If You Believe

"Just trying to be friendly. "

She bristled and threw her nose in the air. "I hardly need a friend like you. "

"I dont know," he said, watching her steadily. "Could be Im 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. Ill see you at five-nineteen. "

"Good night, Mr. Stone. Hopefully I wont 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 Jakes 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 hed become, hate what he was doing.

Its a waste of time, Jacob. You cant make someone care. . . .

He wished he could say that wasnt what he wanted, wasnt why he was here, but he couldnt 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.

Hed only be hurt again; he knew that, knew it with a certainty that made him feel sick and shaky inside. Hed tried for years not to care, tried not to believe in miracles and happy endings, but he couldnt manage it.

Somewhere inside him was a voice that never stopped, a heart that never gave up.

His mother and grandfather had tried to make him see the truth a thousand times. A thousand times theyd failed. That secret part of him kept dreaming.

But the dream was beginning to tarnish, dulled by too many freezing nights and sweltering days and too much loneliness.

He glanced at the farmhouse again. At the sight of it, so warm and welcoming and homey, something inside him twisted hard. He wanted to belong in a place like this again, wanted to have someone tell him he was welcome.

Welcome. The word brought a quiver of response.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to be grown-up. But he was so hungry and alone and afraid. Life on the road was killing him slowly. He wanted to stop worrying that he would get sick and die alone, or that a train would run over him, or that hed starve in the winters coldness. He wanted someone to sit beside him and brush the too long hair from his eyes, or touch his forehead when he felt ill.

He wanted his mother back. . . .

Hot tears slipped from his eyes and slid down his cheeks. He barely noticed. They were familiar, these tears, as familiar as the cowardice that made him follow but never act. He was so tired of trying to be strong. . . .

Bowing his head, he turned away from the farmhouse that stirred too many memories. In the distance, an animal howled. The sound throbbed on the gentle breeze, then dwindled into nothingness.

He crept through the darkness toward the barn. Twigs snapped beneath his heels, leaves crinkled, but other than the nervous nickering of the horse in the pasture, the world was still and quiet.

He passed an apple tree and grabbed several, stuffing the ripe, red fruit into his sack. Then he raced across the farm and disappeared in the barn.

Behind him, the huge, cross-beamed door slammed shut. Somewhere a cow mooed. Dusty darkness curled around him, thick and smothering. Gripping his bag, he cautiously crossed the hard-packed dirt floor and felt for the loft ladder. When he found it, he clambered up the creaking wooden rungs and flung himself onto the soft piles of hay.

He closed his eyes and smiled, inhaling the familiar scent. This was heaven. He hadnt slept on something this soft in the four months hed been following Mad Dog.

He lay there a long time, almost falling asleep. Then hunger roused him. Sitting up, he burrowed through his pack and pulled out the apples. Greedily he ate three of them, then flopped back down and tried to sleep.

The spasms came on suddenly, clutching and twisting his stomach. He stumbled to the loft window and shoved it open, sticking his head into the cool night air. He retched until there was nothing more to throw up. The bile splashed on the dark ground below.

Trembling, he closed the window and crawled into the corner, curling into a tight, miserable ball. Tears stung his eyes and mixed with the clammy sweat on his face.

Stalks of hay stuck to his damp cheeks. The sour odor of vomit hovered in the dusty air.