Free At Close Range by Marilyn Tracy Page B

all hope of sleep from her.
    Corrie studied him the next morning and again later that afternoon and could see no signs of insomnia on his chiseled features. His eyes were shadowed but not by lack of sleep, just by whatever demons haunted him. Unlike her, his hands were steady and sure and his gait even and deliberate.
    â€œPablo was right about him.” Jeannie came to the corral fence and leaned against it beside Corrie.
    â€œRight about what?”
    â€œThe kids. The way they take to Mack. Look at them. They’re like filings to a magnet, a few at a time, until suddenly they’re all there, leaning and tugging on him.”
    â€œYet he holds them at arm’s length.”
    â€œDo you think so?”
    â€œLook at him. It’s as if he’s somewhere else. His thoughts, anyway.”
    â€œThey don’t seem to mind,” Jeannie said.
    â€œThey trust him,” Corrie said slowly, and with no small amount of admiration. It was rare that a group of orphaned or abandoned children would so readily take to a stranger, especially one who was their teacher.
    â€œSo do I,” Jeannie said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy don’t you?”
    â€œI didn’t say I didn’t. I just want to know what it is about him that makes you trust him. What do you know about him?”
    â€œAside from excellent credentials and references, he’s a natural with the kids. A pure natural. And I like the way he takes his job so seriously. He hasn’t even asked whether or not he has weekends off, did you know that?”
    Corrie grinned. There were no days off at Rancho Milagro. Jeannie claimed there were no days off from family. There were getaway times, vacations, excursions, but no one punched a clock or logged overtime.
    â€œI keep getting the feeling I should know about him,” Corrie said.
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike—something. I don’t know.”
    â€œWell, Ms. Prizewinning Journalist, you could always do some research on him. Or maybe you don’t want to know too much and just don’t want to admit it,” Jeannie said.
    â€œAnd this bit of oracle-esque speech means what?”
    â€œAh…the oracle knows all, reveals but a crack in the large picture frame of life.”
    â€œGag.”
    Jeannie laughed and relented. “I think you’re curious about Mack because he appeals to you. And you don’t want to play Corrie the journalist, but Corrie the woman.”
    Corrie couldn’t mask the blush, but said, “You can be inexpressibly corny sometimes, Jeannie.”
    â€œAnd you can be blind as the proverbial bat. When was the last time you indulged in a little romance?”
    Corrie thought of Mack’s intense kisses the night before. A little romance didn’t feel possible with him. If she indulged, as Jeannie called it, she would be engulfed, swamped, enveloped. There would be nothing lighthearted about it.
    She watched the children gathered around Mack. Almost exactly as Jeannie had described, first two had come, then a third, until within the time it took to tell about it, all the Milagro kids were there, leaning on him, tugging at his sleeves or his jeans, all talking at once, except Jenny, who seldom spoke.
    Mack seemed almost oblivious to the noise, the jostling, even the attention. He merely kept walking toward the barn, four or five children hanging from his arms and legs, as if he did this every day and had done so for centuries.
    â€œDo you suppose he was an orphan, too?” Corrie asked.
    â€œWhy would you think it?” Jeannie asked back.
    â€œI don’t know. The way he keeps his emotions in check, maybe. The way he doesn’t share much of himself.” She thought of his saying he’d been the class clown, how serious he was now. She remembered the internal war over kissing her, the few things he’d said afterward.
    â€œHe’s got kids hanging all over him,” Jeannie pointed