“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he said, a supplicant at her feet. A warrior kneeling before his lady.
Without rising, he ran his hands back up her legs, memorizing her, kissing her knees, her thighs, and hooking a finger on either side of her lacy panties, pulled them down to reveal her dark thatch of curls. He ran his hand over them, loving the springiness, the silken folds and honeyed moisture he found beneath.
Her fingers tangled in his hair and she gasped his name as his lips found another of her secrets and his tongue plied it free. He could feel her legs trembling and steadied her as he lifted one of them over his shoulder, granting him full access to her.
“Please…” she cried, her hands fisted in his hair, her stunned body aflame with need, with a raging thirst, and nearly inchoate in her desire. “Please…stop,” she finally gasped.
He stopped immediately, holding her swaying form tightly against him. “Are you okay?” he ground out against her firm waist.
“No. Yes, of course, but I don’t want to be alone in this.”
He gave a rough chuckle. “I’m definitely with you here.”
She blushed. “Not just with me. In me. Filling me. Please, Mack.”
If she’d asked him to walk over burning coals, he would have.
In a fluid motion, he swung her leg from his shoulder and over his arm. He scooped up the other and surged to his feet. The look in her half-closed eyes made him feel godlike, powerful, endowed with superhuman strength, though in truth, she couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds fully clothed and dripping wet.
“I wanted to provide you a moonlit bed,” he said.
“I’d like that,” she answered demurely, though the look on her face was anything but prim.
He carried her reverently and somewhat arrogantly into his bedroom.
Though she knew the room intimately, having helped Jeannie decorate it, the well-appointed bedroom seemed a foreign place with Mack’s possessions in it. A stack of books, an open magazine, a wall covered with notes and rough maps of the Rancho Milagro headquarters, and a queen-size bed with the covers turned back—all seemed to tell the story of the man who held her so securely in his arms.
She sighed as he gently deposited her on the bed. Her breath caught as he bent over her and lightly skimmed her lips with his. It felt like a first kiss, tentative and questing—as different from his intense passion as winter from summer. She found the contrast all the more alluring because it was barely controlled. She responded in kind, scarcely letting her fingers touch the skin on his back, on his shoulders.
He shifted lower, trailing featherlight kisses down her arms, across her breasts, an explorer with all the time in the universe. His teasing tongue discovered secret crevices and his fingers, hidden recesses and valleys.
He gently scooped her breasts into his hands, molding them softly, as if she were made of spun glass. His tongue flicked over a hardened nipple, causing her to draw in her breath sharply. His hands kneaded with more firmness as his teeth lightly grazed a hard nub. He suckled avidly as she arched beneath him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
And he abruptly ceased his ministrations only to shift to her other breast, repeating his soft caresses, followed by intimate demand. He dallied and exhorted, he scarcely touched, only to follow the skimming delicacy with sure command. He kissed, nipped and kneaded every inch of her flesh, inciting a riot within her.
Mack moaned when Corrie touched him in return, groaned when her teeth gently grazed his tiny nipples, and swore when her hands reached between his legs, encircling him with her velvet hands.
She called his name as she thrashed in his arms. And he called hers, buried deep within her, losing every particle of himself and finding himself again afterward in the tears in her eyes and her languid smile.
When Corrie fell asleep in his arms, he was certain he’d never felt anything so exquisitely right in his entire life. That piercing sorrow washed over him again. He wasn’t vain; the scars on his body wouldn’t make her turn away from him eventually. She would someday run from the scars on his soul, the puckered wounds that would haunt him forever.
One day, some day, he would let her down. He would hurt her, or worse, fail to protect her. And on that day, at that moment, he would not be merely broken, he would be lost forever.
He reached for her hand when he heard a soft sigh, and thought it came from Corrie as she slept. Then, as he recognized her deep, steady breathing, he blamed the wind. Or someone crying far away.
His eyes snapped open and he turned his head. He hadn’t been dreaming. Corrie still lay beside him. Her head was turned from his, a naked arm flung above her head, a leg curled outside the comforter. She was the embodiment of abandoned, guilt-free sleep.
He could still hear the faint sighing that had wakened him. Someone crying or murmuring.
He carefully inched from the bed. Corrie didn’t move. He dragged his gaze from her and slipped to the window. He lifted a corner of the thin sheers.
Like a movie set, the ranch headquarters were illuminated by a thousand stars and a waxing, heavy moon. Shadows stretched and crept across the drive as the spring breeze teased the newly planted trees into dancing. A light at the back of the main house didn’t illuminate the area outside, but looked warm and inviting in the darkness.
And someone was walking along the southern end of the barn.
A woman in black.
The same woman in black.
“What is it?” Corrie asked softly from behind him.
He couldn’t hide his start. Nor the lust he felt for her upon seeing her naked beside him. Instead of reaching for her, he started dragging on his clothes. “It’s the woman,” he said.
Corrie left the bedroom and came back in seconds, already half-dressed. “What woman?”
“The one on the road.”
She stopped in the act of buttoning her blouse. “La Dolorosa?”
“She’s no ghost. She’s out there by the barn.”
Corrie sat down on the bed as if her legs had given out. “You’re not going out there, are you?”
“I’ve got to.”
“We can call the sheriff. He’ll be here in—”
“A half an hour at the earliest. It’s thirty miles to Carlsbad.”
“At least call Pablo. And Clovis.”
“And the kids, too? Give me a break. I think I can handle one woman,” he said.
She gave him a look. “You don’t have to prove that to me. The jury’s already in.”
He couldn’t hide his grin.
“I’m coming, too.”
“You’re staying here.”
“With my knitting? I don’t think so.” She’d moved to the window and was peering out. “I see her,” she whispered. Then in a louder voice said, “Oh, I don’t like this. What makes you so sure she’s not a ghost? She looks like a ghost, walks like one….”
“Remember that piece of cloth Chance found?”
“Oh, yeah. That.” She sounded unconvinced. Mack knew exactly how she felt. His insides were still shaking from his first glimpse of the ghostly figure outside the barn.
He pulled open a drawer and withdrew a small handgun.
“You have a gun?” Corrie asked.
“Chance gave it to me before he left. It’s only a .25 caliber, more of a noisemaker than a threat.”
“It looks menacing enough,” she said.
“Good.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad you have it.”
He turned for the door, intending to disregard her wishes and leave her behind. She matched him step for step.
He signaled her to be quiet and carefully opened the door. “Watch the creak on the top step,” he whispered, creeping along the wall of the bunkhouse, avoiding the steps altogether.
He stopped at the end of the bunkhouse and peered around the corner.
The woman was gone.
His eyes strafed the shadows, but he couldn’t spot her anywhere. He h
eld out his hand at Corrie to have her stay in place. He slid around the edge of the bunkhouse, facing the barn with his back against solid adobe.
“I don’t see her,” Corrie whispered from right beside him.
He sighed. Corrie might call herself a follower, but she followed right where golden-voiced angels should fear treading.
“She’s probably in the barn,” he murmured.
“Can we call Pablo now?”
He gave her a look. “Why don’t you do just that?”
She shook her head and stuck her hand in his back pocket. When he didn’t move, she gave a half smile and shrugged. He’d thought her a potent mix before. He found her much more than that now. She was utterly unlike anyone he’d ever known. Childlike, all business, a dreamer, a skillful negotiator, soft and strong. Playful and wistful simultaneously. All woman in his bed, wholly game for a ghost search after midnight. She wasn’t merely potent, she was irresistible.
“After you.” She gave a forward wave.
“Stay behind me,” he whispered back.
“No problem whatsoever.”
They crossed the drive, making far too much noise. Once he stumbled over a large rock lining the drive, and a second later, she ran into him when he paused to listen. He ground his teeth and vowed to make adult training part of the safety ritual at Milagro, starting with Corrie and himself the very next day.
Thankfully, Corrie did hang back when he slowly opened the big doors of the barn. He didn’t fumble around in the dark; he immediately flipped up the switches for the overhead fluorescents.
He heard a horse whicker softly. And heard a soft, choked sob.
With his gun outstretched, he made his way deeper into the barn.
“Hello?” he called out, first in English, then in Spanish. “Who’s there?”
Another sob.
A child’s sob.
And coming from one of the stalls.
“It’s Pedro,” Corrie said, materializing beside him.
Mack didn’t ask how she knew the crying belonged to the little boy they’d retrieved from town; she seemed to know the tiniest of details. He only had to remember how she’d known exactly what troubled him the most. And what gift to offer to make even his darkest feelings subside.
“Pedro?” she called. “It’s okay, little one. We’re here. Where are you, honey?”
Another muffled sob led them to the boy. He was huddled in the back of an empty stall, half hidden by a pile of hay.
Corrie immediately knelt beside the boy. “I’m so sorry you’re sad, Pedro,” she said, her Spanish flawless, even if her voice was choked. “What can we do to help?”
“I want my mama,” he sobbed.
“Of course you do, darling,” Corrie said, sitting beside him and wrapping an arm around him.
“I want my mama.”
Corrie drew him closer, pulling him onto her lap. She rocked him in her arms, her eyes meeting Mack’s over the boy’s head.
“I brought her some food,” Pedro said. “I’m sorry I stole, señor, but I knew she was hungry. There was enough to share.”
“Your mother?” Mack asked sharply, then softened his tone. “You brought your mother some food?”
“I saw her from my window. I climbed out to bring her food, but it wasn’t my mama.”
“I think we better get back to the main house,” Mack said.
“Where is my mama?” Pedro sobbed.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Corrie said. “We’ll find her.”
“Why doesn’t she come? Why is there a ghost?”
“There could be lots of reasons why your mother isn’t here,” Corrie said, feeling as if her heart were breaking. “But I’m sure she doesn’t want you to be scared and sad for her. So let’s go back to the main house and get you warm.”
The little boy put his arms around Corrie’s neck, and she was grateful when Mack assisted her to her feet. He kept his hand on her arm for a moment longer than necessary and she glanced at him in question.
“I’ll walk you back,” he said. “Then I’m going to have a look around the barn.”
She nodded, glad he would be with them on the short journey across the drive. The night seemed infinitely darker now, and more ominous. The boy had seen someone, just as they had. Some thing that wasn’t the mother he’d been aching to see.
A distraught Rita and half-dressed Pablo met them on the veranda.
“Dios mio,” Rita said. “What’s happened?”
“Pedro went to the barn, hoping to find his mother. He was taking her some food.”
“I think I understand now,” Pablo said.
“Señora, I’m so sorry I didn’t hear him leave.”
“It’s okay, Rita. I doubt anyone could have. He snuck out the window. But we’d better get him inside now.”
“I’m going to go back to the barn,” Mack said. “I left the lights on.”
“I’ll go with you,” Pablo said.
Until that moment, Corrie had forgotten that Pablo used to work for the federal marshal’s office, and that he was Chance’s cousin. In the dim light on the veranda, he looked formidable.
The two men nodded, almost in unison, and left the womenfolk and children.
“Are you all right, niño?” Rita asked Pedro.
“La Dolorosa was there,” he said.
“Dios mio,” Rita said.
“I was scared.”
“Of course you were. You’re smart to be scared.”
“I was looking for my mother. I was taking her two of your tamales. She would like them.”
“I’m sure she would. We’ll make her a big batch in the morning. And you’ll help me, won’t you?”
“And some of your cookies, too?”
Rita exchanged a glance with Corrie over the boy’s head. “Such cheek.” But she kissed the boy’s head. “If you promise not to climb out any more windows.”
“I promise.”
“Then okay.” Rita held out her arms for the child and, taking him, cradled him gently against her chest. “Pobrecito. Poor, poor little boy.”
“Who did the boy see—his mother or La Dolorosa?” Pablo asked Mack as they entered the barn.
“I suspect the two are one and the same,” Mack said.
“That’s what I was thinking, too,” Pablo said.
Mack went directly to the stall where they’d found Pedro. He pulled back the hay and discovered a Milagro blanket and a paper sack filled with tamales, a couple of broken cookies and an apple. The boy had included one of the canned sodas in this midnight picnic lunch for his mother.
“What did the boy say?”
“He said he was bringing the food to his mother, but when he got here, there was only La Dolorosa. Then he asked why there has to be a ghost.”
“Jeez. So what do we do?”
“Not much we can do. Stake her out, I guess. Keep our eyes peeled. Especially at night.”
“The boy claimed to see her—his mother, at any rate. During that game you were playing with the kids earlier tonight?” Pablo shrugged at Mack’s questioning look. “Rita told me.”
“Right. He said he saw his mother by the bunkhouse. Then he said she was gone. It struck me odd at the time, but I figured, poor kid, he’s seeing what he wants to. Dumb. I should have checked the bunkhouse then. She was probably hiding in my own place.”
“Maybe. But then again, maybe it’s really La Dolorosa. The new sheriff thinks Turnbull killed Pedro’s mother and has her body hidden somewhere.”
“That makes sense except for one big problem.”
“And what’s that, Señor Mack?”
“I can’t bring myself to believe in a tamale-eating ghost.”
Chapter 12
Corrie felt as if she’d misplaced her mind somewhere.
The sun was shining brightly, the day dawning cool with ninety-degree temperatures predicted by mid-afternoon. The children, with the exception of a slightly heavy-eyed Pedro, were boisterously gathered around Mack for
a new game, a variation on his training theme. Rita polished the front hall Saltillo tiles. Pablo and Clovis were out on the prairie somewhere gathering calves.
Corrie should have been thinking of a thousand different things—the children at the ranch, her dream of writing music, the bit of cloth Chance and Mack had discovered in the barn—but she couldn’t seem to think of anything but Mack Dorsey.
Mack, with his icy-blue eyes that turned to cobalt fire when he couldn’t speak, or to a deep denim blue when he was relaxed and smiling. Mack, with his scarred face that looked old before his time and yet felt brand-new. She thought of the way his passion stirred her as none other had ever done before. And more than that, she cherished his kisses that left her craving more even as she feared allowing herself to fully succumb to believing in a future with him.
Her hands didn’t tremble when she was with him. Why was that? They’d trembled constantly, as long as she could remember. They’d shaken at her high school graduation, they’d trembled at every interview she’d ever accomplished. But they didn’t shake uncontrollably, some portent of terror, whenever Mack touched her.
Such a little thing, but it seemed a powerful omen. Did it mean she was comfortable with him as she was with no one else? Or was she looking for meanings where none were needed?
No. It meant something. Something huge. A big thing to be acknowledged, to be reckoned with.
And, discounting the miracle of not shaking, he made her body feel sensual, sexy, and some restless part of her transcended. Oddly, this new inner peace and unusual confidence seemed to reawaken the journalist inside her. For the first time in at least two years, she actually wanted to do research.
She wanted to know every detail about Mack, every nuance of what he thought, dreamed or had ever wanted. She wanted to know what he liked for breakfast, what his favorite color might prove to be, and how many times his heart had been bruised in his life. She wasn’t curious; she was obsessed with knowing these things and an infinite array of complexities in addition.
“Corrie?” Analissa asked from the doorway to her suite.
“Yes, honey?”
“Why are you inside? Mack’s out playing games. Wanna come?”
Corrie waved the little girl over; her arms open wide. Analissa ran and leaped into her lap.
At Close Range Page 14
