If You Believe

"Its my home. "

Mariah flinched at the quietly spoken words. Shed lost. Her father had hired the man, and Rass wouldnt change his mind. Sometime, somehow, shed done something wrong, something to make Rass think she was incapable of caring for their home. The realization filled her with a familiar, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

God, she tried so hard to be perfect, to make Rass proud of her and atone for the shame of her past. Why didnt it ever work?

"Look at him. "

She stiffened. "Absolutely not. "

"Look at him. Please," Rass pleaded.

Reluctantly she turned toward the open kitchen door and looked at the man outside.

The stranger was sitting up now, apparently trying to focus. His clothes were old and ragged and filthy. She could smell him from here.

He was younger than shed first thought—-perhaps thirty-five or six. But worn for his years. There was a sinewy leanness to his face that bespoke long, lonely roads and too much alcohol. A bushy, drooping brown mustache obscured his mouth and blended into a fuzzy stubble of new beard that fanned down his neck. He obviously hadnt shaved in days.

His hair was ragged and too long, streaked by a hot sun to the color of wheat. The frayed, once white collar of his shirt hung open to reveal a dark, hairy chest.

The sight of it resurrected a hundred forbidden images, a thousand buried longings.

Mariahs mouth went dry. A tiny pulse at the base of her throat throbbed.

"Like what you see, lady?"

Mariahs gaze jerked back to his face, and she found herself plunged into a pair of pewter gray eyes. His gaze locked with hers, dared her to look away. His eyes were focused and hard, with a bone-rattling intensity that cut through her self-control. He had Stephens eyes.

Her breath caught. She wanted to look away, ached to look away. But his gaze held her in a perverse, velvet grip. Fear pressed in on her.

Calm down, Mariah. Dont let him do this to you.

She let her breath out in a steady stream and closed her eyes, silently counting to five. When she felt better, she let herself look at him again.

She was wrong. His eyes werent familiar. Stephens had been warm and brown and filled with easy laughter; the strangers were cold and gray. It was simply the look in the eyes that was familiar.

Uncommitted. Alone. The eyes of a man who never stayed in one place too long.

Her irrational fear turned to disgust. He was everything she despised in a man. A shiftless, lazy loser. The kind whod attracted her once—when she was a starry-eyed girl—but never would again.

"Trust me," Rass said quietly.

"Fine, Rass. Ill trust you. " She spat the words out, then shot a last glance at the stranger. "But I wont trust him. "

Mad Dog touched the bruise that was already forming at his jaw. Christ, what had the schoolmarm hit him with? A pickax? Then he remembered. The brown blur had smashed the butt of her shotgun into his jaw.

Shaking his head to clear it, he tried to get to his feet. His first effort was a wobbly failure. He sank back into the plants, smashing another row of purple blossoms. The sickly-sweet scent of the flowers clogged his nostrils and brought a burst of nausea.

He was gonna puke. Shit . . .

Squeezing his eyes shut, he clutched his gut and tried to will the nausea to pass.

"You all right?"

Mad Dog opened his eyes. Rass was standing close, peering down with a fatherly smile on his wrinkled face.

He forced a smile. "Never better. "

Rass kneeled and held out a handkerchief. "Here. "