If You Believe

From upstairs came a whimpering, choked sound of despair.

"Christ," he muttered.

He knew what was wrong with her now, at least part of it. He'd known when he saw the headstone. And sweet God, he understood her pain. He'd felt it himself, still occasionally felt it. Even now, after all these years.

He found himself wanting to say something to her—he didn't even know what. Just

... something. And it wasn't because he wanted to rattle her or taunt her or make her react. He just wanted to let her know he understood.

He didn't know why—didn't want to know why—but suddenly it was important.

Slowly, knowing he shouldn't and yet unable to help himself, he climbed the stairs.

Each step was a creaking reminder that he was invading another person's grief, going where he wasn't welcome. It was something he'd never done in his life; he was welcome in too many places to go where he had no invitation.

Still, he kept moving. With each step, his stomach tightened.

On the landing, he paused. There were three open doors and one closed one.

Instinctively he knew that Mariah's bedroom door would be closed. Always.

He stared at the closed door. Now's the time to back out, Stone.

He couldn't believe he was doing this. He shouldn't do it, shouldn't reach out to someone he had no intention of actually touching, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Fisting his hands, he moved slowly toward the door and knocked.

Nothing.

Then came the shuffling sound of hurried feet. "Just a minute, Rass," she called out.

The door swung open. Mariah stood in the doorway. She took one look at him and gasped. Her nostrils flared, her eyes widened. She lurched for the door and tried to slam it in his face.

His hand snaked out, grabbed the door. She stumbled back, then stopped herself and stared at him through despair-darkened eyes.

She was a mess. Her hair was an uncontrolled mass of thick, wavy curls that lay half-pinned, half-dangling down her back. Her skin was deathly pale, almost gray, and her lips were a thin, colorless line.

She looked desperate and vulnerable . .. and achingly beautiful.

She swallowed hard. "Wh—What do you want?"

He moved awkwardly toward her, close enough to touch her but careful not to. He looked down, met her frightened, desperate eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, and found that he had nothing to say.

"Please," she said in a soft, quivering voice. "I don't want to play your games right now."

It was now or never. He took a deep breath and forced himself to say the words he'd never said before. "I ... my mother ... she died on Christmas Eve."

Marian's mouth slipped open. Surprise chased some of the sadness from her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't come up here for your sympathy."

"Why did you come up here?"

"I ... aw, hell, it's crazy—" Awkwardness suffused him. He turned to leave.

She reached for his arm. Her fingers curled around his forearm, tightly. He felt the warmth of her skin through the worn cotton of his shirt. A shudder of longing spilled through him at her touch.

Slowly he turned around, his eyes drawn irresistibly to her hand, so pale and soft against the tired fabric of his black shirt. Somehow her touch gave him strength, made it easier to face her and say what he'd come to say.

He looked at her. Their gazes caught, held. "I just wanted you to know I ...

understood."

At his quiet confession, her eyes widened. A gentleness filled her eyes, the emotion so warm and soft, it made Mad Dog's heart sting with longing. She tried to smile.

He saw the slight trembling of her lips and almost groaned aloud. An aching tenderness unfolded within him. Christ, he felt something he'd never felt before. He wanted to kiss her, to take her face in his hands and kiss the sadness from her mouth.

"Does it go away?" she asked softly.

He knew he'd never forget this moment, never forget the sad luminescence of her eyes. Her honesty, like her pain, touched something deep inside him, something he'd forgotten even existed. "It fades," he said softly.

"It fades." She repeated his words quietly, staring up at him.

Mad Dog watched the movement of her lips, mesmerized. He wanted to say something else to her, something profound and relevant that would relieve some portion of her pain. But there was nothing; he knew that. Grief wasn't soothed by pretty words or flowers or notes of sympathy. It simply faded in its own time, in its own way. If it ever did.

But he had to do something to save this moment. It was so special, so suddenly fragile. He felt a connection he'd never felt with a woman before. As if some part of her understood some secret part of him.

"Maybe you'd like to go for a walk?" he said.

Chapter Ten

Maybe you'd like to go for a walk?

Mariah stared at Mad Dog, feeling absurdly relieved. The suffocating weight of grief eased away from her heart; without it, she felt . . . light. It was such an ordinary request, go for a walk, but it had been so long since someone had expressed a desire to simply be with her.

She remembered long ago, when she was a young girl, waiting desperately for her father to ask her to join him on his adventure walks. But he never had. He'd walked with Mama for hours, tramping through the grassy pastures, strolling through the sun-dappled orchards. Mariah remembered watching, always watching, from the loneliness of her bedroom, until one day she'd stopped waiting to be invited.

Now, finally, someone had asked her. A smile pulled at her lips. Lord, she'd forgotten how powerful and potent it was to feel wanted. And how dangerous.

That's why she'd run off with Stephen, because finally someone had asked, someone had said, "I love you.. .."

She knew she should say no, should decline graciously and withdraw into the private sanctity of her room. But she didn't want to do the safe thing right now. She wanted to feel connected to the world, appreciated and cared for and cosseted.

That's what his offer was: a chance to pretend to be something other than a frightened old spinster with a sordid past. A chance to be someone else—if only for a few moments.

She could no more deny him right now than she could cry.

"Let me get my bonnet. Wait here." She left Mad Dog standing in the doorway and hurried into her room. She grabbed a handful of hairpins from the cracked china saucer on her dresser and re-coiled her hair as she walked back to the door.

Mad Dog stood in the doorway, waiting.

She smiled and pulled a hairpin from her teeth, ramming it into the tight coil at the base of her neck.

"Mariah?"

She eased another pin from her mouth. "Uh-huh?"

"Don't."

She frowned and glanced up at him. "Don't what?"

He touched her wrist, curled his long, warm fingers around it, and gently pulled her hand away from her hair. "Let it be."

She almost swallowed her hairpins. "Let it down, you mean?"

He laughed. It was a rich, rumbling sound that heated her insides and made her stomach feel fluttery. "For me."

She tried to laugh. "That's highly improper."

"Of course it is."

A small smile tugged at her mouth. She was tempted.

He smiled at her. "Come on, Marian . . ."

Her name sounded soft and feminine and pretty on his lips—all the things she wanted to be, used to be, and never would be again. All the things she wanted to pretend to be right now.

"What could it hurt?" he added.

What could it hurt? The seductive words pulled the starch from her defenses. It was a new way of looking at things. Usually her first question was how much will it hurt.

"What indeed?" she said softly. Then she smiled. She'd probably pay for it tomorrow, but today she didn't care. For once, she wanted to be herself. She tugged the pins from her hair and tucked them in her pocket.

Mad Dog stepped toward her, his eyes fastened on hers. For a moment, she couldn't breathe. He reached out, pushed his fingers through her hair, and loosened it, fanning it out around her shoulders. "That must feel better," he breathed, stepping back.

"It does," she admitted.

"Then shall we go?"

She smiled brightly, feeling suddenly like a young girl at her first dance. She nodded and followed him from the house.

They emerged into the warm, sunlit afternoon and walked side by side down the creaking wooden steps. Together they strolled down the path. The air was fragrant with the smell of flowers and dirt and sunlight.

Marian couldn't think of a thing to say. Neither, apparently, could Mad Dog. They walked in silence, listening to the sounds of the afternoon: the whisper of the breeze, the repetitious creak of the porch swing, the chatter of the birds. It didn't seem to matter that they didn't speak. The silence was companionable, comfortable.

Marian glanced down to her right, seeing the burgundy, purple, and amber smear of her autumn flowers. Saucer-sized gold chrysanthemums waved in the slight breeze.

The heady fragrance of the flowers filled her senses. She felt herself lapsing into a lazy, whimsical state that was completely out of character. For a second—perhaps no more than a heartbeat—she felt like a woman out strolling with her man. She felt .

.. special.

A gate creaked open.

Mariah jerked to a stop and snapped her chin up. Her heart started beating faster, drummed in her ears. Fear caught her hard, stabbed through the pit of her stomach.

She couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe.

Mad Dog was a foot or so ahead of her, his hand on the gate's glinting silver latch.

He pushed the gate slightly. It squealed in protest and swung backward, smacking against the picket fence in its arc. "Milady?"

She stared at the gate, unable to look away.

He frowned at her. "Mariah?"

His voice seemed to be coming at her from a million miles away. Involuntarily she took a step backward. She told herself she wasn't afraid. She couldn't breathe because of the flowers; suddenly they smelled sickeningly sweet. The ceaseless, annoying chattering of the birds battered her ears and gave her a pounding headache.

For a terrifying moment, she thought she was going to be sick.

He came up beside her, touched her chin. "Mariah?"

She yanked her gaze away from the gate and focused on his eyes, only his eyes. Her heart was beating so loudly, she could hardly hear his words. "Yes?" She tried to sound casual, but her voice was strained and uncertain.

He looked down at her. "Is something the matter?"

The concern in his eyes almost broke Mariah's heart. Suddenly the magic of the afternoon was gone, melted into the pains and frustrations of her past. She shook her head, wet her impossibly dry lips.

It fades.. . .

His words came back to her. Reassuring, pretty words, filled with the hope she'd lost so long ago. She wanted to believe them, ached to believe them, but now, standing here beside the gate, she knew they were a lie. For her, the heartaches of the past would never fade.

He touched her chin, tilted her face to his. "What's going on here?"

She looked up into his handsome features and wished for an insane, desperate moment that she could be what he wanted. That he could be what she needed. But neither one of them could change that much. She let out her breath in a tired sigh and tried not to feel broken. "I ... have to start supper."