Mad Dog turned his attention back to his food. She'd gotten close there for a minute, too close.
And suddenly he didn't feel quite as cocky as he had before.
Lord, she was exhausted. Today had been the longest day of her life. Even the bath hadn't helped in the end. She felt worn-out and hollow. Empty.
Mariah stood at her bedroom window, staring down at the dark, quiet farm. Twilight pushed thick shadows through the orchard and drizzled orange remnants of light atop the bunkhouse's pointed roof.
I was just thinking how pretty you are when you smile.
She flinched at the memory of his words.
She hadn't meant to react, hadn't meant to show him such an obvious reflection of her soul, but his words had sucked the strength from her. The sentence, so close to one of Stephen's lies, had cut through her self-control like a blade, leaving her exposed and bleeding.
He was getting to her, getting past her guard. The truth was painfully obvious and undeniable. She could feel it, feel him, creeping through her like a virus, leaving a trail of weakness in its wake.
No matter how many times she thought about it, how often she tried to rationalize away her awareness of Mad Dog, the seductive pull of his presence remained.
"You're attracted to losers," she said aloud.
But that wasn't quite it, and she knew it. She wasn't really attracted to Mad Dog Stone. She was ... aware of him, drawn to him in some sick, twisted way. There was a difference—at least she prayed there was.
How could she not be aware of him, here on this dusty little farm in the middle of nowhere where nothing of importance had happened in years? He was like a hot, pulsing tornado on a calm fall day.
How did one ignore a tornado in her own backyard?
Tightening her arms, she went to her bed and perched stiffly on the edge.
She had to stop reacting to him. It didn't really matter if he found out the whole sordid secret of her past. He wouldn't care, he'd probably laugh anyway.
A tightness squeezed her chest at the thought. It surprised her that still, after all these years, the truth had the power to shame her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing—for once—that she could cry.
She needed a good cry right now, needed to release the penkup frustration and anger that gripped her. But she hadn't cried in years, not since that afternoon so long ago when she hadn't been able to stop crying. Even when her mother had died, she'd stood at the gravesite, cold and devastated and achingly alone, and unable to cry.
Her grief had been an icy block of pain pressing against her chest.
She heaved a tired sigh and slumped forward. He was beating her down, she could feel it, but she couldn't stop it. She was so tired of it all, of lying and hiding and pretending. It had been a drain before, with Rass, but now, with Mad Dog, it was becoming unbearable.
If only she had courage—just a little bit. She had everything else: a strong will, a strong mind, a wagonload of grit and determination. Everything but courage. That, she'd lost a long time ago, and she'd never been able to regain it. If she had, she might not even be here. No stupid white picket fence would stop a person with courage.
"Oh, God ..."
She didn't know what to do about Mad Dog. How to keep her distance. How to make him keep his. All she wanted was to be left alone, for things to go back to the way they used to be.
She wanted to feel safe in her own home again.
Was-that asking so much?
Chapter Eight
Rass stood in the kitchen, listening to the quiet creaking of the floorboards upstairs.
His breath expelled slowly. Mariah was in her room.
He went to the icebox and pulled out the leftover slab of sauerbraten. He sliced up the meat and fanned it on a speckled tin plate, placing a couple of potatoes and some cooked carrots around it. Then he tucked a bottle of cider under his arm.
Straightening, he cast a last anxious glance at the stairway. It was still empty.
Moving as quietly as possible, he went to the front door and eased it open. Cold evening air, redolent with the sweet scent of ripe apples, greeted him. The farm lay wreathed in darkening shadows; the fruit trees were jet black skeletons against the gray night sky.
He quietly pulled the door shut behind him. The latch clicked into place. Head down, hands curled tightly around the food, Rass hurried to the barn.
He stopped in front of the closed door. Anticipation quickened his tired old heartbeat, made him feel young again. There was a mystery inside his very own barn.
He'd known it the minute he'd seen that young boy skulking .across the farm this afternoon. Someone hiding on the Throckmorton farm was a riddle too exciting to ignore.
He balanced the plate of food on his palm and gave the door a hard push. It shuddered away from him, scraping the hard-packed dirt floor in its arc to the back wall, where it hit with a thud that shook the wooden structure.
Up in the loft, something moved.
Rass ventured to the center of the barn and looked up. Pale, blue-gray moonlight seeped through the small second-story window, casting the barn in shades of onyx and steel blue. The loft was a looming black ceiling.
He went to the ladder and rested a boot on the bottom rung, peering up into the darkness. "Hello there."
Nothing.
"I've got some food for you."
A board creaked overhead. Dust and bits of hay rained through the cracks, pattering Rass's upturned face. "I saw you today." He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"I mean you no harm. I just thought you might be hungry."
Silence answered him, yawning and endless. Rass was just about to try again when something—someone—inched across the loft toward the ladder. Slowly, slowly.
The old boards creaked.
Rass held his breath. Excitement pounded through his old man's heart. He's coming, Greta. He's coming.. ..
A small face peered over the edge of the loft. Rass couldn't make out the boy's features amidst the shadows. But a tousled thatch of reddish gold hair caught and held the moonlight. "Whatcha got?"
"Sauerbraten, potatoes, cooked carrots."
"What's sauerbraten?"
"Does it matter?"
The boy shook his head. "Naw. I reckon I'd eat dead spiders about now."
Rass nodded and started to climb the ladder.
"Hold on—"
Rass looked up.
The kid flung a leg over the edge and stared down at Rass. "You're .. . old."
Rass blinked up at him in surprise. "Uh-huh?"
The kid shrugged. "I ... think maybe I should come down to eat."
Rass grinned and stepped back from the ladder. That told him all he needed to know about the stranger hiding out in his barn. The boy had heart. "I'd appreciate that, son."
The boy turned around and climbed down the ladder.
Rass went to the workbench and lit a lantern. Flames flickered to life in the glass globe and filled a small section of the barn with tenuous, throbbing light.
The boy peeked around the ladder, eyeing Rass spec-ulatively.
Rass walked toward him. "I'm Rass Throckmorton," he said, coming to a stop.
The boy edged cautiously away from the ladder and took the plate of food from Rass. "I'm Jake." "Well, Jake, shall we sit down while you eat?" Jake glanced down at the plate in his hand. Naked hunger passed through his eyes, but he didn't take a bite. "What do you want from me?"
Rass was saddened by the question. He set down the lantern, then slowly sat down.
"Nothing," he said softly. "I just thought you might be hungry."
Jake seemed to think about that for a moment, then awkwardly he sat down beside Rass. Pulling the plate onto his lap, he stared down at the food for a long, wordless moment, and Rass thought he saw the sheen of tears in the boy's eyes. Then he dove into the sauerbraten and chewed noisily.
Rass watched him eat, and once again he was filled with sadness for this boy who knew what it meant to be alone and frightened and hungry.
"How old are you?" he asked quietly, when Jake had finished.
Jake took a messy, dribbling swallow of the cider and backhanded the moisture from his mouth, giving Rass a sheepish look. "Sorry. I've got better manners than that. I'm fifteen—sixteen in March."
Rass was surprised that the boy had even heard the word manners, much less be chagrined by his own lack. "Where are you from?"
A guarded look crept into Jake's green eyes. It looked absurdly out of place on his open, honest features. "Last place was Abilene."
It wasn't an answer, but Rass let it go. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small leather bag and opened it. Treasures glittered in the pale lamplight: an arrowhead stone, the wispy remnants of a rattlesnake skin, a small gray wasp's nest.
Jake picked up the wasp's nest, studying it.
Rass saw the beginning of wonder in the boy's eyes, and his chest tightened with emotion. It was like his old teaching days at Public School No. 27 in New York. It had been so long since he'd had an eager young mind in his charge, since someone had wanted the useless stockpile of information in Rass's brain. Not since he'd taught geology and history to the Digby boy. Now, there was a mind, he thought with a smile, and wondered whatever had happened to Larence.
"I found that in the eaves of an abandoned farm out toward town. Maybe tomorrow you'd like to go collecting with me—"
Jake shook his head. "Naw. I'd best be moving on...."
"I need an assistant," Rass interjected eagerly. "Someone to catalog my finds and carry them for me."
Jake stared at the arrowhead. A small frown pulled at the edges of his mouth.
"When I was a kid, I used to love rock collecting."
When I was a kid. Rass's old heart gave a painful twitch. What a sad sentence coming from a fifteen-year-old. "I'm seventy-four and I still love it."
"My mom gave me a book about rocks. Told all about the different kinds."
"She must love you very much."
"Yeah." He paused, looked down. "She did."
Did. Rass understood the sadness now. He wanted to say he was sorry, but he knew how useless the words were, how pointless. So he said something else instead, the only thing he could. "You could stay for a while. Move on anytime you wanted."
Jake looked at him. In the flickering golden light, his young face appeared pale, almost fragile. There was a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "I ... I'd like that, but . . ."
He glanced down at his hands.
"But what?"
"I saw that stiff-looking lady and ... the man who lives here...."
Rass winced at the description of Marian. "That'd be Marian, my daughter," he said quietly, "and our new handyman, Mad Dog Stone. They won't bother you."
Jake shook his head. Something like fear darkened his eyes. "I wouldn't want . ..
anyone to know I was here. I'm not ready for that yet."
Rass understood. No doubt it had been a long time since the boy had felt at home somewhere. The barn felt safer for him. "Well, that wouldn't be such a problem. It could be our secret for a while."
His green eyes widened hopefully, as if he hadn't dared to hope for that answer.
"Really?"
"Really."
Slowly Rass pushed to a stand. "Well, I guess I'd best be getting back to bed.
Growing boys and crotchety old men need their sleep. I'll bring breakfast to you about seven o'clock."