At Close Range. Marilyn Tracy

had trouble accepting that notion. She’d traveled the world, been in some of the most dangerous places, come back with heart-wrenching stories of pain and hope. A good little girl would avoid such situations like the plague. “How about later?” he asked.

      “Exactly the same—always a follower, never a leader. A true coward, in essence.”

      He shook his head, not necessarily disagreeing with her but unable to reconcile his preconceptions of her with what she stated was the reality. The Public Broadcasting System’s motto for her ran through his mind. “When Corrie Stratton says it’s true, it’s a fact.”

      “I’d better get going,” he said. Once upon a time, he’d have lingered on this veranda, clung to the time with a pretty woman and a chilly night. Back in that time, he’d have believed in futures, been blind to the pitfalls and dangers that lurked in the shadows.

      “Oh. Okay.” She looked understandably confused.

      “Good night,” he said gruffly. He curled his hand into a fist to avoid raising it to her silken face.

      “Do you want a flashlight to get back to the bunkhouse?” She turned to face him. The movement was abrupt and unexpected.

      He wished she hadn’t turned to face him. Her eyes were too luminous in the light cast from the windows, her face too guileless and, for some reason, wistful. He could read the curiosity there and a tinge of sorrow or pity. But he couldn’t see the quest for the news story he’d half accused her of pursuing only moments before. He saw a lovely woman on a cold, moonless night, a woman who had come to offer comfort or perhaps mere camaraderie, and he’d closed her out.

      It was best that way, he thought. As he’d told her, he didn’t believe in promises. Lost in his thoughts, he’d forgotten her offer of a flashlight.

      “No, thanks,” he said, “I can see my way. You’d better get in before you freeze.” But he was the one who turned to go.

      “As Juan Carlos would say, watch out for ghosts,” she said.

      “I’m used to them,” he said.

      “Plural?”

      She was too quick, could hear too much. He turned back to face her but didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Plural.”

      “As in, you’re used to more than one ghost.”

      “As in,” he agreed, almost enjoying the interplay.

      “Are you speaking metaphorically or literally?”

      “Both,” he said.

      “A man who speaks on multiple levels. Hmm. And talks in riddles.”

      “We all have ghosts,” he said.

      “But most people call them baggage, not ghosts.”

      “I could say I’m not most people.”

      She gave a slow smile. “I think I’d agree.”

      He tried a smile in return, but it felt odd on his lips. “I think I’ll turn in,” he said, lying through his teeth. If tonight were like any other, he wouldn’t sleep until nearly dawn.

      “Good night, then,” she said. “Dream of the angels.”

      One angel in particular, he thought. “Right,” he said. “You, too.”

      “Always,” she said, rocking against the cold. She didn’t seem like a child then; she was everything a man could possibly want on a lonely night. And if he didn’t walk away from her that very minute, he’d find out exactly what kind of a miracle it would feel like to have her in his arms.

      He gave her a stiff half wave and got off the veranda as quickly as he possibly could. He wasn’t far enough away, however, not to hear her clear voice murmur, “What are you hiding, Mack Dorsey?”

      Chapter 4

      From her suite in the main hacienda, Corrie could see the light on in the teacher’s bunkhouse and knew Mack Dorsey was awake as well. He’d looked tired, even exhausted when he’d hurried from the veranda, but somehow she wasn’t surprised to see his silhouette pacing behind the curtains in the wee hours of the morning.

      She was sorry he was out there alone. After a terrible incident the year before when a truly evil man kidnapped Dulce and José in an attempt to force Jeannie to turn the ranch over to him, Jeannie and Chance had decided the ranch hands’ sleeping quarters should be much closer to the main hacienda and a new wing had been added. The former staff bunkhouse had been converted to a large, communal-style teachers’ living quarters. But Mack was the only one there now.

      Part of her wanted to go offer him some comfort, see if he was in pain, or simply see if he needed some little item he might have forgotten. The other part, the rational side, told her that whatever made him restless was none of her business and she’d be well advised to let him alone.

      She turned back to her notebook. He walks alone, late at night. Ghosts trail behind him, calling his name.

      She groaned—the same could be said of her. Too many ghosts, too many harsh words, too many people claiming her past.

      She tossed her pen aside before turning off her own light, as if shutting him out—both physically and mentally.

      The narrow aperture of her curtains let Mack Dorsey’s lit window shine like a full moon with tidal-wave intent. His shadowy form became a sharp focal point. She held her breath, watching him walk back and forth across the curtained lens.

      Feeling like a voyeur, Corrie yanked her curtains closed and turned over on her bed so she wouldn’t be able to even imagine she could see his pacing figure. After a few minutes, she swore and sat up in bed. She dragged open the curtains, her eyes automatically seeking the false moon of Mack’s window. Though his silhouette was no longer visible, the light remained on.

      Corrie checked the clock on the nightstand. Half past three in the morning.

      She sat for several minutes, waiting for the light across the drive to turn off, and when it didn’t, she sighed and swung her legs out of bed. She dragged on the pair of sweatpants she’d worn earlier that day and shoved her bare feet into a pair of boots Dulce had given her, not caring that they were two sizes too big.

      She snatched up a bottle of aspirin from her bathroom cabinet, a book from the bulging bookcase on the wall and, not questioning why, a pen and empty notebook from atop her desk. She shoved all these items into the pockets of the elegant duster Leeza gave her two months ago and opened the exterior door to the veranda.

      She shuffled across the broad expanse of driveway to the guest quarters and hunched in her duster as if snow lay on the ground, shivering in the cold desert air.

      She marched up the stairs of the teachers’ quarters, but, as she raised her fist to the front door, her need to help Mack Dorsey dissolved and so did her resolve. She back stepped, feeling like a fool, hoping he hadn’t heard her determined scuffles across his narrow porch.

      He was a grown man, for heaven’s sake; not one of the wounded children that needed tending as if he were a little bird with a broken wing. His cold eyes could lance evil at eighty yards; he wouldn’t need a painkiller for the bruises inflicted by some drunken uncle or father. He wouldn’t need a book—and a soft voice—to lull him to sleep, or a pen to write his experiences down. He would know how to survive until morning.

      One of the porch steps creaked beneath her too-large boots as she turned to go. As if the stray sounds were an alarm system, the bunkhouse door flew open and made an enormous clang as the heavy metal hinges collided with the brackets against the side of the house. Light spilled from the teachers’ quarters, incandescence escaping into the night.

      Mack Dorsey stood silhouetted in the light, naked to the waist, barefoot, and standing as if he anticipated a grizzly to rush him. His knees were bent, his bare feet spread apart, as if he anticipated a need to move quickly.