At Close Range (15 page)

“I don't want them scared,” Corrie reminded him.

He took her hand. “I thought we talked this out, Corrie.”

Her breath seemed to tangle in her throat as his thumb caressed her knuckles. “It just seems that a focus on danger is unhealthy.”

“Tell that to Lucinda,” he said. “Or Pedro.”

“That's not fair,” she said.

“Life's not fair, Corrie. Nothing about it is fair. Look at Shelley Vandersterre, Allen Parkins, George—”

“The five who perished in the Enchanted Hills fire
bombing incident,” she interrupted, recognizing the names from her research.

“Trained caution far outweighs blind optimism,” he said.

“I'm not advocating blind optimism,” she said.

“No? Then what do you call it?”

“I call it not frightening children who have already been through enough in their lives.”

“That's specious logic, Corrie. How does teaching them how to watch for danger and giving them little ways they can help avoid it make them ‘go through' something? Wouldn't danger springing on them unaware be so much worse?”

“Maybe. But I don't think that's what this is all about,” she said.

“No? What is it, then?”

She struggled to hold in her thoughts, years of having done so trying to override the need to share her thoughts. “I'm afraid you're trying to undo what you feel is a failure two years ago. You couldn't save everyone then and you're beating yourself up for it.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Wow. You know how to hit below the belt, don't you, sweetheart?”

Tears flooded her eyes. “Oh, Mack, I'm not trying to hit at you. I'm trying to tell you that you can't protect the whole world.”

“What does the whole world have to do with anything?” he asked, but his face was pale, making the skin grafts all the more noticeable.

Everything inside her trembled, but she persisted. “You can't protect all of them all the time.”

“Hell, at this rate, I'll be lucky if I can protect any of you—them,” he snapped.

She half flinched, and that inner voice that had told her to keep quiet issued a little I-told-you-so.

He glared at her, then to her amazement, he didn't walk away, strike out or even pound a fist against a wall. He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “Kids need to learn to provide some protection for themselves. Don't you see that, Corrie? If Shelley, George and the others hadn't panicked, hadn't felt trapped, they would have known how to get out. They were alive, Corrie. And because they didn't know any better, they're dead now. Burned alive.”

The tears in Corrie's eyes spilled free. “Oh, Mack, I'm so—”

“Don't you say you're sorry, Corrie. I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to be mad. Be mad about what happened to you when you were a kid. Be furious, honey, that some bunch of pious jerks let you believe you were responsible for your parents' deaths. Hell, even be mad at your parents for not teaching you the difference between a smoke cloud and a rain cloud.”

He did pace away from her then, stopped and looked up at the ceiling as if expecting an answer from above as he growled out, “God, when did we become such a passive society?” He whirled back to face her, his features fierce with the passion he felt. “We shouldn't accept devastating blows, we should rage and scream out against them. We should teach our children to fight and fight hard for their lives.”

As she had thought before, she wondered if there wasn't a second message in his deeply felt words. She
wanted to reel away from him. To run. This man's love was anything but passive. His love was ferocious, albeit unspoken. She could see it in his face, feel it in the energy emanating from him…had felt it in his lovemaking.

If Mack Dorsey was offering her love, it wasn't anything safe, it wasn't open and easy to understand. It wouldn't be dancing on the surface of life. It would be real, intense, vital and proactive.

“Don't you get it, Corrie? If we don't teach them to fight, we're teaching them to be passive, to be victims. And I damn well refuse to be a party to that kind of thinking. About the only thing we adults have in our arsenal for them is the ability to help them learn to be vigilant and teach them how.”

Surprising her, he reached out and cupped her face in his damaged hands that felt like silk against her skin. “We can fight, Corrie. Us. You and me. We can rail against acceptance. We can fight to get the drunks off the streets so they can't kill husbands and babies like that idiot did to Jeannie's first family. We can stop the crazies before they enter a school with madness on their minds. We can empower the weak to stand up against the bullies of the world. These are the answers, Corrie.”

Answers? They were prayers. They were million-dollar treasure chests of hope.

“That's the real magic of this place.”

She looked at him through a watery haze. “I don't understand,” she said.

“Face it, you fought a mountain of rules and paperwork to accomplish this. You've given up a career most people would kill for in order to make a few
children's lives a little brighter. When I came here, I only wanted to escape the past, hide from the present. There wasn't a single thought of futures or happiness, or anything other than just getting by.”

“What are you saying, Mack?”

“What I am I saying?” he asked back, as if truly questioning himself. “I'm saying, then I met you.”

“Oh, Mack.”

He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her with such tenderness that the tears that had sprung free earlier spilled over his fingers. He wiped them away gently.

“Don't you see what you've done, honey? You've reminded me that life is worth fighting for. You've made me believe that there is something that comes after the battle. Something that smells and tastes like a future. And I'm damned if I'm going to sit back and let some scudsbucket like Joe Turnbull, or some jerk like him, threaten it.”

Corrie's heart was thundering in her breast. His anger had revealed more than she'd anticipated ever hearing him say. And so much that he didn't.

“You can't protect everyone, Mack. Not all the time. No one can.”

“I have to try,” he said. “And I'd like you to help me.”

And this time, she nodded. Not because she was afraid to argue, and certainly not because she felt passive. She nodded because she believed.

 

Mack should have felt tense, teaching the children to sneak in and out of the barn. Instead, with Corrie beside him, turning the training session into a lighthearted game, he was almost as infected with hilarity
as the children. Her throaty chuckle and her mimicry of various television bad guys had the children giggling, and even he was unable to hide his appreciative grin.

Strangely, her antics didn't detract from his objective one iota. They'd achieved an easy compromise without having taken the time to plot it out. She softened his hard lessons with kind words and laughter. And he punctuated her giggles with mock sternness, but always getting the point across.

Watching her, he was reminded of how they were together in bed. He the taker, she the giver, until the two blended and suddenly he was aware she was demanding all and he dying to give it to her. Soft meeting hard, fire melting in tenderness.

He'd been as astonished as she when he blurted out his feelings for her. Not that he'd given her all that much, but he'd given her more than he had anyone else in two long years. Perhaps more than anyone ever before. And it scared the hell out of him. He wanted to retract the words, to hide from the wistful blink of hope and realization he'd seen in her eyes.

And he wanted to tell her more. He wanted her to know just how wonderful he thought she was, that he could sit and listen to her for hours and hours, wallowing in her luxurious voice, or could lie awake all night just watching her sleep, her abandoned body sprawled akimbo, her breathing soft and steady. And what did all that mean?

That he loved her?

And why not? She was beautiful, kind and so incredibly expressive and responsive. Any man with half a brain and even a quarter of a heart would love her.

Loving her wasn't the problem. Believing he could be with her was the issue. Believing he could be a whole-enough man to provide for her, to protect her, to keep her safe and happy, that was the key. Wasn't it? To tell her he loved her would be simple. It would have the benefit of truth, but it would be without any sort of foundation for a solid future. He had too many ghosts, too many conflicts, too many doubts to drag her into that maelstrom of doubts.

And yet, watching her with the children, buying into his quickly improvised training, seeing her sneak around the barn, hearing her instructing the kids on the finer points of owl hoots, horse raspberries and toad calls, he knew he'd never wanted anything so much in his entire life as he wanted to believe in a future with Corrie Stratton.

W
here dinner the night before had been subdued, this evening's meal took on a party atmosphere, with little Pedro proudly presenting Rancho Milagro to his mother—who, as it turned out, spoke quite a bit of English—and with the other children enchanted with the notion of sharing a meal with a ghost, real or not.

Mack sat in his usual place between Corrie and Analissa, but, as Pablo and Clovis were still out rounding up the spring calves, and he was the only male adult present, his was the face the children looked toward for assurance, approbation or even a discouraging frown.

As Rita brought in dessert, Mack succumbed to combined pleas for a story and told the tale of Cabeza de Vaca's journey through New Mexico, making it an exciting, hair-raising adventure. Hanging on to his words every bit as much as the children, Corrie could see his gift for teaching inherent in each phrase.

And when he laughed and made some silly face over something Juan Carlos said, she suddenly caught a glimpse of the class clown.

Unaware that a smile played on her lips as she studied him, she was surprised when he looked her way and suddenly stilled, then slowly smiled back, his eyes warm, his gaze unwary, open. If ever a moment were more inappropriate to a declaration of her feelings, she thought, she hadn't known it. And yet, because he looked at her with such delight, such frank camaraderie, she wanted to blurt out the truth, whatever it was.

He'd said being there had made him want to fight for a future, believe in it. She wanted to let him know that he made her want to stand beside him for that fight. To be with him.

But how did one say that simply, knowing with a relative certainty that he would shut her out with an ice-blue stare, preferring the ghosts of his past to an uncertain future?

Lucinda insisted on clearing the dishes and disappeared into the kitchen as Rita and Mack led the children back outside for a quieter version of their afternoon recon training. Hearing the children giggling and the deeper rumble of Mack's laughter, Corrie felt she slipped a couple hundred notches deeper into a magical world, into one of the many miracles on this ranch. Just watching him smile made her want to laugh out loud. Listening to him laugh was enough to make her ache with a desire that transcended logic.

When the phone rang, Corrie barely started and picked up the receiver with a cheery hello. Her good humor slipped a bit when she heard the sheriff's voice.
To her mild irritation and rueful amusement, the man asked for Mack.

She called him inside and handed him the phone.

Mack gave her a wry look and deliberately talked directly to her. “Dorsey here.”

She leaned against the wall watching him, blatantly eavesdropping. Even if the sheriff hadn't spoken so loudly, she would have been able to read the conversation from Mack's face.

“I've got some bad news,” the sheriff said. “And it's my fault. Corrie Stratton told me Lucinda didn't want anyone to know she was out there, and it made sense. But, stupid cuss that I am, I didn't have the door closed when I was talking with her.”

“And somebody was listening.”

“Right the first time.”

“And whoever was listening told somebody who ran into Joe Turnbull.”

“That's about the size of it,” the sheriff said. “Whenever you want to make a really crappy salary and get beat up on Saturday night by the town drunk, let me know and I'll make you deputy.”

“Are you thinking Turnbull will come out here?”

“That's why I'm calling. According to my source, he's on his way right now, along with a couple of creepazoids that used to run with him.”

“Oh, my God,” Mack said.

Corrie merely tilted her head when he looked a hard question at her. She refused to give in to the fear that made her want to slide down the wall and huddle against the floor. She waved a hand at him as if making him continue.

The sheriff was saying, “I've already called Ted.
He and some of the deputies from the feds' office are on their way out there and I'm on my way, too. We should be there in about twenty minutes, give or take. But in the meantime, get the kids inside a safe zone and alert the others.”

“I will,” Mack promised. His eyes met hers.

She felt she might be as pale as writing paper and looking about as strong. Mack gave her a pained smile. He mouthed
It'll be okay.

“Thank God you're there,” the sheriff said.

Corrie frowned as Mack hung up the phone in a seeming daze. Then she understood. She didn't have to be a psychic to read his thoughts. They were written in the tabloids and between the lines of all the news accounts. If something went wrong, nobody would be thanking any deity that he was there. They'd be remembering the five children he'd lost in the Enchanted Hills incident. They'd compare the two tragedies.
So-called hero loses six more children in orphanage disaster. Hero or pariah?
And, even if they never blamed him, he would blame himself. And he might not be able to survive another such failure.

“It'll be fine,” she said firmly. “They're right behind him. We just have to get everybody to safety.”

He raised a haggard gaze to hers, and whatever he read in the depths of her eyes seemed to steady him. He squared his shoulders. “Right. Safety. That's all that matters.”

She drew a deep, shuddering breath. She'd heard him say that before. It wasn't true, or even really possible, but right at that moment, she wanted him to believe it, to feel it. So she could have faith in it, too.

“I need you to be with me on this, Corrie,” he said.

She held up a hand as if warding him off. “I know. No arguments. I'll get Rita and Lucinda and the kids—”

“The kids will be coming with me to the barn. And I'll take the pups. We'll arrange a few surprises for this guy. Just in case. Besides, it'll give the kids something to do. You get Rita and Lucinda—and yourself—into the bunkhouse.”

“Your bunkhouse? Why? You need my help with the children.”

“I want us separated. It's more difficult to go after people if they're in two separate locations. This guy's not going to think about you hiding in the bunkhouse. He's going to come straight for the house. The last time he went for Lucinda, I understand he attacked the shelter itself and waited for people to come running out. We don't want that to happen here. At least, I don't give a damn if he goes for the house, I just don't want him near any people. Houses can be rebuilt. People can't.”

“No. You're right,” she said. “Bunkhouse it is.” She thought of other options and swore softly. “Jorge went to town right after dinner. Should I call Pablo and Clovis on their cell phone?”

“Good idea, but I doubt they'd be able to get here in time to be of any help. It's still light enough for them to be riding, but in an hour or so, it'll be dark and that'd be dangerous.”

She nodded. She could breathe a little easier now and hoped a little color was creeping back into her cheeks.

He gave her an odd look, half speculation, half raw hunger. With a low growl, he leaned down and kissed
her hard before pulling her to him for a swift, almost rough hug. She kissed him back equally fiercely.

“See you in a few,” he said, releasing her.

She hoped that would be the truth.

Mack was already out the door, calling the children to a huddle, while she stood rooted by the telephone, aware that a pivotal moment had just slipped through her fingers.

In times of danger, a wise person admitted loving another. Did she love him? Did she truly love Mack Dorsey? How would she go about defining that, the way he made her feel? The way she suspected she made him feel? The lovemaking that left them both gasping for air and shuddering with passion?

The way her hands stopped their trembling when he touched her?

And this moment hung for a moment in the air. All she had to do was call him back and tell him how she felt.

But she stood there, watching him planning something with the children, not saying a single word about how he affected her, what she thought about him, what she wanted, needed and craved from him. She had, in fact, almost argued with him over such a minor point as hiding with the women in the bunkhouse where he'd made love to her.

And like so many moments, this exquisite one passed.

He glanced back at her and frowned. “What? Come on, Corrie, get a move on! This lunatic is on his way out here now!”

His words both spurred her into action. The children raced pell-mell toward the barn, followed by the lanky
pups. Little Analissa tripped and cried out. Tony scooped her up without even slowing down.

The big doors closed behind them and Corrie realized the exodus had taken place so quickly she was still in the process of opening the kitchen door.

She'd been wrong to try stopping his training of them. She thought of Joe Turnbull on his way out to the ranch, how vulnerable they were. All of them. But thanks to Mack, they weren't quite as defenseless as they had been only a week before. They were still susceptible, could easily be wounded, and were probably scared, but they weren't without a few tricks up their little sleeves.

The one she suspected might be most vulnerable was the man ramrodding the operation. Because if anything happened to any of them, he would demand the hardest toll be taken on him.

She burst into the kitchen. “Rita, Lucinda? Quick. Your husband's on his way here.”

“Dios mio.”

“Pedro? Where's Pedro?”

“Mack's got him. He has all the kids. He wants you to get to the bunkhouse.” Unconsciously, she'd adopted the tone of command Mack injected into his voice. “He doesn't want Turnbull to find you and Pedro together. The bunkhouse is the safest place for you,” she said. “Right now.”

To her relief, the two women didn't argue with her. Rita automatically dried her hands on her apron and reached for Lucinda. “Come along,
niñita,
” she said. “Señor Mack will keep your son safe. He's a hero, you know. I'll tell you about it.”

He was a hero, yes, but who would keep him safe?
No one had gone in after him in the Enchanted Hills incident. And he not only still carried the scars on the surface, but the unhealed wounds inside.

Corrie punched in Pablo's cell phone number as she watched the two women scurrying across the drive. She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the door bang shut behind them.

Pablo answered on the fourth ring, cursing the hand-held device. Corrie didn't bother with preliminaries. She filled him in on the afternoon's events. “And now, Joe Turnbull is on his way out here and has a couple of friends with him.”

“Did Mack call in reinforcements?”

She grimaced at his assumption that only Mack could handle things. Just as the sheriff had done. But she didn't belabor the point. Oddly, she would have made the assumption herself just a couple of weeks before. There was only one thing that had changed in her life, her meeting Mack Dorsey. Her innate faith in him.

To Pablo, she said, “The sheriff called Chance's office. Ted and a couple of others are on their way. And the sheriff.”

“He's a good man even if he did steal my girlfriend in the fourth grade,” Pablo said. “Okay, we're coming now. But we're about fifteen miles out, on horseback. It'll take us a while, even at a hard run.” She heard him shout for Clovis to mount up. “Damn it. I had a bad feeling about going out yesterday.”

“Is this Joe Turnbull really that bad?”

“Only if he's been drinking. Otherwise he's just a big, mean redneck. You hide the women and children, okay?”

Corrie grimaced again. “Mack's got the kids in the barn. Lucinda and Rita are in the bunkhouse. Mack said he's planning some surprise with the kids.”

Pablo swore again, but this time with a chuckle. “I'll bet he does it, too. Trust him, Corrie. He's got what it takes.”

“I do. I trust him with my life,” she said.

“Good. You know he's crazy about you,” Pablo said.

“I'd like to believe that,” she said, then added, “because I'm so in love with him, it's a physical pain.”

“Ah, then that's good, eh?”

Corrie found it ironic she could so readily admit her love for Mack to Pablo but never had come close to saying the words to Mack himself. She'd been so busy worrying about how he felt about her she'd forgotten to let him know that he might easily have a safe harbor with her. A place in which to be loved. A heart to live in.

She looked out the window as she ended the call with Pablo. The view reminded her of some of the magnetic puzzles Jeannie had purchased for the smaller children. The barn, the bunkhouse, the corrals, even the drive all looked exactly as they always did in the evening at Rancho Milagro: beautifully restored buildings the muddy color of earth glowing in waning sunlight. But all the people were missing.

Hiding.

This wasn't what she and the others had intended when they began the ranch, she thought. It was to have been a safe haven for the lost children of the world.

Almost as if connected to Mack's mind, she sud
denly saw it through his eyes. The empty drive, the abandoned lawn, these were symbols that they were doing exactly what was intended, they were fighting for safety, banded together against a crazy man and his cohorts.

She saw the horses race away from the barn in the back corral, caught a glimpse of Juan Carlos herding them outside, before he disappeared back into the dark, hopefully safe interior.

She grabbed up one of the kids' baseball bats, the cell phone, and, of all things, Lucinda's shawl, and started for the front door, prepared to do as Mack ordered and join the women in the bunkhouse. She could hear the pups barking in the barn.

Glancing out the window, she saw a strange red-and-white pickup careening up the ranch road. Whoever was driving it managed the truck as if drunk, weaving back and forth across the road, sending a great cloud of dust behind him. Joe Turnbull was dangerous only if he'd been drinking.