If You Believe

He gazed down at her, his eyes solemn. "Would it help if I told you I loved you?"

Mariahs whole world seemed to tilt. For the first time she felt a stab of pure, white-hot anger at his leaving. Without even thinking, she brought her hand up to slap his face. At the last second, she stopped herself and forced her hand back to her side. Her eyes locked with his. "No, Matt. " She pushed the words up her throat.

"That wouldnt help at all. "

They were the last words she said to him before he turned and walked out of her life.

Mad Dog leaned back against the vibrating wall of the boxcar and drew his sore legs to his chest. Beside him lay a new notebook, its pages fluttering in the fast-moving air. The pages were white and empty; their blankness mocked him. No matter how many times he tried, he couldnt seem to write. Nothing interested him or fired his passion or made him care. He felt strangely dead inside.

A sigh escaped his cracked, bleeding lips. He banged his head back against the slatted wall.

He curled his arms around his bent knees and hugged himself against the bitter cold.

But it was a wasted effort. The weather bit through his tattered coat and gnawed on his flesh.

Winter had come with a vengeance this year, blanketing the world in a cape of icy white, tur

ning the empty boxcars into chilly coffins. He sighed long and slow. His breath hung in the air for a second, then dissipated.

He felt like hell. He was cold, hungry, and tired. He hadnt had a decent meal in the week since he left Lonesome Creek. There was no work to be found in frozen America in this year of panic. And damn little charity.

Years ago, when hed first started riding the rails, it had seemed romantic; stowing away in empty boxcars, outsmarting the railroad workers, making camp wherever he wanted, fighting the local strongmen at every county fair between San Francisco and New York. Then, hed felt free.

Now he felt . . . different. Where before the rails seemed to go everywhere, they now seemed to go nowhere at all. His life was without romance or excitement or purpose. Just a series of endless, hopeless hours spent in freezing boxcars, riding from one unwelcoming little town to the next.

He wiped his eyes with hands that were black with dirt and scooted back into the car. Curling into a warmth-conserving ball, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

Tried and failed.

Cursing softly, he rubbed his aching eyes and let his head bang back against the wall again.

For the first time in his life, he knew what it meant to miss someone, miss her so badly, you ached. Hed grieved for his mother, but that was different. Death was a loss that, with time, slid into memory.

Not so with Mariah. Every day he missed her more.

She was out there, a warm, living, breathing presence. When he closed his eyes, he saw her smile; when the coldness of winter touched his flesh, he remembered her warmth; when the silence enfolded him, endless and unbroken, he heard her laughter.

She was probably at the stove right now, cooking supper, the mouth-watering aroma of stewing meat seeping from the oven, filling the kitchen. Jake would be behind her, setting the table.

Christ, he could almost hear the quiet clinking of silverware and the muted music of their voices.

The house . . . Mariah . . . Jake . . . they were all back there, warm and cozy and welcoming. . . .

But that wasnt what he wanted, he reminded himself for the thousandth time since leaving. He wasnt a man who cared for "cozy" or wanted safety. He loved this life, out here all alone, going wherever he wanted, doing whatever he felt like. Hed always loved it. He needed his freedom like other men needed air.

It was just taking longer to get over them than hed thought. But he would get over them. Pretty soon—any day now—these little quirks of longing would start to fade, and hed be back to his old self. Any day now.

He picked up his pen and notebook again and stared down at the cold, white page.

Without thinking, he started to write something. When he looked down at what hed written, he felt a chill that went clear through to his spine. There was only one word on the paper. Mariah, He threw the pen across the car, heard it hit the wall with a tinny crack and tumble to the floor.

It was only a matter of time before this idiocy would end and hed forget Mariah.

Soon hed be back to his old self, writing articles, drinking tequila, screwing whores, and laughing. Any day now.

It was three full weeks before Jake found the courage to tell Mariah the truth.

They were sitting on the porch swing, as they did every night after supper. Twilight lay in a heavy purple blanket across the farm. Stars glittered in the darkness, cast a million shimmering reflections on the new layer of snow.