If You Believe

Mad Dog took a satisfying taste of potato before he answered. "Chicago. "

"Do you have family there?"

"Nope. "

"No folks?"

Mad Dog smiled. Something inside him softened for a second, remembered. "My ma died when I was a boy. "

Rass closed his eyes in sympathy, then said softly, "Im sorry. How bout your dad?"

"He left one day for a tin of tobacco and never came back. I heard tell he died. "

His gaze caught Marians across the table. She immediately lowered her lashes. "I . . .

Im sorry. "

"Dont be. He was a lousy drunk who couldnt hold down a decent job. "

She tilted her chin up. Their eyes met again, but neither said a word. He felt a sudden jolt of communion with her, as if she knew what it felt like to be abandoned, which was absurd.

The rest of the meal passed in a comfortable silence. When it was over, Marian stood up and began clearing the dishes from the table. At the sink, she stacked the dishes on the slopstone and turned on the spigot. Water gushed from the indoor pipe and splashed into the metal bucket in the sink. "Mr. Stone," she said over her shoulder, "tomorrow is washday. You may leave your things on the porch. "

"What if I dont have anything to wash?"

Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned to face him. Her narrowed gaze swept him from head to foot, noting the smearing of dirt on his sleeves and shirt. "You do. "

"Then Ill do it. "

She gave him a grim smile. "Im sure you will . . . someday. Id just prefer it was done—" she sniffed delicately "—quickly. "

He shrugged. "Okay. If you want to wash my underwear that bad—"

She gasped. Embarrassment or anger—he wasnt sure which—stained her cheeks.

She opened her mouth—no doubt for a stinging retort.

He grinned. "Yes, Miss Throckmorton?"

Her teeth came together with an audible click. He could almost see her fighting for composure. "Mr. Stone, I believe Ill let you harvest the apples tomorrow morning. "

He frowned. Let you harvest the apples? She made it sound as if she were granting him a rare, undeserved, treat.

"Its a difficult task, of course, but I suspect that if you concentrate, youll do an acceptable job. The whole orchard takes about a week to harvest. We may as well begin while youre here. "

He understood now. She thought he was dim-witted. "A difficult job . . . picking fruit?"

She gave him a sour look. "It is not as easy as it sounds, Mr. Stone. First thing tomorrow morning, you will go to the root cellar. There youll find five barrels.

Theyre clearly marked: Red, mostly red, yellow, green, and rejects. You will then go to the apple orchard—its in the west pasture, along the stream—and begin to pick and sort the ripe fruit. Ill check your progress every hour on the hour. Do you understand?"

"You want me to pick the apple, check its color, and put it in the barrel of the corresponding type?"

She positively beamed. As if she hadnt expected him to get it. "Exactly. "

"Do you preserve by color?" he asked.

The question seemed to startle her. Her smile faded. "No. "