If You Believe

Mad Dog looked at her one last time, then snapped hard on the reins. Cleo bolted forward. The metal buggy wheels skidded through the loose gravel in a bone-crunching whine and turned onto the dirt road, hurtling toward town.

Chapter Twenty

Darkness closed in on Marian, pressed against her lungs until every breath was a wheezing, hurting gasp. Pain pulsed through her body, wringing her heart, twisting her soul into reed-thin rope that snapped beneath the pressure.

Rass was dying. Rass, whod held her hand when she was a little girl and dried so many of her tears. Rass, who loved to explore roads and found joy in a bit of white quartz. Her daddy.

"Oh, God . . . " With a strangled sob, she sank to her knees. Out on the road, the buggy sped into the thickening bank of shadows. Wheels crunched through the loose stones, Cleos pounding hooves hammered in a thundering beat.

Then it was gone. The buggy disappeared into the night, and even the sounds faded away. She was left in an aching, sightless void, utterly alone.

She should be with him. Jesus, she should be with him—

She screamed until her throat was dry and parched, until the wailing keen melted into a scratchy, pathetic whimper. The spiked slats of the picket fence seemed to pulse ominously, mocking her with silent laughter.

Self-loathing surged through her in a crippling wave. She clamped a hand to her mouth and staggered upright. Her feet caught in her skirts and she tripped, falling hard against the fence. It creaked and sagged beneath her weight. The spiked tip of a slat bit into her hand, slashed into her palm.

Shame and guilt moved through her. She sank to her knees on the hard ground and bowed her head, dragged down by the overwhelming burden of her own useless-ness.

/ let you down, Rass. Oh, Jesus, I let you down.

A strangled, burning sob wedged in her throat.

Please, God, let him live. Please . . .

She thought of this afternoon, when shed blithely assumed she and Rass had years worth of time to talk. She hadnt said what she wanted to say to him, the words he needed to hear. Shed been afraid, and now he was near death—maybe dead—and shed never said the words to him, never told him how much she loved him. . God, how much she loved him . . .

Grief exploded through her then, left her shaking and sick and desperately, desperately afraid.

She didnt know what to do, how to vent her emotions. They overwhelmed her, clawed at her coherency with talon tips. Hysteria built inside her heart, expanding with every heartbeat, surging with every breath.

She screamed again, but the sound came out strangled and gasping.

Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut and pitched face-first onto the cold, unforgiving ground. Slowly she curled into a fetal position and lay there, panting, trying desperately to cry.

Waiting for her father to come home.

The buggy skidded to a stop in front of Doc Shermans house. Jake lurched out of the backseat and raced up the path, hammering on the door with his fist.

No one answered.

Fear spilled through him, chilled him to the bone. He pounded harder. "Doc . . . Doc, are you home?"

Finally the door swung open. A stoop-shouldered, bespectacled old man with gray-white hair stood in the opening. He squinted down at Jake. "Yes? Who are you?"

Jake flung his finger back toward the buggy, where Mad Dog stood with a limp, lifeless Rass in his arms. "We got Rass Throckmorton. He . . . " His voice cracked.

Hot, embarrassing tears welled in his eyes.

Doctor Sherman straightened. "Get him the hell in here!"

Mad Dog hurried up the path and followed Doctor Sherman to a bedroom in the back of the house.

Tut him down," Doc said, reaching for his black leather bag.

Mad Dog laid Rass tenderly on the bed, then leaned over him, peering into the old mans waxen face. "Rass," he whispered. "Dont give up. Dont . . . "