If You Believe

She blinked. "What?"

"My name is Matthew Jedediah Stone. My mother used to call me Matt." He smiled, surprised by the admission. "I haven't told anyone that in years."

"Why tell me?"

He paused, feeling a surprising sadness. "It's all I have to give you."

She shuddered, hugged herself, and looked away. "I don't want anything from you."

"Yeah, I know."

She looked pointedly at the front door. "Well ... Matt, I appreciate your honesty, but—"

"Last week you would have cared," he said quietly.

"Yes, well ... then you should have told me last week. This week I don't care about much of anything. Now, if you'll excuse me ..."

"I have the cure for apathy."

Her dull glance flicked at him. "I doubt it."

He picked up the tequila bottle. "Hair of the dog," he said, grinning.

She gave a disbelieving snort. "You expect me to get drunk as a way of dealing with my grief?"

"It always works for me."

She almost smiled, but it was a bitter, humorless curving of the lips and no more. "It won't work for me. It's stupid and pointless."

"So?"

"So?" She turned to him, her eyes as cold as a north wind on his face. "So let me understand your plan here. I ... no, we ... get drunk, and when I wake up— feeling horrible and sick—my father won't be dead?"

Mad Dog's smile faded. He stared deeply into her eyes, hoping—praying—she could see the comfort he offered. "He'll still be dead, Marian; it'll still hurt like hell.

But maybe it won't hurt as bad. Maybe a good cry—"

Her eyes widened. "Alcohol can make you cry?"

"Sure."

A small, tight frown pulled her features. He could tell she was thinking about it, really considering it.

Come on, Mariah. Take a chance. Take a—

"Well," she said slowly, "maybe just one drink." She looked at him. "If you promise it'll make me cry." Mad Dog felt like whooping for joy. It was a start. And no one drank just one shot of tequila.

Chapter Twenty-three

Mariah couldn't believe she'd said yes to tequila. In the past week she'd said no to food, to sleep, to talking, to everything. And now she'd said yes to tequila.

It was the possibility of crying that had trapped her.

She bowed her head, stared through burning, gritty eyes at the shadowy earth. She wanted to cry so badly, it physically hurt. She'd tried time and again to let go of the grief locked inside her heart. But she couldn't do it. The tears were a solid block of ice pressing against her lungs, riveted in place by years of rigid, desperate self-control.

She cast a surreptitious glance at Mad Dog. Matt, she reminded herself. He was walking beside her wordlessly, leading her to some secret destination in the center of the farm.

He'd tried to hold her hand, but she didn't let him. She didn't want to get that close to him again, didn't want to let him comfort her. She just wanted to go to some dark, secret place, drink a little tequila, and cry. She couldn't afford to let herself care about Mad Dog again. It didn't matter what he told her, how many pretty words he murmured, the truth was constant. Soon ic'd leave, and she'd be alone. Not so long ago, that jadn't mattered. Or at least she'd told herself it didn't natter. But then she'd had Rass. She wasn't alone.

Now, when he left, she'd be desperately alone, and she didn't want to send him off with any more of her heart than he already had.

He stopped suddenly and opened the bottle. "This is i good spot."

Mariah looked around. They were in the middle of (he west pasture. Most of the snow had melted since yesterday, but the ground was hard and frozen.

Black-shadowed earth rolled away from them on all sides, melting into the star-spangled, purple sky. Down to the bft, the river was a gurgling ribbon of sterling silver, its surface illuminated by shifting strands of moonlight. Up to the right, she saw the barest outline of the old oak tee and a glimmering hint of ironwork.

She looked quickly away.

Mad Dog touched her. "It's okay. You'll be fine."

She frowned. "That's it ... we just sit here and get drunk?"

"You could stand."

Mariah reached out. "Give me the bottle."

He handed it to her. The brown glass caught a glimmer of moonlight; the liquid inside swirled like gold. Tie sharp odor of alcohol assaulted her senses.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "It smells bad."

"Tastes worse."

Mad Dog plopped to a cross-legged sit in the spike-sharp grass. Then he patted the ground beside him. 'Come on, sit down."

Slowly, stiffly, she knelt beside him. Staring down at the bottle, she tried to tell herself she was doing the right thing.

"Second thoughts?" he asked softly. "No " She tilted the bottle and brought it to her mouth.' The thick glass felt cold and foreign against her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a huge, dribbling gulp.

Tears sprang to her eyes. Fire burned down her throat and puddled, pulsing, in her stomach. She yanked the bottle from her mouth and wiped her sleeve across her lips. "Oh ... my . - - God."

Mad Dog grinned at her. "I told you you'd cry. He reached out and took the bottle from her. Taking a big drink, he handed it back.

She frowned at him. "Another one?" "At least."

"Maybe I should wait-----"

"It's not gonna digest, darlin'. Take another drink.' Grimacing, she took the bottle and wiped the mouth of it with her sleeve.

He laughed. "Whatcha doin' that for? You know where my mouth has been."

Mariah ignored him and took another burning drink. Mad Dog leaned back on his elbows and crossed his legs at the ankles, staring up at the endless, star-bright sky They sat that way for an eternity, with him sprawled casually in the grass, her kneeling primly alongside him.

The tequila passed back and forth, back and forth, until Mariah started actually liking the taste. It was like swallowing a starburst, and after each sip, she felt warmer.

The tension that had coiled around her spine for days melted into more manageable proportions.

"Come here," Mad Dog said after a while, patting the ground.

Mariah took another drink. "Huh-uh." Then she handed him the bottle and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

He took a quick sip and handed it back.

She frowned heavily. For a second—just a second— the bottle went out of focus.

He wiggled it. The liquid sloshed against the glass.

She reached out with both hands, curling her fingers around the slim, cold neck.

"Gotcha."

Was that her voice? It sounded ... slurred.

"You got me," he said quietly.

Her head snapped up. She stared at him through watery, burning eyes. He swam in and out of focus for a moment. She narrowed her eyes, concentrating.

Gradually she could make him out. He lay in the shadowy grass, propped up on his elbows. Moonlight tangled in his too long hair, creating a halo of fire around his tanned, smiling face.

Her heart gave a tiny lurch. God, he was handsome. She'd almost forgotten. .. .

But she wanted to forget. Didn't she?

"I don't want you," she said primly, and took another sip.

He laughed, and in the quiet darkness it was a rich, rumbling sound that curled around her heart. "Yes, you do."

For some absurd reason, her fingers started trem bling. She slammed down the bottle into the cold, hard ground. "No, I don't."

He sat up.

Mariah felt his gaze on her, sliding down her exposed throat like a finger of fire. She shivered and tried to ignore the feeling.

Slowly he got to his feet.

She was acutely aware of his movements, the crick of his knees, the crunch of his heels in the frozen grass, the accelerated tenor of his breathing.

He took a step closer to her and stopped. His hand appeared before her in the darkness. "Come on."

She blinked up at him. "Where are we goin'?"

"Does it matter?"

She reached for the tequila and started to take a drink.

He grabbed her hand. "I think you've had enough."

She bristled. "You think I've had enough? Who cares?" A defiant half smile pulled at her lips as she took one last drink.

"Come on."

She ignored his hand and set the tequila down. The bottle fell with a thump and released the sharp scent of liquor. She giggled and tried to right it.

"Come on, Mariah."

"Oh, all right." She placed her hands in the grass and pushed awkwardly to her feet.

The moment she stood, a tidal wave of dizziness swept through her, turned her legs into warm pudding. She staggered sideways, arms flailing, then crumpled to the ground.

She giggled again. "I can't stand up."

Laughing softly, Mad Dog swept her into his arms.

The sudden movement surprised her. Instinctively she wrapped her tingling arms around his neck and hung on.

He turned and started walking.

Mariah let out a deep breath. She had to admit, she felt pretty darn good. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck and closed her eyes. The steady movement of his body lulled her, relaxed her. She found herself drifting, drifting, not thinking about anything.

"We're here." Mad Dog stopped.

Mariah lifted her head, blinked heavily, trying to see in the darkness around her.

A naked, shivering limb caught her eye.

She gasped, brought a hand to her mouth. No, she thought drunkenly, he wouldn't have brought her here. Not here ...

His arms loosened. She slid down the long, hard length of him. Her feet hit the ground with a quiet thump, her knees immediately gave way, and she sank unsteadily onto the grass.

Everything about this place was painfully familiar. She didn't need to see it in the full light of day to recognize her surroundings.

The sharp tip of betrayal stung through her. "Why would you bring me here?"

He kneeled beside her, slipping his hand through hers. Their fingers curled together, formed a warm, tight-knit ball of flesh. "You need to say good-bye, Mariah."

She turned to him. "I said good-bye at the damn funeral."

"You need to mean it." She shook her head. "No."

"I'm right here with you."

"You think that makes a difference?" She laughed; it was a sharp, almost hysterical sound. "Yeah."

His answer was so quiet, so genuine, that Mariah almost believed him. For a moment, a giddy, suspended moment, she wondered what if.

"Talk to him, Mariah," Mad Dog urged, squeezing her hand. "Say the things you left unsaid."

She swallowed hard and reluctantly turned back to the mound of jet black dirt against the shadowy grass. A headstone glimmered in the moonlight, its words emblazoned in her mind. Here lies the body of Erasmus Throckmorton. Husband, father, hero.

She hadn't known what to say about him. What did you say about a man who'd walked this earth for seventy-four years and never harmed a soul? A man who believed in God, and miracles, and second chances.

What did you say about your father when he was gone? So many years, so many memories ... so little space on a cold slab of granite.

"He loved you, Mariah."

Her head felt suddenly heavy. She nodded. "He was my life," she said quietly.