Free At Close Range by Marilyn Tracy Page A

on his collarbone.
    â€œAh,” she said, as if finding something she’d lost sometime.
    â€œIt’s late,” he said raggedly, pulling back from her.
    â€œYes,” she agreed, letting him go, with her hands if not her eyes.
    â€œI’ll walk you back to the house.”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œI’m not leaving you out here.”
    Something flickered in her gaze and her lips parted slightly, as if she were reviewing things to say, comebacks that might leave him lying on his face in the middle of a child’s riding ring. But all she said was “Halfway, then.”
    He reached for her arm to take her elbow, but she stepped forward first, dodging him. He moved back to have her walk through the barn door ahead of him. Her hair, silky soft folds of it, spilled down the back of her duster, as dark as the coat itself, and he caught the light, lemony scent of it. His hands tingled in memory of how tresses of it had fallen across his fingers, ribbons of satin he’d bunched in his fist.
    â€œWhat are you looking for at night?” she asked.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œWhen you come out and walk along the fences, what are you looking for?”
    He couldn’t see her face in the darkness of the barn, but he suspected she would be wearing her radio-interviewer face. “Just walking off dinner,” he said.
    â€œChecking the main gate locks? Making sure the well-house door is barred?”
    He hadn’t realized he’d been so obvious or that anyone had noticed. Even though she couldn’t see him,he shrugged. “I don’t want the kids getting into mischief.”
    â€œAh. That makes sense,” she said, but her tone let him know she didn’t believe that to be the only reason he patrolled at night.
    They cleared the barn. The main house seemed ablaze in lights across the broad dirt drive. One of the four lab-cross pups barked once and subsided immediately as if recognizing them in the dark.
    â€œIt’s amazing to think that only a year ago there was nothing here but a few broken-down buildings and some owls and field mice,” Corrie said, looking at the ranch house. “Now it’s more home than anywhere I’ve ever lived.”
    Mack thought her statement sad but didn’t say so.
    She turned to him and held out a hand. She waited until he took it in his. “Halfway,” she said.
    â€œCorrie…”
    Her eyes, which had been leveled somewhere around his chin, lifted swiftly to his. “That’s the first time you’ve used my name since that first afternoon you came here. Why do you have such a hard time saying it?” she asked. “You use everyone else’s on a daily basis. But not mine. Why is that?”
    He could hear no accusation in her tone, only a puzzled question. He thought of her deer-in-the-headlights awareness and answered truthfully, “Because I don’t want to kiss them. ”
    Her eyes widened and for the first time that night he caught a hint of total surprise, as if he’d said the last thing on earth she’d expected.
    â€œGood night, Corrie,” he said.
    â€œOkay,” she answered abstractedly.
    He turned away from her and started toward his quarters. A few paces from his front steps, he looked back at her. She was still standing where he’d left her, her gaze locked on her outstretched hands, her forehead furrowed in a considering frown, her lips parted and smiling faintly.

Chapter 6
    C orrie tried revising some of her lyrics until the early hours of the morning, but the light in the bunkhouse held more allure than the awkward rhymes and rough rhythms. She didn’t don her coat and fill her pockets a second time. She merely watched the muscled silhouette walk the floor, remembered the feel of his lips on hers, and sadly wondered what kept him from his bed, driving him from sleep.
    And wondered if he knew that when he’d kissed her, he’d driven