Mad Dog said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Then, suddenly, Rass turned to him. "You could help her. "
He frowned. "I dont even know her. " • "Thats an excuse. "
Mad Dog wanted to laugh or turn away, but the blue fire in the old mans eyes held him in a steel-edged grip. "Maybe," he said evenly.
The keen intensity faded from the old mans eyes. A caring warmth replaced it.
"Excuses have a way of catching up with a man. Even on a backwater farm in the middle of nowhere. "
Mad Dog stared over Rasss white-haired head. A question hung on his tongue, heavy and demanding. He knew he shouldnt ask it—shouldnt care—but he couldnt help himself. Something in Mariahs face had touched him, and he wanted to know why. "Whats wrong with her?"
"Youll have to ask her that yourself. "
"She wont tell me. "
"Maybe not the first time. Try again. " He looked up at Mad Dog, captured his gaze.
"Youre a fighter, arent you?"
"Not in that ring. "
Rass gave him a perceptive, probing look. For the first time in years, Mad Dog felt
. . . vulnerable. Like the frightened, lonely kid hed once been.
"Not yet," Rass remarked.
Mad Dog knew he should let the conversation die its uncomfortable death right there, but there was something else he needed to know. He tried to ask the personal question casually. "That patch of grass by your wifes grave—what does it have to do with her . . . problem?"
He knew he hadnt fooled the old man. Rass looked up at him, a smile curving the edges of his pale lips.
Mad Dog felt—crazily—that Rass was pleased by the question.
"Everything," Rass answered softly, and then he walked away.
Mad Dog stood there a long time, listening to the cant of the breeze through the autumn grass. Colorful leaves tumbled across his boots, swirled and danced above the golden carpet in a wash of green and burgundy and brown. The wind was a low, mournful dirge.
The old man was wrong. Mad Dog couldnt ease the sorrow from Marians face, couldnt lift the burden from her shoulders. That was something hed learned about problems. You had to solve your own.
He put his hands in his pockets and focused on the strand of smoke spiraling up from the chimney. If he closed his eyes—and he was careful not to—he could have imagined Mariah inside the house. Her skin would be pale, almost translucent, her hands would be shaking. Shed be moving slowly from room to room, her back stiff, her hands clenched, looking for something to take her mind off her troubles.
Surprisingly, he wished that Rass were right, that he could help her.
Mariah stood at her bedroom window, staring down at the bunkhouse. A headache pulsed behind her eyes; every now and then her vision blurred from the force of it.
She rubbed her throbbing temples with her fingertips.
Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead against the comforting coolness of the pane. God, she felt so vulnerable and alone. The shield shed cultivated for many years was gone, shredded. It had left her the moment she looked at that tiny patch of clipped grass beside her mothers grave.
Oh, shed lost her armor before—every Sunday, in fact—and she knew shed get it back. But right now, without its steel protection, she felt empty and afraid.
Especially with Mad Dog Stone lurking behind every corner, pushing her—always pushing her—making her feel things she didnt want to feel. Making her want things that scared her to death.
And Rass. God bless him, but he didnt understand. To Rass, death was a doorway; a momentous, anticipated experience in a persons life. He had no doubt that he and Greta would be reunited, and less doubt that his wife was in a better place than he. He couldnt wait to join her.
But Mariah hadnt believed in God, or in heaven, in a long, long time. Ever since the first time shed stood by that small patch of grass.