If You Believe

Stephen had, of course, been Romeo.

She hadn't been able to keep her eyes off him. He was larger than life onstage, and blindingly handsome. When he smiled at her, Mariah's bones seemed to melt into the rickety bench upon which she'd been sitting. No one had ever noticed her the way he had, no one had ever smiled at her quite that way before.

She remembered the night so clearly. Thousands of stars twinkled in the late summer sky. After the performance, she'd walked idly toward the bridge, kicking a stone, waiting for her parents. It had taken her a long time to realize that they'd gone home without her.

Even now, she felt a stab of pain in her heart at the realization. She knew then, as she knew now, that they loved her. They simply loved each other more.

She sat on the timbered bridge, letting her feet dangle into the cool darkness of the night, feeling lonely. Palms pressed to the scratchy wood, she stared up at the blanket of stars and tried not to cry.

"What's a wee pretty girl like yourself doin' sittin' out here all alone?"

Marian still remembered the lilting softness of his Irish brogue.

He'd been so handsome, her Stephen. So charming and beguiling. A twenty-two-year-old actor with a ready laugh and a gentle touch. To a lonely sixteen-year-old girl, he was a dream come true. She'd been lonely then, starved for the words "I love you." And when he said them, whispered them in her ear with a sweet, laughing kiss, she'd been lost.

She shook her head, feeling the start of a small, bittersweet smile. If only his laughter had lasted, or she had depended upon it less . . .

She blinked hard and forced her eyes open. She tried to push the long-suppressed memories back into the shadows from which they'd come, but she couldn't find the strength.

She'd fallen in love so damn easily, and asked so little in return.

Please, God, don't let me make that mistake again. Help me to be strong. ...

She lay back in the cool, damp grass and closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of the sun on her face.

She was almost asleep when the sound of footsteps awakened her. She opened her eyes and looked up.

At first all she saw was a shadowy silhouette, backlit by the rising sun. Then she saw the hat, the smile. A shiver moved through her.

Mad Dog.

She tensed, pushed up to her elbows.

"Naw, don't get up." He dropped to a sit beside her.

Part of her wanted to get up and run—a really big part. But for some reason, Marian didn't move.

He stretched out beside her.

She inched away from him.

"Ask me something, Mariah," he said softly. "Anything you want."

She stiffened. "What makes you think I have any questions about you?"

"You do."

"What if I ask something that's too personal?"

"You can't."

She allowed herself to glance his way. He was sprawled out beside her, arms wishboned behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles, staring up at the pale rose sky. It took her breath away, just being this close to him. She ached suddenly to push through the barriers of her past and let herself care about this man.

She realized instantly that she was being a fool, and with the realization came a sinking sense of sadness. "There are always things too personal to talk about," she said quietly.

"Not for me, Mariah. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't have any secrets."

She pushed up a little, still staring at his profile. "All right. You said you never lied.

So what's your sin?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for most everyone, lying is their big sin. What's yours?"

He paused a minute, thinking. "I leave."

She frowned. "That's not a sin."

He turned to her. There was a surprising vulnerability in his eyes. "It is the way I do it."

Slowly Mariah leaned back again and gazed up at the sky. Silence stretched between them, but it was oddly companionable, as if they were both thinking about what he'd just said.

It is the way I do it.

She shivered, though the morning was getting warm. It sounded like a warning. As though he wanted to ensure that she never expected anything different.

But that was crazy. Why would he want to warn her? Why would he care what she expected?

"Your honesty always surprises me, Mr. Stone," she said without looking at him.

"I'll never lie to you, Mariah."

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to be romanced by that simple sentence.

"Now it's my turn to ask a question about you."

Every muscle in Marian's body tightened. "I don't recall saying I'd play this little game."

"It's not a game, Mariah," he said with a soft laugh. "It's called conversation."

She tried to relax. "Oh. All right, then. Ask a ... nonpersonal question."

"Why don't you leave the farm?"

The question caught her off guard. She tensed, expecting to shatter at the words.

But, amazingly, nothing like that happened. She felt almost relieved.

No one had ever asked her that question, and deep down, some part of her wanted to answer.

She was tired of pretending it was nothing. Tired of being afraid all the time. Maybe if she tried, just this once, to answer the simple question, things would finally begin to change. Maybe if she could talk about the gate, she could someday open it. And who better to confide in than someone who wouldn't be around to remind her of her shortcomings if she failed?

She took a deep breath and tried what she had never tried before. "W-When I was younger—" she laughed bitterly "—much younger, I wasn't afraid of anything."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Anyway, I—" Fell in love with a loser and ran away with him.

She tried desperately to form the words, but the confession wouldn't come.

Humiliation clogged in her lungs and washed across her cheeks. God, she couldn't say the words. Not even to a drifter who didn't care and had no one to tell and no right to judge. Her hands curled into tight, impotent fists.

Defeated, she pushed up to a sit and stared dully at her tired brown skirts. "I went as far as Walla Walla." She forced a brittle laugh—that much was true at least. "Then I came home."

"Something happened in Walla Walla."

"Something." Her voice was as dead as the leaves strewn on the drying grass.

He rolled over onto his stomach and looked up at her. His face was surprisingly earnest. "I know you don't think much of me, but if you ever want to talk about it . .

."

Heat crept through her body at his simple offer—one no one else had ever made.

She wanted to lean toward him. Their faces were close now, and if she moved—even a little—they'd be close enough to kiss. The realization sparked a girlish sense of giddiness—and then an older, wiser woman's fear.

Yearning pulsed through her body, made her fingers shake and her throat go dry.

God, she wanted to touch him right now, to run her fingers through his too long hair and pretend her past was only that.

But, as always, she didn't have the courage. She couldn't give him anything of herself. But she could give the truth, and surprisingly, she wanted to.

"It's not you," she said.

He frowned. "What's not me?"

"I've been unfair to you, treated you badly because . .. of someone else."

"Someone who hurt you?"

"Yes. He was a lot like you.... But perhaps not as much as I first thought."

"In what way? Handsome, charming?"

At his easy smile, weakness washed through her, calling to her in a sly, seductive voice. Touch him. . . . Just try it.

"Come on, Mariah," he said softly, "how am I like the other guy?"

She swallowed hard. "You'll .. . leave."

His smile fell. He looked at her with uncharacteristic seriousness.

Their gazes locked. His eyes were warm gray pools of promise, drawing her in. Her heartbeat sped up. Suddenly she wanted to be touched by Mad Dog, ached to be touched by him. She wanted to reach out, unafraid, and feel the rough texture of his flesh.

Make me a promise, she thought desperately. Even if you won't keep it ...

"You're right," he said. "I will leave."

Pain crushed through her, though she should have expected it. She squeezed her eyes shut. What a fool she was, wanting him to lie to her. A bigger fool for thinking—even for a second—that Mad Dog might offer something more than his smile and a touch or two. "Thank you for that, at least."

"Open your eyes, Mariah, and look at me."

Reluctantly she did.

They were so close she could see the tiny green flecks that darkened his gray eyes.

His breath was a whispered caress against her mouth. "You're looking at this all wrong."

"What do you mean?"

He reached up and pulled a pin from her hair.

She gasped quietly but didn't draw away.

His hand came up again, and again. One by one he removed the pins, until the tight little knot collapsed. A waterfall of thick, wavy hair cascaded down her arm and puddled on the grass.

He caressed the soft pool of hair for a long moment. The quiet between them grew, intensified, until Mariah thought she could hear a slight buzzing in her ears. She stared, mesmerized, as his fingers moved over her hair, stroking in a gentle circle.

Then he looked up. Their gazes caught, held. "Mariah." Her name hung in the air between them, creating a sense of intimacy.

Mariah longed to say something in response, but she knew that if she did, if she reached out to him even that much, she'd be lost.

He gave her a slow, promise-laden smile that sent feelers of warmth to the cold reaches of her soul. Leaning closer, he plucked up a stalk of grass and put it in his mouth. It was a long, crooked green line against the beguiling fullness of his lips.

Then slowly, so slowly, he drew the stalk from his mouth and dragged it across her lips.

The touch was soft and rough at the same time. Mariah was achingly, desperately, aware of it, of him. Her every sense was stretched taut, heightened to the breaking point. The simple touch to her lips sparked a dozen forbidden memories and needs.

She swallowed hard.

"I could be the best time you ever had," he drawled. "And no one would ever have to know."

Mariah stood at her bedroom window, staring down at the bunkhouse, her arms wrapped tightly around her body to ward off an inner chill.

/ could be the best time you ever had.

Over and over again she heard Mad Dog's indecent proposal. The words chased after themselves in her mind, grinding a groove of frailty through her stiff self-control.

Every time she thought about it, she felt hot and cold and frightened and alive. She felt as if she were drowning in a warm, seductive pool of her own desires. She could barely keep her head enough above water to breathe.

"He'll leave." She whispered the familiar words to her own rippling reflection in the glass.

She'd said the words to herself a thousand times since yesterday. At first they'd sounded strong and sure—the way she felt—and they'd given her comfort. Now they were getting weaker and weaker with each passing minute.

I could be the best time you ever had. And no one would ever know.

It was amazing how compelling those words were. They cut through her anxiety like a hot knife and filled her with giddy, tingling anticipation. They seduced her, intrigued her.