At Close Range by Marilyn Tracy Page B

inside. He waited until he sawher light go out, and continued to wait until all he could see was his own breath freezing in the air.
    He dry-swallowed the aspirin left in his palm and went inside the bunkhouse. His new skin tingled, both from the cold and from thinking about Corrie. He thought about how her hand had felt in his when he shook it earlier in the day, and how it shook in his during the dinnertime prayer. How it quivered beneath his fingers just now.
    What would make a woman of the world, an icon like Corrie Stratton, so nervous that she trembled? A possible answer popped into his head, only to be rejected. A woman with Corrie Stratton’s background, her voice, her looks, wouldn’t be rendered vulnerable around any man, let alone a teacher with more scars than God should allow.
    What kept her awake at night, watching him pace the floor some two hundred yards away? What were her ghosts? What was the miracle she sought?
    Strangely, once back inside, he felt sleepy. He wasn’t exhausted, restless or even weary. He was just sleepy. More strangely still, he fell asleep almost immediately after turning off his light.
    But not so strangely, he dreamed of a woman with delicate fingers and an angel’s voice, and somehow, in the dream, he knew she carried miracles in her coat pocket and, in the wake of her magic, he started to believe the promises in her eyes.

Chapter 5
    M ack avoided Corrie like the proverbial plague for the next few days, which, given the size of Rancho Milagro, should have been easy. And could have been if it weren’t for the infernal family meals.
    During his convalescence, Mack had lain in a darkened room, listening to the radio, and had fantasized about the woman behind the lovely voice. On the ranch, over family-style meals, seeing her laughing with the children, giggling until tears ran, or solemnly taking in a child’s tale of the day’s activities, made him acutely uncomfortable, as if he’d rummaged through her dresser drawers without her knowledge.
    The woman who’d interviewed heads of state and painted word pictures of the global political climate on the radio, sat barefoot at the dinner table, one arm around a child, the other holding her raised knees, as if needing to be grounded. With every gesture, sherevealed her heart, her longing and her love for her two partners and the hodgepodge collection of children.
    And he wanted her. Fiercely, with a sharp hunger that surprised him in its simplicity and raw desire. And because he wanted her, he told himself he needed to stay as far away from her as humanly possible. He’d come to Rancho Milagro looking for peace, seeking a place where he could make a difference, not expecting any more than that.
    On his third night at the ranch, little Analissa was regaling them all with a story of Leeza attempting to ride the gentle old mare, Plugster. “And then she screamed like this—ooh!—and her face turned all red like the flowers in the living room and her eyes got really big, like this….”
    Mack half listened to the story but really was watching Corrie. She, in her usual bent-knee perch, sat with her head tilted to one side, her long chestnut hair spilling loose from its twisted ponytail and falling across one shoulder. A tender smile played on her lips. Her eyes were dreamy and soft, alight more with love for the child than humor over the story the little girl told.
    Mack found himself holding his breath. What would it feel like to have that look turned on him? As if reading his thoughts, she shifted her gaze to his. For a single second that seemed to last an eternity or two, her expression didn’t change. Then her eyes focused on his, and her smile faltered.
    They might have been alone in the room, the little girl’s story mere background music. Something seemed to leap between them, an electrical arc, a seemingly invisible ribbon of connection. He had toclose his eyes to shut her