If You Believe
Page 5"Why should he want to eat alone?"
Mariah scooted up to the table and poured two glasses of milk. "Probably wants to practice with a fork."
Rass made a soft, clucking sound. "Now, Mariah, that's not very charitable of you."
She stabbed a meatball with her fork. "You have enough charity for both of us."
Rass put down his utensils. They hit with a tinny little clang that seemed loud in the quiet room.
Mariah tensed, feeling her father's gaze on her face. No emotion, Mariah. None.
"Change is part of life, Mariah."
"So are natural disasters."
Rass snorted. "Mad Dog is hardly a natural disaster."
"You haven't seen him crack walnuts."
"Give the man a chance, Mariah," he said softly.
She turned to him then. Anger narrowed her eyes. "You should know better than to even suggest such a thing. I did that once."
Rass's wrinkled old face fell. Sorrow magnified his rheumy eyes. "Ah, Mariah ..."
For a heartbeat, Mariah felt herself weaken. She looked away. "Don't look at me that way."
"You're not sixteen anymore."
Panic uncoiled inside her, chewed at her self-control.
She lurched to her feet, clenching her hands to quell the shaking. "I don't want to talk about this now." "Of course you don't. You never have." She faced the six-hole Windsor stove that had been her mother's pride and joy. "And I never will." She tried to make the words sound strong and defiant, but the best she could manage was a watery plea. "Okay, come on back to the table." She composed herself, then turned around and went to her seat. "Just don't mention Mr. Stone again. I'd like to keep my supper down."
They lapsed into a familiar silence, punctuated by the gentle wheezing of Rass's breath and the tinny echo of their silverware on the crockery plates.
Finally she pushed her half-empty plate away and leaned back in her chair.
"Good supper," Rass said quietly. She glanced at her father, surprised by the depressed sound of his voice. And immediately wished she hadn't. He looked inestimably sad tonight; his once bright eyes were rheumy and dull. And he hadn't eaten much of his supper. He was thinking about Mama again.
She wished she could touch him right now, tell him she understood his sorrow. But it had been years since she'd done something like that. She didn't even know what to say to him anymore. And somehow, every time she tried to reach out to him, she did the wrong thing, or said the wrong thing, or kept silent when she should have spoken. She'd never really noticed how bad it was until her mother died. After that, Mariah and Rass sort of drifted apart.
She didn't want it that way. She wanted . . . more.
He.eased back from the table. "Well, I think I'll go up and read. I'm halfway through that treatise by Professor Mittlebaum."
"Really? Is it any good?"
Sadness tried to creep in on her, but she pushed it away. "That's wonderful."
"Yeah." He sighed wistfully. "Maybe someday we'll go there together." He said the words softly, and Mariah could tell that he tried to sound hopeful. Tried and failed.
And no wonder. It was a sentence he'd said before, too often. The words sliced past her brittle armor and pierced her heart. It was another disappointment, another little way she'd let her father down.
They both knew she wouldn't be trekking to Colorado with him. It had been years since she'd even left the farm.
He pushed slowly to his feet. "Well, I'll see you in the morning."
Mariah forced a smile. "Good. I've a long list of chores for Mr. Stone. If he's still here."
"He will be."
"I doubt it, but if he is, we might as well get our money's worth. No telling how long he'll stay."
"Where were you thinking of starting him tomorrow?"
"I don't know. The porch needs whitening . . . and the apples might be ready."
'The apples . . . your way?"
She stiffened, stung by his criticism. "There's nothing wrong with the way I harvest the apples."
"Course not." He smiled tiredly down at her. "Night."
"Night, Rass. See you at five-twenty."
"Five-twenty." He shuddered. "God, I hate farmers' hours."
Mariah smiled at the familiar complaint and got to her feet. As soon as her father left the room, she started clearing the table and stacking the dirty dishes on the slopstone.
Maybe someday we'll go there together.
She gazed out the window, trying to banish the hurt. Through the shadowy, moonlit darkness of the farm, she saw it, marching across the property in a straight, arrow-tipped line. The fence.
She closed her eyes, unable to look at it. But the darkness didn't help, didn't take away the shameful sting of her past. Or the irrationality of her fear.
Once, long ago, she hadn't been afraid to leave the farm. She'd run through that gate with ease, laughing all the way to the train. Sixteen years old, she'd been, full of life and fire and dreams. Unafraid.
Her smile faded. Now, what had made her think of that? It had been years since she'd thought about those days, those memories. Why would they come back to her now?
But she knew. It was because of him. He was reminding her of a past she wanted to forget.
She curled her hands around the cool porcelain of the sink and stared out the window. He was making her feel things she didn't want to feel, think about things she wanted to forget.
She wouldn't have it. She'd worked too hard to forget to let some no-account drifter make her remember.
Somehow, she had to get rid of him.
Mad Dog set his plate down and stood up, stretching his arms. The cool autumn night wrapped around him, wreathed him in the tangy scents of ripening fruit and dying leaves. A million stars twinkled in the velvet sky.
God, he felt good. He had a place to sleep, clean hair, and a full stomach. He couldn't ask for more.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. He slowly brought his arms down to his sides. In the distance, the barn was a sharp-roofed hump of black against the night sky. A huge tree, its leafy limbs silhouetted against the starry heavens, stood guard.
There was another flash of movement. Mad Dog felt rather than saw it. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.
His gaze narrowed.
Nothing moved. Not even a whisper of a breeze swept across the too quiet land.
Mad Dog relaxed. His fists unfurled.
He'd spent too many nights alone on the road, straining to hear the first sign of danger. Now he was imagining a threat where there was nothing but peace and stillness.
Bending, he picked up the empty plate and went to the door. Quietly he turned the knob and pushed the door open. A wedge of light snaked through the opening and warmed him.
Mariah was standing at the sink, staring out the window. Her eyes were dry, but he had a strange feeling that she was near tears. She didn't seem to notice that the door had opened.
Mad Dog's gaze followed hers out the window. He frowned. There was nothing out there except shadowed fields and the picket fence.
What was she looking at?
He studied her. Her normally erect carriage was curved somewhat, softened.
Flyaway wisps of curly brown hair had fallen from the tight knot at the base of her neck, creating a wavery curtain along the pale flesh of her cheek. Her fingers were curled in a white-knuckled death grip on the sink's rim.
She reminded him of a woman he'd known in his youth. Etta Barnes. Etta had lost her husband in the war, and she'd never been the same afterward. Her skin had lost its color, her eyes their sparkle. And sometimes, if Mad Dog caught her just right, she'd have tears in her eyes for no reason at all.
But that was crazy. Mariah Throckmorton was a reserved, judgmental spinster.
What loss could she have suffered, living her whole life on this safe farm? He had to be imagining the sorrow in her face. What trouble could she have had in her staid, well-ordered little life?
Probably planted petunias in the rose garden.
He cleared his throat.
She jumped and spun around. "Mr. Stone!"
"Sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"I don't know. I dream all the time."
A change came over her at his words. She stiffened. Mad Dog felt as if the room's temperature had just dropped twenty degrees. "My point exactly."
They stared at each other in silence. Mad Dog didn't know what to say to her now.
The softness was gone from her eyes, but the memory of it lingered in his mind, calling to him, beckoning. And all of a sudden she intrigued him. He wondered what kind of woman lay hidden beneath all that drab brown muslin.
"Breakfast is at five-twenty," she said finally. "Don't be late."
He grinned. "Five-twenty, huh? Not five-fifteen or five-thirty, but five-twenty. Rather regimented, isn't it?"
"That's the way I like it. If you don't—" she paused, looked at him hopefully
"—you know where the door is."
"Just trying to be friendly."
She bristled and threw her nose in the air. "I hardly need a friend like you."
"I don't know," he said, watching her steadily. "Could be I'm exactly what you need."
"Go to bed, Mr. Stone. Tomorrow will be a long day." Her voice was cold and hard, but there was an underlying tremble in it that piqued his interest even more. As if she were working very hard to remain aloof. As if she were hiding something.
"Good night, Miss Throckmorton. I'll see you at five-nineteen."
"Good night, Mr. Stone. Hopefully I won't see you at all."
Jake stood at the fence, gazing out over the darkened fields. The farmhouse rose from the shadows like a pale white crown atop a sheet of brown wool. Smoke spilled from the chimney, its acrid scent riding on the night air. Red-gold light illuminated the windows, turning them into hazy, welcoming squares against the whitewashed walls.
A painful ache seeped through Jake's chest. The house reminded him of another place, another time. A time when he was never hungry or lonely or cold, a time when no door had ever been closed to him.
He shut his eyes. The lingering echo of musical laughter haunted him, brought the sharp sting of tears behind his eyelids.
She would hate what he'd become, hate what he was doing.
It's a waste of time, Jacob. You can't make someone care. . ..
He wished he could say that wasn't what he wanted, wasn't why he was here, but he couldn't lie to himself. Not in the long, cold, lonely nights on the road. He knew exactly why he followed Mad Dog, and knew, too, that it was a fantasy that would never come true.
He'd only be hurt again; he knew that, knew it with a certainty that made him feel sick and shaky inside. He'd tried for years not to care, tried not to believe in miracles and happy endings, but he couldn't manage it.