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A slow, deliberate smile curved his lips. "Miss Throckmorton, when Im toying with you, youll know it. "
The illicit, completely improper remark caused a red-hot spark of response. A shiver worked itself down Mariahs stiff back. She swallowed dryly. "I hope you arent suggesting you may toy with me in the future. "
"I dont know you well enough to say. "
She pushed the damp hair away from her face and tried to smile. "Honesty. What an unusual approach. "
"Im always honest. "
She snorted. Shed heard that one before—and from a man remarkably like the one standing in front of her. "Sure. "
He shrugged, as if he didnt care a whit if she believed him—and somehow that made her believe him.
She studied him, intrigued in spite of herself. "You always tell the truth? Even if it hurts people, or makes someone think badly of you?"
"Sometimes the truth hurts. Thats life. " "That makes you a very dangerous man, Mr. Stone. " He shook his head. "Only if you expect something from me.
Fortunately, no one does. So what about you, Miss Throckmorton. Are you honest?"
She almost answered, but didnt. She thought suddenly about the dowdy spinster in brown, hiding behind a white picket fence. "No," she said, and the quiet confession surprised her, "I suppose Im not. "
He smiled and walked away. At the pump, he paused and turned back around.
"Marian?"
"Yes?"
"A real liar would have said yes. "
She couldnt help herself. She laughed.
Grinning, he yanked his hat down and walked away without another word. Mariah watched him leave.
It wasnt until later, much later, that she realized hed called her Mariah.
Rass kneeled awkwardly and laid a hand on the carved granite of Gretas headstone.
The stone felt smooth and cold and comforting.
Sighing, he leaned back against the giant oak tree that shaded his wifes grave from the hot sun. Above his head, colorful leaves rustled in the late afternoon breeze.
Every now and then one dropped, twisting and floating as it fell to the ground.
Strands of sunlight shot through the branches and hit the grassy earth, moving and dancing in a ceaseless golden pattern.
Hi, Greta.
The breeze picked up, ruffled his hair in a caress. He felt her presence in the wind.
And in the sun and the rain and the silence. She was here with him, sitting invisibly beside him.
He squeezed his eyes shut and took her hand. In the emptiness of his own fist, he felt her warmth and it gave him comfort.
From his perch on the grassy knoll, he stared down at the farm. Mariah was standing in front of the wash-house, doing the laundry. At her feet was a wicker basket; to her left, the clothesline, now empty. Soon it would be filled by billowy garments snapping in the breeze.
A quiet sense of sadness pervaded him at the thought. So much the same as every Saturday for sixteen years . . .
Ah, Greta, what are we going to do with her?
