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"But what?"
"I saw that stiff-looking lady and . . . the man who lives here. . . . "
Rass winced at the description of Marian. "Thatd be Marian, my daughter," he said quietly, "and our new handyman, Mad Dog Stone. They wont bother you. "
Jake shook his head. Something like fear darkened his eyes. "I wouldnt want . . .
anyone to know I was here. Im not ready for that yet. "
Rass understood. No doubt it had been a long time since the boy had felt at home somewhere. The barn felt safer for him. "Well, that wouldnt be such a problem. It could be our secret for a while. "
His green eyes widened hopefully, as if he hadnt dared to hope for that answer.
"Really?"
"Really. "
Slowly Rass pushed to a stand. "Well, I guess Id best be getting back to bed.
Growing boys and crotchety old men need their sleep. Ill bring breakfast to you about seven oclock. "
"Thanks, Rass. "
"Youre welcome. " Turning, Rass walked out of the barn and shut the door behind him.
The darkness of the night curled around him, comforting in its familiarity as Rass walked back to the farmhouse. Later, alone in the huge feather bed made for two, he stared up at the darkened ceiling.
You sent him to me, didnt you?
For a tantalizing moment, he thought Greta was going to answer. He waited, acutely sensitive, for the scent of lavender and the touch of the wind.
But tonight there was no answer, save the one in his heart. Still, he smiled. For the first time in months, he looked forward to the morning.
Mad Dog made a bed for the first time in years. He spread the crisp, clean linen across the bumpy mattress and smoothed it out carefully. His hand strayed along the fabric, feeling its unfamiliar texture.
Eagerly he stripped out of his clean clothes and slipped into the bed, drawing the blankets high on his chest. The cool sheets and heavy blankets wrapped around him, cocooned him in a kind of comfort he hadnt known in years.
God, it felt good.
He let out his breath in a sigh and stared up at the ceiling, trying to see into the darkness that huddled above the rafters. But it was impossible. The blackness was impenetrable; he might as well have been staring into space, trying to pierce the distance between the earth and moon.
For no apparent reason, he found himself thinking about Mariah Throckmorton again. Shed be in her bed now, the blankets pulled up to her chin, her hair fanned out across the sheets like strands of mahogany fire.
No, he decided. Braided. Shed have that soft, beautiful hair coiled and twisted and controlled. Always controlled.
He smiled just thinking about her. There was something special about her. She intrigued him. No, more than that. She . . . drew him. He wondered what she thought about, what she dreamed about. Wondered if she was anything like him at all. If she ached for something more in her life than she had on this dusty little farm, that elusive, formless something.
Hed chased that need for years, trying to track it down, turn it into something tangible and real, but it was still nothing more than a hazy dream, a longing. He was no closer to it now than he had been fifteen years And yet still he searched for it, and for some strange, inexplicable reason, he thought maybe Mariah would understand his restless longings.
Strange . . .
He closed his eyes and stretched out. The cool linen chafed his bare skin, caressed it. The sensation was foreign and vaguely erotic. Heat curled in the pit of his stomach and radiated into his groin. He turned restlessly, trying to sleep.
But it was too late. He was thinking about Mariah again.
The next morning, Mariah scraped leftover sausage, sauerbraten, and potatoes from the cutting board into the hot frying pan. Adding spices and onions, she smashed the mixture into a hash. The thick, pungent aroma of frying onions blasted up at her, bringing tears to her eyes.
Absently she wiped away the stinging tears and stirred the hot mummix. The roiling, formless mixture bubbled and popped. Behind it, a tin of freshly baked cornmeal hoecakes sat warming on the stove top.
