To talk to you.” She hesitated. “Is Monty short for Montgomery?”
“You came out here to ask me that?” Monty growled.
“No, I just was wondering.”
“It’s short for my first, middle and last names,” he admitted brusquely after a pause. “Montrose Montague Montgomery.”
Katie glanced over at him in surprise, barely making out the outline of his prominent nose and overhanging brow in the darkness. “Your parents must have had a sense of humor.”
“My parents,” he replied briskly, “didn’t have a funny bone in either of their bodies.”
“Huh,” Katie mused.
A cricket began to squeak loudly. It sounded so close, it might have been just feet above Katie’s head. She glanced back. The thick forest of trees seemed to stare back at her like silent, dark sentinels. Katie shivered.
“I have three different men’s names—my dad’s, my grandfather’s and a great-uncle’s. My grandfather and great-uncle were decorated officers in the army,” Monty said after a pause.
“What about your dad? Was he in the army, too?”
“No.”
“Oh, I was just wondering.”
“Wondering what?” Monty asked. She heard puzzlement and a trace of irritation in his gruff voice, but he must have sensed there was something she wanted to ask him. Monty obviously wasn’t one for small talk.
“How someone like you ever became a social worker.”
“What do you mean, someone like me?”
“I don’t know,” Katie said, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “Just . . . how did you? What kind of a degree did you have to get?”
“I have a master’s degree in social work.”
“Oh,” Katie replied pleasantly. Now she was getting somewhere. She leaned back on the dock, trying to seem casual.
“What kind of schooling did you get?” Monty countered.