If You Believe

"Im ready," she answered crisply.

Mad Dog glanced around for the wagon, but there wasnt one to be seen. "You want me to hitch up the buggy?"

Rass laughed, a big, good-natured sound that echoed across the lonely farm. "We dont need horses to see the Lord, Mr. Stone. Follow me. " Without another word, he took off across the golden fields.

Mad Dog cast an uncertain look at Mariah. "Wheres he going?"

She didnt look at him, but he thought he saw the barest hint of a smile touch her lips. "God lives in the west pasture, Mr. Stone. "

He, too, started to smile. "Not in the back twenty?"

"There, too, of course, but we visit Him in the west pasture. "

He moved toward her, drawn irresistibly by the sarcasm that limned her words.

"You believe that, Mariah?"

She closed her eyes for a moment, then tilted her chin. When she spoke, her words were as soft as the early morning breeze. "What I believe is none of your business, Mr. Stone. "

And she stepped past him.

He watched her walk on ahead of him, her body held unnaturally erect. The round, thick oval of hair anchored to the base of her neck glinted like a coil of dark fire in the pale sunlight, reminding Mad Dog of the heat that lay beneath all that stiff propriety.

He smiled. Slowly and with great relish, his gaze slid down her slim back, past the tight indentation of her waist, to the gently rounded curve of her butt. The often-washed linsey-woolsey of her dress clung enticingly to her backside, swishing with each step.

Tilting his hat back, he followed her.

They made their way to a small knoll some distance from the house. The windswept rise should have been no more than a hump in the unending golden fabric of the field, but even to Mad Dog it seemed to be more; a place, not just a bump.

An ancient oak tree stood guard over the spot, its gnarled limbs reaching protectively toward a small ironwork settee. Beside the chair, a rounded headstone pushed up from the well-tended grass, its white marble gilded by the suns uncertain rays. In front of it sat a pottery bowl of dying purple dahlias.

Mad Dog glanced at the inscription on the stone. Here lies the body of Greta Wilhemina Throckmorton. Wife, mother, friend. April 17, 1820 to December 23, 1893.

A sharp pain shot through his insides. He squeezed his eyes shut. Aw, Christ . . .

A whisper of wind worked through the oaks leaves, chattering, welcoming. Slowly he opened his eyes, and found Mariah staring at him.

For once, there was no animosity in her eyes, and no guarded distance. "Are you all right?"

He felt a sudden urge to reach out to her, to tell her he understood. But he couldnt move, didnt move. He just stood there like an idiot, staring at her, feeling her pain mingle with his own to become a cold, heavy block against his lungs.

In the end, all he said was, "Fine. "

She eyed him a moment longer, then turned away. Moving slowly, as if each step were dangerous, she crossed to the ironwork settee and took a seat. She perched stiffly on the scrolled edge, her ankles pressed tightly together, her hands in her lap, her face downcast.

Rass moved eagerly toward the tombstone. Kneeling, he replaced the dying flowers with fresh ones. "Sit down, son. " Then he started talking to the gravestone in quiet, murmured tones.

Mad Dog walked around the gravesite and came up beside the settee.

Mariah didnt look up.

He inched past her knees—brushing them slightly—and sat down beside her. The metal creaked beneath his weight.

She stiffened and scooted to the very edge of the seat.

Beside them, still kneeling on the ground, Rass cleared his throat. "Hi, Greta. " His voice was lower and softer than Mad Dog had ever heard it before. A quiet kind of emotion suffused it—love, maybe, or reverence. The gentle greeting had a surprisingly strong impact on Mad Dog. It reminded him of the way his mother had spoken to him so long ago.

"We have a visitor with us today, Greta," he whispered. "Mr. Stone. I have great hope for him. What do you think?"