If You Believe

He smiled. She might look like a tall, unforgiving bird, but that butt of hers sure twitched nicely beneath all that washed-out brown skirting. . . .

Brushing off his hat, he strolled to the pump and washed in the painfully cold water, getting as much shit and mud out of his hair and clothes as possible. He wished like hell he hadnt lost his razor in Abilene. He could use a shave.

He twisted his wet shirt and stared at the meticulously tended farmhouse. Absently he tugged at his drooping mustache. He still couldnt quite figure out why he was still here. It went against everything in his nature—working like a common laborer and taking shit from Miss Button-up. Pig shit.

He should be on his way to Sonora by now.

But there wasnt anything in Sonora that was half as fun as ruffling the schoolmarm.

Challenging her, testing her mettle, was beginning to be downright fun. She was a surprisingly worthy opponent. She had the tenacity of a goddamn bulldog.

He bounded up the porch steps and skidded to a stop at the front door. Before he could even knock, the door banged open.

Rass stood in the opening grinning wide. "There you are, son. I was just coming to get you. "

Mad Dog gave his shirt another good twist and then put it on. The damp fabric stuck to his flesh. "No need for that, professor. Im just here to pick up my supper. "

Rass stepped back across the threshold. "Pick it up? No need for that, son. Youre welcome to eat inside. Surely Mariah invited you. . . . "

Mad Dog grinned. He could practically hear Mariah grinding her teeth. "Naw, she musta forgot to mention it. "

"Well, come on in. "

Mad Dog followed the professor into the warm house. A darkly paneled foyer curled around him, offering a beautiful embroidered bench to the weary. A gaslit hallway led to two closed doors. To his right was the parlor, a cozy room painted the color of summer roses and cluttered with ornate mahogany furniture. Family pictures covered the wallpapered walls and littered the tables.

Rass turned to the left and went into the kitchen. It was a large, square room with a glistening hardwood floor and an oval dining table. A huge, six-hole stove and free-standing sink lined the left wall; above the sink, a small window flanked by faded yellow curtains overlooked the porch and farm. Dozens of pale yellow crockery plates, pitchers, bowls, lay in perfect array in a polished oak dresser. A small icebox was tucked in the corner alongside the sink. The walls were papered in demure yellow and rose stripes.

Mariah eyed him, a small frown pulling at her mouth.

He grinned at her, tipped his hat. "Evenin. "

She stared at him, unmoving.

Rass smiled at his daughter. "You forgot to invite him in for supper last night. But I remembered. "

She tried to smile. "Im so glad. "

"Well . . . " Rasss gaze bobbed from Mariah to Mad Dog and back to Mariah. The silence stretched between them, became uncomfortable.

"Sit down," she said finally, turning back to the stove.

Mad Dog followed Rass to the table and took a seat. Mariah dished up supper and sat down across from him.

Mad Dog stared at the food on his plate, feeling strangely uncomfortable for a moment. He felt Mariahs eyes on him. She was no doubt waiting to see if hed eat like an animal. And he probably would. He didnt know shit about table manners.

In his childhood, thered never been a table; no mother teaching table etiquette. He just grabbed some bread off a passing cart and shoved it down his throat. And lately, on t

he train line, it had been no different. He couldnt remember the last time hed sat down at a table to eat a meal.

He didnt look up, didnt make eye contact with anyone. Slowly, hoping like hell he wasnt doing something wrong, he picked up his fork.

He cast a quick, surreptitious glance around. Mariah was quietly spearing a chunk of potato with her fork, and Rass was using his spoon to shove all his food into a single, unappetizing pile.

Mad Dog let out his breath in a relieved sigh. He wasnt being watched at all, no one cared in the least about his manners. The irritating sense of discomfort disappeared.

Smiling, he picked up his knife and started sawing through the sugar-glazed ham.

"So, son," Rass said, his mouth full. "Where are you from?"