If You Believe

He froze for a heartbeat, then dove beneath the table.

"Rass, are you home?" Mad Dogs voice called out from the other room.

Jake huddled against the table leg, the precious food crushed to his heaving chest.

The front door squeaked shut, then clicked. Heavy-heeled footsteps thudded down the hallway. Another door opened, closed.

Jake sat there, waiting, his every sense strained to the breaking point.

He closed his eyes and banged his head back against the sturdy table leg. He was getting so tired of this, tired of running and sneaking and stealing and hiding. Tired of wanting.

He wanted to belong in a house like this one, wanted to sleep in a real bed and feel safe at night.

He shook his head. He should do it right now, before Mad Dog had a chance to get away again. Jake closed his eyes, picturing for the millionth time how it would go.

Hed walk up to Mad Dog and demand-Demand what? The familiar question sparked a red-hot flood of frustration. He didnt even know what he wanted from Mad Dog—so how in the world did he think hed get it?

Maybe tomorrow, he thought dully, but as usual, the words had no sting, no bite.

He didnt believe them for a second. Tomorrow would be no different from today, or yesterday, or the day before that.

The sound of running water leaked into his thoughts.

He crawled out from underneath the table and paused, looking around. Then he lurched to his feet and ran for the front door.

He opened it gently and peered out.

The place looked deserted. He clutched the stolen food against his empty stomach and ran from the house.

He was so wrapped up in his own pain, his own failure to do what hed set out to do, he never saw the pair of eyes that watched him run back to the barn.

Chapter Seven

Mariah stood at the range, cooking supper. The sweet and sour scent of baking sauerbraten filled the warm kitchen. Boiling water popped at her from the big black pot. Pale globs of spaetzle dough bobbed in the roiling surf. Beside it, butter slid back and forth in a small cast-iron pan, leaving streaks of thick, boiling gold in its wake. On the shelf above the range sat a crockery bowl full of bread crumbs.

Everything was on schedule.

She smiled. The reassuring organization made her feel good, added to the sense of well-being shed felt since this afternoon.

She was so proud that she hadnt let Mr. Stones presence deter her from her swim.

It was important to her, necessary. Without it, she ended each week feeling like a raw nerve.

The tension started first thing Sunday morning—with her first reluctant glance at the graves—and built day by day, until by Saturday afternoon, she was close to screaming.

The swim removed it all. Now she felt strong enough to take on the world. Or one weary, ill-mannered drifter.

She was sure she could keep her passionate responses to herself now; she wouldnt react to Mad Dogs taunting.

"Go ahead," she murmured with a smile, "take your best shot. Im ready for you. "

"Im ready for you, too. " Mad Dogs quiet voice came at her from the doorway.

Mariah winced. Damn him for sneaking up on her. She stiffened and reluctantly glanced at him.

He was standing in the doorway at a casual slant, one shoulder rested against the doorjamb, arms crossed, hat pulled low over his eyes. She was unaccountably reminded of a lion, waiting in the shadows for its prey.

He stepped out of the shadows, and her breath caught. She stared at him, unable for a moment to tear her gaze away. Hed shaved and changed his clothes. The drooping, too thick mustache was gone, as was the brown stubble that furred his cheeks. His face was strong, with a blunt, squared jawline, and a damnably sensual mouth that was curved in a dazzlingly white smile. He was wearing a clean white shirt that hung loosely on his broad shoulders and gaped at the throat. Faded, worn Levis, bleached to the color of foam, hugged his long legs. Blond hair lay curled, thick and soft-looking, against his limp collar.