If You Believe
Page 33

Rass was lying in the buggy's backseat, his lifeless, blue-veined hands folded against his chest.
"Oh, God . .." Mariah made a choked, garbled sound of horror and skidded to a stop. The blankets fell from her numb hands and whooshed to the ground in a heap of white.
"Christ, Mariah." Mad Dog swiped up the blankets and threw them at Jake, who tucked the thick wool around Rass.
Then Mad Dog climbed up onto the buggy seat and yanked back on the reins.
"Open the gate, Mariah."
The gate.
Mariah felt the words like a punch to the throat. She started shaking; her breathing shattered into short, choppy bursts that burned up her throat.
"Open the goddamn gate!"
You can open the gate, Mariah. You can.
Haltingly she moved toward the gate. The long silver latch glinted in the moonlight.
She stared at it, unable to m°ve. Her heart thundered in her ears, a headache pulsed behind her eyes. For a terrifying, debilitating moment, she thought she was going to throw up.
Come on, Mariah .. .
She reached out; her fingers trembled so hard, it took her a moment to grab hold.
At the feel of it, so icy cold and unfamiliar, pure, primal terror washed through her.
She wrenched her hand back.
She couldn't touch it, couldn't open it. Not even for Rass. Oh God, oh Jesus . ..
Behind her, something cracked hard. Hooves pounded toward her. The ground rattled beneath her feet.
"Whoa!"
Cleo skidded to a dusty stop, the buggy creaked. Mad Dog jumped down from the seat and shoved the gate aside, then he climbed back up into the carriage. "Get in!"
he yelled.
Dully Mariah looked up at him. For a heartbeat, she didn't know what he was talking about.
"Get in, for Christ's sake."
She shook her head, trying to speak, but nothing made it past her lips except a tiny, mewling sound of terror. Despair pushed in at her from all sides, strangled her. It had been a lie, all these years. She thought she didn't want to leave; she'd never known she couldn't, never known she was so sick and twisted and useless. .. .
Mad Dog frowned. "Mariah? What is it?"
She felt as if she were being ripped slowly, painfully in half. She tried desperately to breathe, but she couldn't. "I ... can't . . . leave."
"What do you mean?"
A scream welled up inside her. She shook her head, trying to hold it back. "I c-can't leave the farm."
Mad Dog ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Mariah. Get in the goddamn buggy."
This time she couldn't stop the scream. It ripped past her mouth and blasted through the night, a sound of elemental, animal grief. "I can't" she screamed, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"Mariah—"
"Just go, goddamn it." She lifted her face to Mad Dog's, saw him through a blur of hot tears. "T-Take care of him, please.. .." Her voice shattered into a pathetic whimper. "Please, he's all I have...."
"I know where the doctor lives," Jake said from the backseat.
Mad Dog looked at her one last time, then snapped hard on the reins. Cleo bolted forward. The metal buggy wheels skidded through the loose gravel in a bone-crunching whine and turned onto the dirt road, hurtling toward town.
Chapter Twenty
Darkness closed in on Marian, pressed against her lungs until every breath was a wheezing, hurting gasp. Pain pulsed through her body, wringing her heart, twisting her soul into reed-thin rope that snapped beneath the pressure.
Rass was dying. Rass, who'd held her hand when she was a little girl and dried so many of her tears. Rass, who loved to explore roads and found joy in a bit of white quartz. Her daddy.
"Oh, God ..." With a strangled sob, she sank to her knees. Out on the road, the buggy sped into the thickening bank of shadows. Wheels crunched through the loose stones, Cleo's pounding hooves hammered in a thundering beat.
Then it was gone. The buggy disappeared into the night, and even the sounds faded away. She was left in an aching, sightless void, utterly alone.
She should be with him. Jesus, she should be with him—
She screamed until her throat was dry and parched, until the wailing keen melted into a scratchy, pathetic whimper. The spiked slats of the picket fence seemed to pulse ominously, mocking her with silent laughter.
Self-loathing surged through her in a crippling wave. She clamped a hand to her mouth and staggered upright. Her feet caught in her skirts and she tripped, falling hard against the fence. It creaked and sagged beneath her weight. The spiked tip of a slat bit into her hand, slashed into her palm.
Shame and guilt moved through her. She sank to her knees on the hard ground and bowed her head, dragged down by the overwhelming burden of her own useless-ness.
/ let you down, Rass. Oh, Jesus, I let you down.
A strangled, burning sob wedged in her throat.
Please, God, let him live. Please . ..
She thought of this afternoon, when she'd blithely assumed she and Rass had years worth of time to talk. She hadn't said what she wanted to say to him, the words he needed to hear. She'd been afraid, and now he was near death—maybe dead—and she'd never said the words to him, never told him how much she loved him. . God, how much she loved him . . .
Grief exploded through her then, left her shaking and sick and desperately, desperately afraid.
She didn't know what to do, how to vent her emotions. They overwhelmed her, clawed at her coherency with talon tips. Hysteria built inside her heart, expanding with every heartbeat, surging with every breath.
She screamed again, but the sound came out strangled and gasping.
Oh God, oh God, oh God ...
She squeezed her eyes shut and pitched face-first onto the cold, unforgiving ground. Slowly she curled into a fetal position and lay there, panting, trying desperately to cry.
Waiting for her father to come home.
The buggy skidded to a stop in front of Doc Sherman's house. Jake lurched out of the backseat and raced up the path, hammering on the door with his fist.
No one answered.
Fear spilled through him, chilled him to the bone. He pounded harder. "Doc ... Doc, are you home?"
Finally the door swung open. A stoop-shouldered, bespectacled old man with gray-white hair stood in the opening. He squinted down at Jake. "Yes? Who are you?"
Jake flung his finger back toward the buggy, where Mad Dog stood with a limp, lifeless Rass in his arms. "We got Rass Throckmorton. He . . ." His voice cracked.
Hot, embarrassing tears welled in his eyes.
Doctor Sherman straightened. "Get him the hell in here!"
Mad Dog hurried up the path and followed Doctor Sherman to a bedroom in the back of the house.
'Tut him down," Doc said, reaching for his black leather bag.
Mad Dog laid Rass tenderly on the bed, then leaned over him, peering into the old man's waxen face. "Rass," he whispered. "Don't give up. Don't . . ."
"Scoot," Doc said, looping a stethoscope around his neck. "There's coffee on the stove. Have some." He looked at Jake through kind, concerned eyes. "It's gonna be a long night."
Jake shambled into the sitting room. He tried not to think of the other times he'd been through this exact night, but the memories were insistent, worming their way through his thoughts with insidious strength. He'd lost other loved ones in his life; his grandfather, his mother. Once they got like this, they never lived through the night.
Never . ..
Tears scalded his eyes, dripped down his cheeks. He sank unsteadily onto the hard leather of a settee and buried his face in his hands. Memories and images winged through his mind, each one bringing a fresh lump of tears.
I thought you might be hungry.. . .
If the mountain won't come to Mohammed, then Mohammed best head for the mountain. .. .
You were meant to live on an apple farm. And Marian's quiet invitation. This apple farm.
They'd made him so welcome, given him so much. With them, he almost felt like he had a family again, something he thought he'd buried with his mother. Rass was the grandfather Jake had never really had; the loving, gentle relative that Jacob Vanderstay had never been. A man who never got angry or demanded anything. A grandfather who laughed and loved and gave.
"Please, God," he said, tasting the salty moisture of his own tears. "Please don't take him yet___" But his words were hollow and lifeless, without the spine of hope.
He'd said them too many times in his life, and he knew the truth. God almost never answered at a time like this.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Tears burned down his cheeks and burrowed into the corners of his mouth, tasting warm and wet and hopeless. He'd never felt more alone in his whole life. And his father was right beside him.
"Can I get you a cup of coffee, kid?"
Jake snapped his head up, feeling a surge of anger at this man who was his father but wasn't. "Don't call me kid. My name is Jake."
Mad Dog dropped slowly to a squat in front of Jake. "My old man called me kid. I guess it's just a bad habit. I'm sorry."
Jake's irrational anger died as quickly as it had come. Without it, he felt cold and alone again. He slumped forward. His elbows hit his knees and he cradled his face in sweaty palms.
Mad Dog's touch was so gentle, so tentative, that at first Jake thought he'd imagined it, willed it somehow. But he hadn't. Mad Dog had reached out and touched Jake's shoulder, squeezing it gently.
"He's gonna be all right, Jake. He's a strong man."
Jake's head came up slowly. Tears burned in his eyes, turning his father into a blur of blond hair and tanned skin. And for an instant, just an instant, Jake didn't know if he was crying for Rass or for himself.
His father had touched him, comforted him. He bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling. It was nothing, really, just a meaningless little squeeze on the shoulder, but to Jake it meant the world. It meant his father cared—at least a little.
He swallowed hard.
Mad Dog withdrew his hand slowly. The moment started to slip away.
Jake surged forward, unwilling to let the connection fade. Suddenly now, on this tired old settee, with death so close, he could taste its familiar sourness, he felt a stirring of courage. He wanted to get to know his father. He spoke before he lost his nerve. "What was your dad like?"
Surprise widened Mad Dog's eyes. "I dunno." Jake refused to let it go. "Are you like him?" Something dark moved through Mad Dog's eyes. He pushed to his feet and walked away from Jake, staring down at his own bare feet on the plush Oriental carpet. "Yeah," he said after a while, "I guess I am." "You're lucky," Jake said quietly. Mad Dog turned to him. "Why's that?" Jake tried to keep his voice steady, but it was hard. "At least you knew your dad. My father ran out on my mama before I was born."
A sad, understanding shadow of a smile shaped Mad Dog's mouth. "My dad ran out on us, too." Slowly he walked over to the settee and sat down beside Jake, stretching out his long legs.
. "Would you run out on your own kid?" Jake's breath caught at the simple question. He couldn't believe he'd asked it, but once he had, he felt anticipation course through him. Maybe Mad Dog would say just the right thing •.. maybe he'd say he'd always wanted a child ... a son ... and he'd never leave one behind. Mad Dog leaned back. The settee creaked in protest.