At Close Range. Marilyn Tracy

like,” she said.

      “And you’re gonna stay here with us, right?” Analissa asked, leaning forward, tipping the tray dangerously.

      Mack caught the tray before the ice cream in the Dixie cups slid to the floor. “I’m here,” he agreed.

      Analissa launched herself at him, her baby arms thin and spindly against his broad, rock-hard shoulder. The tray teetered dangerously, but not half as much as Corrie suspected Mack’s emotions might be tipping. “To stay?”

      Corrie rescued him. “To stay, sweetie. He’s here to stay,” she said, reaching out to stroke Analissa’s silky hair.

      Mack didn’t say anything. He set the tray on the table and gently dislodged Analissa from his arm as he pushed to his feet.

      The rest of the children poured through the open doorway, treats in store, and raced around the table, making sure everyone had at least two of the prized biscochitos.

      “You’re not leaving, Señor Mack?” Juan Carlos asked.

      “Really, you must try one of Rita’s biscochitos. She makes the best anywhere on earth,” Leeza said.

      “He’s got to go,” Analissa said, all six of her years showing, and twenty-five more to boot. “But he’s staying here now. Corrie says. He’s going to stay with us.”

      A cheer went around the table, with a few I-told-you-so’s from Juan Carlos and nods from Jorge.

      Corrie thought Mack’s face would have paled had his scarred skin allowed it to do so. Instead, he only stood above them all, seemingly carved in granite, and as acutely uncomfortable as a man could possibly be.

      “I’ll walk you out,” she said.

      “It’s not necessary,” he answered. “Thank you all for the wonderful dinner.”

      “Food will be here tomorrow morning and again at lunchtime and then again at supper,” Jeannie said. “It’s the Rancho Milagro way.”

      “And we’ll talk about classes in the morning,” Leeza said.

      “And I’ll show you my new saddle for Dancer,” Juan Carlos said. “I can ride again next week. I’m grounded now.” He made a face that was more grin than grimace. “Because I rode Dancer without permission.”

      “And I’ll draw you a picture,” Analissa said, curling her hand into his pant leg and dragging on it. “It will have you in it, and Corrie, and Dancer the horse, and Jeannie, and Chance, and Dulce, and—” she looked around the table, her dark eyes questing “—and Clovis, and Pablo, and Rita and everybody.”

      “Thanks,” Mack said, but Corrie thought he looked as if the whole lot of them had stretched a hot bed of coals for him to walk across. He turned to the living room as if made of wood—stiff and resistant. If she hadn’t witnessed for herself his reactions to each of the children, she might have wondered how he might act as a teacher. But she’d seen his smile at Juan Carlos’s joking prayer and his tumbling for Analissa.

      “Sleep tight,” Jeannie called gently.

      Corrie saw Mack hesitate in his walk. He raised a hand as if in farewell.

      Juan Carlos called out, “Be careful, Señor Mack. And watch out for La Dolorosa.”

      Mack stopped and half turned back to the group at the table.

      “What, you afraid of ghosts, Juan Carlos?” Dulce sneered.

      “No way! But Rita said people in Carlsbad have seen her lately. And Jorge said—”

      “That’s enough, Juan Carlos,” Jeannie interrupted gently but firmly. “Those are only stories. There are no such things as ghosts.” She looked at Analissa with meaning in her gaze.

      “But—”

      “No buts. Good night, Mack. I’m glad you’re joining us.”

      Mack raised his hand again, not in a wave, but more in a gesture of frustration. He nodded and made for the front door.

      “See you tomorrow, Señor Mack,” Analissa called out.

      The door slammed behind him before the little girl could hear an answer.

      “He’ll be here,” Jeannie assured her, drawing the child to her lap. She ran her hand over the little girl’s hair.

      “I think he wants us,” Analissa said, pressing her face into Jeannie’s chest. “I think he needs to be here.”

      Corrie thought so, too.

      Chapter 3

      Mack was grateful for the icy chill of the night. He gulped at the air like a drowning man. He could hear the laughter filtering through the French windows of the veranda and could still feel the impression Analissa’s little hand left behind. He listened as the heavy door opened and closed. And knew without looking around that it was Corrie Stratton who’d followed him outside.

      She was the last person on earth he wanted to see at that moment. She made him want to tell her things, hard things, raw things he’d rather keep locked inside.

      “It takes some getting used to,” Corrie’s sultry voice said from behind him.

      He thought about all the times he’d listened to her voice pouring out of the radio into the dark hospital burn unit during his long recuperation. She’d been a friend telling a late-night bedtime story, a woman who talked with kings and soldiers far away and relayed their stories back to those waiting to hear her voice again.

      “Overwhelmed?” she asked, stepping up to join him at the railing surrounding the broad veranda.

      For some reason, he didn’t want to lie to her, and he wanted to hear that beautiful voice, so he didn’t answer her directly. “How long have the children been here?”

      “Let’s see. José and Dulce were the first and they came the same week about a year ago. I think Jason came next, then Tony, Jenny and Juan Carlos. Then Analissa. She’s been here about three weeks. She’s a doll.”

      “Tell me about them,” he said.

      Corrie leaned against the railing. “No one knows where José came from. He just showed up here one day when Jeannie was first finishing renovations on the place. We’ve searched and searched, but no luck, and if José knows, he’s not saying. Jeannie and Chance have moved five or six mountains to try to unravel the paperwork involved in adopting a child who has seemingly sprung from nowhere. They’re not through the wringer yet, but with the status here for long-term foster care, we all hold high hopes. Dulce was orphaned as a child and was shuffled from one foster home to another until she was so filled with attitude and distrust that she could hardly say her name without spitting at you.”

      Mack wondered if Corrie knew her cadence had slipped into a storyteller’s rhythm, graceful and filled with hints of magic. He leaned against one of the large, round viga-pole supports and said, “She’ll be a beauty, that one.”

      Corrie agreed and continued, “Tony has parents, but his father is in prison and his mother placed him in the foster-care system because she couldn’t handle things. He’s been in the system now for three years.”

      “A lifetime to a kid his age.”

      “One third of it, anyway. And Jenny’s father took off shortly after she was born and her mother’s in the hospital having her fifth child. Five children, five different fathers. Not one of them involved with their contributions to the world.”

      “What about her brothers and sisters?”

      “The grandmother can manage them, she says, but claims Jenny wouldn’t do anything she was told.” A sharp note edged Corrie’s normally soft tones.

      “That’s the little girl who never said a word tonight, right?”

      “That’s