“I’ve thought about that, believe it or not. When I was younger, I wanted kids. I thought I could be a good father." He laughed easily, shook his head. "Then I grew up."

"What do you mean?"

"A good dad stays put, Jake, it's as simple as that. I leave."

"How do you know?"

The question seemed to surprise Mad Dog. A slight frown pulled at his forehead.

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever tried to stay anywhere?"

Mad Dog turned away from Jake and stared at the flocked, red-papered wall in front of them. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

"Are you gonna answer me?"

Mad Dog smiled, but it was forced. "It's a stupid question. I said I can't stay, so I can't. But at least I'm honest—my old man lied to us. He acted like he was gonna stay, then he left. I never lie."

Jake's heart twisted hard. "No, I guess you didn't."

"When I realized what kind of drifter I was, how irresponsible and all, I made myself quit wantin' a kid."

"So now you don't want one?" Jake's voice was so quiet, he barely heard it himself.

"Naw, I like my life the way it is. I go where I want, do what I want. I'm free. You'll know what I mean someday."

Jake shook his head. "I've been on the road awhile. I want a place to stay." He looked at his dad, stared into his gray eyes and tried to make him understand. "It's ..

. lonely out there for me."

Before Mad Dog could respond, a door creaked open. Doc Sherman came shuffling out of the bedroom and walked into the sitting room, sinking into the big, overstuffed chair across from them.

Jake froze, his eyes riveted on the doctor. Please, God, let him be okay ... please... .

Easing the spectacles from his face, the doctor set them on his thigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Mad Dog leaned forward. "How is he, Doc?"

Sherman sighed again, a deep, depressed sound. "Not good. It's apoplexy. His left side is partially paralyzed, and he's in a deep sleep. A coma, it's called."

Jake felt as if he were falling. A tiny whimper escaped his pursed lips. Mad Dog squeezed his shoulder again. The reassuring touch comforted Jake, gave him an anchor in the shifting world of his grief.

"Is there anything you can do for him?"

The doctor shook his head. "Rass and I talked about this a few days ago. He's been having the symptoms for a while now. He knew this was coming. He ... he wanted to die at home."

The word die hit Jake hard in the stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head in denial.

"How long does he have?" Mad Dog asked.

"Who knows? Maybe a week; maybe a day."

"Sometimes miracles happen," Jake said quietly, staring at the doctor for confirmation. There was none.

Mad Dog gave Jake a slow, sad smile, and Jake knew that his father didn't believe in miracles any more than he did. "You just keep hoping that, Jake. Rass needs someone to believe in a miracle." Then he turned back to the doctor. "What should we do for him?"

Doc pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. "I've made you a list." He handed it to Mad Dog, who skimmed its contents before he looked back UP at the doctor.

"Anything else?"

"I don't think Mariah knew he was sick. Rass was so protective of her." The doctor rubbed the bridge of his nose again and closed his eyes for a moment. "It's going to hit her hard. She has no one else in the world." Jake looked up suddenly, feeling a tiny seed of hope in the darkness. She has me. He wanted to say the words out loud, tried to, but his throat was so thick, he could only make a useless, scratching sound.

"No one ever expects something like this," Doc went on, "and Mariah's . . . fragile. I wish there was someone to take care of her. Rass would've wanted that."

Jake opened his mouth to say / will, but the words were never heard. Someone else had spoken first. "I'll take care of her," Mad Dog said. Jake looked at his father, stunned. Mad Dog was sitting hunched over, with his elbows on his bent knees, staring at the doctor. His eyes were filled with a quiet determination that surprised Jake. Mad Dog was serious. He would take care of Mariah. Jake shook his head. If he hadn't been so devastated about Rass, he might have managed a smile. It must mean something, this unexpected commitment to Mariah. Something big.

But Jake didn't know what it was.

Mariah heard the buggy driving up the yard. She flew out of her bed and ran, hair flying, down the stairs and through the kitchen, bursting onto the dark porch.

Mad Dog reined Cleo in, bringing the buggy to a creaking halt.

She didn't look at him. Instead she stood there, stiff as a rail, her hands twisted together at her midsection. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"No ... he's not dead."

Mariah lifted moist, hopeful eyes to Mad Dog's face. Her fingers uncoiled, fell back to her sides. "He's okay?"

Mad Dog's face crumpled, and Mariah's budding hope crashed all around her. And somehow the pain of losing that second of hope was more devastating than the hours she'd spent believing he was dead. "What is it?" she asked dully.

Mad Dog gave her a look of intimate sadness. Quietly he said, "Is his bed ready?"

She nodded. Fear and desperation closed in on her, in her chest, her heart, her throat. Her insides twisted and writhed, her pulse pounded in her ears. She was close to shattering, close to losing what precious little control she had. She drew in a sharp, shaking breath and tried to hold on.

Mad Dog jumped down from the buggy and scooped Rass into his arms. Her father's head lolled back, his arm slipped lifelessly downward.

Mariah gasped at the sight of him, so pale and wan. Her father, who'd always been there for her, always been healthy and robust, looked small and old . . . and dying.

Jake jumped down from the buggy and walked toward her. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and his skin was the color of candle wax. His mouth was drawn into a tight, trembling line.

She felt his sadness, knew he was as miserable as she was, and doing his adolescent best to hold back tears. Deep inside her, something stirred, some remnant of the woman she'd been a few hours ago, and she wanted to reach out to him. But she didn't, she couldn't. There was nothing inside her, nothing to offer to a young boy who needed comfort.

Sickened and saddened by her own weakness, she looked away from Jake's teary eyes.

Mad Dog cradled Rass in gentle arms and walked up the porch stairs. He stopped beside her, looked down at her through eyes filled with tender understanding. "Let's take him to bed."

She tried to nod, but even that simple action was beyond her.

"Jake," Mad Dog went on, "you go get a pitcher of warm water, a washrag, and a spoon. Doc says we're supposed to keep him drinking if we can."

Mariah knew she should feel grateful to Mad Dog for taking over, but she was so sick and numb, she didn't feel anything.

"Show me the way," he said gently.

She turned away from him and stumbled up the stairs, clutching the wobbly handrail for support. He followed slowly, his every footstep heavy and thudding on the creaking steps.

She stared through wide, gritty eyes at the darkened hallway and forced herself to keep walking. But every step caused a twisting spasm in her stomach. Her fingers trembled, her throat went dry.

The closed door loomed in front of her. This was her father's bedroom, and once, long ago, her mother's. It was their place, their sanctuary. She didn't want to go in there, didn't want to place her dying father in his bed and try to pretend she could survive.

Shaking, she reached for the knob and opened the door. Pale moonlight slithered through the lacy white curtains and puddled on the fringed, dark blue carpet. A shadowy, four-postered bed huddled against one wall, its center a mass of white sheets and black blankets.

She moved woodenly into the room, her hands twisted nervously together. The quiet, shadowy room smelled of lingering lamplight, freshly washed sheets, and ...

lavender.

The unexpected scent almost brought Mariah to her knees. It was impossible, she told herself. It was only her imagination that added a hint of lavender to the air.

She lit two lamps and went to the bed, yanking back the blankets. The harsh scent of burning oil filled the shadowy room, obliterating the impossible fragrance of lavender.

Mad Dog followed her into the room and laid Rass down on the bed. He bent over, carefully tucking the blanket around Rass, drawing it up to his chest.

Mariah got her first real look at her father. Golden lamplight wreathed him in an amber, almost ethereal light, but even that couldn't add color to the bluish hollows of his cheeks. Shadows clung beneath his closed eyes, giving them a deathly, sunken look. His lips were gray, almost invisible against the lifeless pallor of his slack skin.

Grief hit her so hard, she felt dizzy. She clutched the bedpost, clinging to it for support.

Mad Dog appeared beside her, curled an arm around her shoulders, and drew her close. The steadying warmth of his touch penetrated the soul-deep chill in-her bones.

With an exhausted sigh, she let herself lean against him. He reached for the settee beneath the window and dragged it to the bedside. Together, they sat down.

"Mariah?"

She winced, knowing what was coming next and not wanting to hear it. She licked her paper-dry lips and stared at the wooden floorboards. "Yes?"

Mad Dog let out a quiet sigh. "He's in a coma."

She nodded, feeling strangely as if she'd left the room. There was someone else inside her now, a remote inner core that made her body move, made her lips speak, made her head nod. But there was no feeling in her, no emotion, nothing except an icy coldness. She knew what he was going to say next. She'd heard it before.

"Uh-huh."

He swallowed so loudly, she heard it. "Doc Sherman says he's ... not going to get better."

"Doc's wrong." She tried to make the words sound strong, but they eked past her lips as a frail whisper.

"Maybe," he said quietly.

Tears scalded her eyes. "There ... there could be a miracle," she said throatily.

"Do you believe in miracles?"

The question almost killed her. She sagged, feeling suddenly agonizingly brittle and unprotected. "No."

"Doc says he doesn't have much time."

She bit down on her lip, trying to hold on. "How long?"

"Maybe a week ... maybe tonight." He placed his hand on hers, squeezed. "You need to say good-bye."

She turned to him suddenly, looked at him for the first time since they'd come into the room. He didn't understand. No one did. Loneliness and sorrow smothered her, pressed cold hands against her chest. "You think that will help?" she said, unable to keep bitterness from her voice. "Saying good-bye?"

"It's all you have."

She gasped at his words. "Oh, God," she whispered, feeling beaten and afraid. "I ...

I can't say good-bye to Rass, too." Tears clogged in her throat, burned in her eyes.

A pounding headache filled her head. "I can't."

He stroked her hair gently. "I wish I knew what to say to you, Mariah."

The words touched nothing in her, left her feeling as cold and dull and dead as before. "There's nothing anyone can say."