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"Certainly I can call you Mad Dog, but I choose not to. " She leaned forward, setting her elbows on the table. "So, Mr. Stone, what is your given name?"
He swallowed hard. For the first time in years, he felt a flash of uncertainty around a woman. "It doesnt matter. "
She sat back in her chair, her gaze still fastened on his. "It seems, Mr. Stone, that you have a few secrets of your own. "
Mad Dog turned his attention back to his food. Shed gotten close there for a minute, too close.
And suddenly he didnt feel quite as cocky as he had before.
* * *
Lord, she was exhausted. Today had been the longest day of her life. Even the bath hadnt helped in the end. She felt worn-out and hollow. Empty.
Mariah stood at her bedroom window, staring down at the dark, quiet farm. Twilight pushed thick shadows through the orchard and drizzled orange remnants of light atop the bunkhouses pointed roof.
I was just thinking how pretty you are when you smile.
She flinched at the memory of his words.
She hadnt meant to react, hadnt meant to show him such an obvious reflection of her soul, but his words had sucked the strength from her. The sentence, so close to one of Stephens lies, had cut through her self-control like a blade, leaving her exposed and bleeding.
He was getting to her, getting past her guard. The truth was painfully obvious and undeniable. She could feel it, feel him, creeping through her like a virus, leaving a trail of weakness in its wake.
No matter how many times she thought about it, how often she tried to rationalize away her awareness of Mad Dog, the seductive pull of his presence remained.
"Youre attracted to losers," she said aloud.
But that wasnt quite it, and she knew it. She wasnt really attracted to Mad Dog Stone. She was . . . aware of him, drawn to him in some sick, twisted way. There was a difference—at least she prayed there was.
How could she not be aware of him, here on this dusty little farm in the middle of nowhere where nothing of importance had happened in years? He was like a hot, pulsing tornado on a calm fall day.
How did one ignore a tornado in her own backyard?
Tightening her arms, she went to her bed and perched stiffly on the edge.
She had to stop reacting to him. It didnt really matter if he found out the whole sordid secret of her past. He wouldnt care, hed probably laugh anyway.
A tightness squeezed her chest at the thought. It surprised her that still, after all these years, the truth had the power to shame her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing—for once—that she could cry.
She needed a good cry right now, needed to release the penkup frustration and anger that gripped her. But she hadnt cried in years, not since that afternoon so long ago when she hadnt been able to stop crying. Even when her mother had died, shed stood at the gravesite, cold and devastated and achingly alone, and unable to cry.
Her grief had been an icy block of pain pressing against her chest.
She heaved a tired sigh and slumped forward. He was beating her down, she could feel it, but she couldnt stop it. She was so tired of it all, of lying and hiding and pretending. It had been a drain before, with Rass, but now, with Mad Dog, it was becoming unbearable.
If only she had courage—just a little bit. She had everything else: a strong will, a strong mind, a wagonload of grit and determination. Everything but courage. That, shed lost a long time ago, and shed never been able to regain it. If she had, she might not even be here. No stupid white picket fence would stop a person with courage.
"Oh, God . . . "
She didnt know what to do about Mad Dog. How to keep her distance. How to make him keep his. All she wanted was to be left alone, for things to go back to the way they used to be.
She wanted to feel safe in her own home again.
Was-that asking so much?
Chapter Eight
