If You Believe

He sat slumped in his chair, his elbows rested on the oilclothed table, his face cradled in his hands. He looked sad and lost and alone. Exactly the way she felt.

Her heart went out to him, twisted hard. Where were his parents? Who cared for him when he was sick and kissed his cheek when he was depressed? Who darned his socks and answered his boyish questions about the world?

The concern helped her, made her focus on his pain instead of her own. Before she knew it, she was moving toward him. Beneath her feet, the floorboards creaked.

He looked up, startled. "Miss Throckmorton—"

She smiled. "Call me Mariah. "

His hands plunged beneath the table. "R-Rass told me to meet him here before breakfast. "

She poured two cups of steaming, fragrant coffee and went to the table. Setting one down in front of him, she sat beside him. "You dont have to explain, Jake. Youre welcome here. "

His eyes rounded. Then slowly his shoulders sagged. A tired, lonely breath escaped him. "Thanks. "

Mariahs own breath caught. She could tell how much her simple words had meant to him. She wondered again about his life, wondered if hed ever belonged anywhere.

And again she thought of Thomas, and the promise of his life.

He blinked at her, and a thick lock of dirty hair fell across one eye. He blushed and pushed it aside. "Sorry," he mumbled, "my hairs sorta long. . . . "

Mariah reacted immediately to his shame. Hope niggled through her, a fraying thread. She wet her dry lips and tried to sound casual. "I . . . I could cut it for you. "

He looked up, surprised. "Youd do that. . . for me?"

"Certainly, but—" She glanced down at the table, uncertain suddenly. A host of sad memories took hold of her for a heartbeat before she could push them away.

"But what?"

She swallowed and met his gaze. "Ive never cut a young mans hair. " / should have, but I havent. . . .

"I just do it with a razor. "

The quiet, matter-of-fact words lifted her from her moments sadness. "I have shears. "

He smiled; it was a slow, tentative smile that matched her own emotion. "Id sure appreciate it. "

Mariah looked at him, and knew somehow that this moment was as important to him as it was to her. It felt potent and right. . . almost like a beginning, though she was afraid to really believe it.

She got to her feet and filled a bucket with warm water, then lugged it back to the table. As she set it down, water spilled over the bent metal rim and puddled on the oilcloth cover. "Go. ahead and sit on this chair," she said, indicating the butter stool.

"Ill go get a comb and shears. "

He glanced at her nervously. "Okay. "

Mariah turned and bolted up the stairs, grabbing the shears and comb from her dresser. When she returned to the kitchen, he was sitting on the stool in the middle of the room.

She wrapped a towel around his neck and dampened his hair. Standing behind him, she studied his dirty, unkempt head. "How long do you like it?"

"My mama used to cut it along my collar. " His voice was quiet, almost wistful. "She liked it a little long. "

With shaking fingers, she touched his hair, running her index finger along the ragged, uneven ends. Again she wondered how he came to be here. Once, hed obviously had a mother who cared, who cut his hair and took care of him. Who wouldnt have wanted her little boys hair to look like this.

She picked up the comb and tugged the tangles from his hair. For a dreamy, unreal moment, she was flung back to a time that never had existed but should have.

Thomas . . .

Jake made a soft, gurgling sound in his throat.