If You Believe

Her hand froze in midair when she realized what shed done. She yanked her hand back down and plunged it in her apron pocket.

Damnation.

What was it about Mad Dog Stone that pushed so easily past her defenses and made her respond?

She shuddered at the memory of what had happened in the orchard. Things had been going along well, she thought. She had instructed him clearly in what was expected from him, had kept her distance, had even ig nored some of his taunting remarks. All in all, shed been sticking to her decision fairly well.

Then hed taken off his shirt.

She swallowed hard, even now feeling a little queasy at the remembrance.

She shouldnt have looked at his naked skin, should have torn her gaze away.

But she hadnt been able to move. Shed felt frozen, trapped like a rabbit beneath the searing, unerring eye of the hawk. Her breathing quickened, became a painful thumping in her ears.

God help her, in that minute, that second, shed wanted to touch him, to feel the wiry softness of his hair and the tanned smoothness of his skin.

She forced the image away and grabbed the paddle. Gripping it hard enough to stop the shaking in her fingers, she rammed the fabric bubble of her petticoat beneath the water.

Somehow, Mad Dog Stone brought out her old self, the one shed spent years trying to demolish.

She felt a suffocating wave of despair at the realization. It wasnt fair. Shed worked hard to suppress that passionate side of herself, binding up her fiery emotions so tightly, shed almost forgotten their existence.

Until Mad Dog Stone reminded her with a simple wave or a casual remark. Or a bare chest.

Why? she wondered, but it was a feeble, empty question. She knew why.

The truth was painfully obvious—even to her. She hadnt really suppressed her passionate nature, after all. It had simply lain dormant at this peaceful farm, waiting for a challenge to draw it forth. And Mad Dog Stone, drifter, vagabond, good-for-nothing vagrant, challenged her.

Sighing tiredly, she reached down for the last item in the laundry basket. A dirty gray shirt lay in a lonely heap at the bottom.

His shirt.

Reluctantly she picked it up. The coarse fabric felt rough against her fingers. Its sweaty, masculine scent mingled with the humid fragrance of the steam and curled, thick and heavy, around her. She couldnt seem to help herself. She closed her eyes and held the shirt close, inhaling the sharp, unfamiliar scent of it. It had been so long since anything foreign, anything unexpected, had come into her life, and she couldnt totally deny how it made her feel.

For a hazy, unreal moment, she felt as if she were part of a dream. As if the man working on her property were her man. For a second—just a second—she forgot the pain and humiliation in her past and imagined a future shed never even let herself consider. A future in which she was something other than a crazy old spinster hiding out from scandal.

"You gonna smell all my laundry?"

Mariah froze. Fire crawled up her throat and fanned across her cheeks. Humiliation burned in the pit of her stomach.

She exhaled slowly and forced herself to look at him. "Are you here for a purpose?"

"Is that a philosophical question?"

Her eyebrow arched upward. "Thats a large word for you, Mr. Stone. "

He grinned. "Im full of surprises. "

Ignore him. "Im sure you are. Now, what do you want?"

He held out an apple. "Red or mostly red?"

She studied it with a practiced eye. "Red. "

"This one?"

Suddenly she understood. Her eyes narrowed. "Mr. Stone, are you toying with me?"