God, he felt good. He had a place to sleep, clean hair, and a full stomach. He couldnt 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.
Hed 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 didnt seem to notice that the door had opened.
Mad Dogs 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 sinks rim.
She reminded him of a woman hed known in his youth. Etta Barnes. Etta had lost her husband in the war, and shed never been the same afterward. Her skin had lost its color, her eyes their sp
arkle. And sometimes, if Mad Dog caught her just right, shed 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 didnt mean to startle you. "
"I-Its fine. " She smoothed the hair from her face in a nervous motion. "I was just daydreaming, anyway. " She smiled thinly. "Not a very worthwhile pastime, to be sure. "
"I dont know. I dream all the time. "
A change came over her at his words. She stiffened. Mad Dog felt as if the rooms temperature had just dropped twenty degrees. "My point exactly. "
They stared at each other in silence. Mad Dog didnt 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. "Dont be late. "
He grinned. "Five-twenty, huh? Not five-fifteen or five-thirty, but five-twenty. Rather regimented, isnt it?"
"Thats the way I like it. If you dont—" she paused, looked at him hopefully
"—you know where the door is. "