The last kernel of hope shattered, lay broken at his feet. Jake nodded, feeling hopelessly alone and lonely. He sagged forward, too depressed to even cry. His father was leaving him. After all the years, all the dreams, it was going to end like this. On a little farm in the middle of nowhere, with a quiet pair of good-byes. And there was nothing he could say to change it.

They stood there for a long time, staring at each other, saying nothing. Then, miraculously, Mad Dog opened his arms.

Jake hurled himself into his father's embrace and hugged him tightly, wishing he didn't ever have to let go. He wanted his dad to stay, wanted it so badly, he felt sick to his stomach.

Mad Dog pulled back and stared down at Jake through eyes that were glassy and overbright. "I'll miss you, kid. But I'll be thinkin' of you. And maybe someday I'll be back."

Jake sniffled and wiped his tears on his sleeve. "Don't say that unless you mean it."

Mad Dog winced. "Good-bye, Jake."

It took everything inside Jake to say the next word. "Good-bye."

Chapter Twenty-five

Mariah felt numb. She walked around her room, seeing nothing, feeling less.

She glanced dully out the window, and saw Mad Dog talking to Jake. Her heart twisted painfully at the sight of him, standing on her land, looking for all the world like he belonged there.

Like he belonged there.

A small, helpless sob escaped her. God, she'd gotten so used to seeing him every morning, eating with him, laughing and smiling with him. In the past weeks he'd become twined around her soul, and it felt now as if vital strands were being yanked from her body, leaving her hollow and empty inside. How could she go back to her old life? Without him, the farm would be so damned, depressingly quiet. . . .

He gave Jake a smile that looked almost sad, and then, slowly, his shoulders sagging, he backed up and went into the bunkhouse, closing the door behind him.

Jake stared after Mad Dog for a long time. A deep breath pulled the starch from his spine and left him, too, looking broken. He plunged his hands in his pockets and gave the closed door a longing glance before he turned and walked to the barn.

She stared at the bunkhouse, wondering what Matt was doing in there, what he was thinking. If she closed her eyes, she could see him still. Leaning against the wall, smiling, so handsome he took her breath away.

Tears burned her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. With a sigh, she leaned forward, rested her forehead on the cool windowpane. Her breath clouded the glass.

For a moment the world was hazy and dreamlike. And she was a little girl again, pretending her Prince Charming was down there, waiting for her.. . .

Maybe he's waiting for you.

She knew immediately that it was a mistake to think that. But once planted, the seed of hope found fertile soil. Maybe he was down there, waiting for her to stop him. . ..

Maybe . . .

She didn't give herself time to think about it. She raced to the armoire and yanked out a baggy brown dress. Throwing it on, she hurried down the steps and ran to the bunkhouse, skidding to a breathless stop at the closed door.

She wiped her sweaty palms on the rough linsey-woolsey of her dress and stared at it.

/ don't know what I was thinkin', Mariah. I can't leave you. . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting desperately to believe her own fantasy. She took a deep, shaking breath. "Please, God, make him stay. Please .. ."

Then she knocked.

There was no answer.

Steeling herself, she opened the door. What she saw hit her like a slap to the face.

She gasped quietly and stumbled backward, clutching the doorframe for support.

Her stupid, little-girl fantasy crashed down around her.

Mad Dog was kneeling in the corner, stuffing the last of his things in the white duck bag. He yanked the bag closed and stood up, slowly turning around.

She tried to smile. "Surprise." The word sounded small and pathetic and painful.

Exactly like she felt.

He sighed. The half-filled bag slid from his hand and hit the floor with a thud.

"Mariah . .."

She clasped her shaking hands together, trying not to be hurt by the gentle, loving way he said her name. "Were you going to say good-bye?"

He looked up at her then, and in his eyes she saw her own pain, mirrored and magnified. It tore at her heart with tiny, shredding claws. She started to shake. "I don't know."

She felt a blinding wave of regret. Her hands balled at her sides. "I shouldn't have asked you to stay."

He winced. "I'm glad you did. And I wish ..." He J looked away. "Jesus, I wish I could say yes." "But you can't."

"No, I can't." He picked up the bag and slung it ov< his shoulder, walking slowly toward her.

She stared at him, trying to memorize everythin about him. The crooked tilt of a smile that wasn't thei the shining laughter in eyes that now looked glazi with pain. She wanted to touch him, hold him, cling his knees if she had to. Anything to make him stay. Bi she couldn't move, couldn't speak.

"I'm not the man for you, Mariah." The hushed whisper of his voice slid along her throat like a caress. "You deserve someone who'll promise to love you forever, and will keep that promise. A man who'll work these fields from sunup to sundown and never complain. A man . .. who doesn't mind the picket fence."

She gazed up at him, knowing her eyes glittered with all the aching, desperate love in her heart, and unable to change it. "Maybe . . . with you . . ."

He shook his head, and the gentleness of the action made her feel almost sick.

"Only you can make yourself leave this farm, and you're not ready, are you?"

She looked away.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Mariah." He moved closer, brushed a lock of hair from her tear-dampened cheek. She couldn't help herself, she leaned into his touch, seeking the warmth of it. "It's part of what makes you so special. You never let go, never forget, never say good-bye. But ... I don't want that from a woman. I want good-byes."

She let out her breath and pulled away from him. Her whole body sagged at the finality of his words. "I know that, Matt. I guess I've always known it."

"I never lied to you."

She squeezed her eyes shut. Even now, when he was breaking her heart, she couldn't help loving him, wanting him.

"That doesn't help much," she answered.

"I left you my articles. They're all I have."

She swallowed hard, fighting a surge of bitterness. 'That should keep me warm at night."

He touched her chin and forced her to look up at him. Reluctantly she opened her eyes.

He gazed down at her, his eyes solemn. "Would it help if I told you I loved you?"

Mariah's whole world seemed to tilt. For the first time she felt a stab of pure, white-hot anger at his leaving. Without even thinking, she brought her hand up to slap his face. At the last second, she stopped herself and forced her hand back to her side. Her eyes locked with his. "No, Matt." She pushed the words up her throat.

"That wouldn't help at all."

They were the last words she said to him before he turned and walked out of her life.

Mad Dog leaned back against the vibrating wall of the boxcar and drew his sore legs to his chest. Beside him lay a new notebook, its pages fluttering in the fast-moving air. The pages were white and empty; their blankness mocked him. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn't seem to write. Nothing interested him or fired his passion or made him care. He felt strangely dead inside.

A sigh escaped his cracked, bleeding lips. He banged his head back against the slatted wall.

He curled his arms around his bent knees and hugged himself against the bitter cold.

But it was a wasted effort. The weather bit through his tattered coat and gnawed on his flesh.

Winter had come with a vengeance this year, blanketing the world in a cape of icy white, turning the empty boxcars into chilly coffins. He sighed long and slow. His breath hung in the air for a second, then dissipated.

He felt like hell. He was cold, hungry, and tired. He hadn't had a decent meal in the week since he left Lonesome Creek. There was no work to be found in frozen America in this year of panic. And damn little charity.

Years ago, when he'd first started riding the rails, it had seemed romantic; stowing away in empty boxcars, outsmarting the railroad workers, making camp wherever he wanted, fighting the local strongmen at every county fair between San Francisco and New York. Then, he'd felt free.

Now he felt . . . different. Where before the rails seemed to go everywhere, they now seemed to go nowhere at all. His life was without romance or excitement or purpose. Just a series of endless, hopeless hours spent in freezing boxcars, riding from one unwelcoming little town to the next.

He wiped his eyes with hands that were black with dirt and scooted back into the car. Curling into a warmth-conserving ball, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

Tried and failed.

Cursing softly, he rubbed his aching eyes and let his head bang back against the wall again.

For the first time in his life, he knew what it meant to miss someone, miss her so badly, you ached. He'd grieved for his mother, but that was different. Death was a loss that, with time, slid into memory.

Not so with Mariah. Every day he missed her more.

She was out there, a warm, living, breathing presence. When he closed his eyes, he saw her smile; when the coldness of winter touched his flesh, he remembered her warmth; when the silence enfolded him, endless and unbroken, he heard her laughter.

She was probably at the stove right now, cooking supper, the mouth-watering aroma of stewing meat seeping from the oven, filling the kitchen. Jake would be behind her, setting the table.

Christ, he could almost hear the quiet clinking of silverware and the muted music of their voices.

The house .. . Mariah . . . Jake ... they were all back there, warm and cozy and welcoming....

But that wasn't what he wanted, he reminded himself for the thousandth time since leaving. He wasn't a man who cared for "cozy" or wanted safety. He loved this life, out here all alone, going wherever he wanted, doing whatever he felt like. He'd always loved it. He needed his freedom like other men needed air.

It was just taking longer to get over them than he'd thought. But he would get over them. Pretty soon—any day now—these little quirks of longing would start to fade, and he'd be back to his old self. Any day now.

He picked up his pen and notebook again and stared down at the cold, white page.

Without thinking, he started to write something. When he looked down at what he'd written, he felt a chill that went clear through to his spine. There was only one word on the paper. Mariah, He threw the pen across the car, heard it hit the wall with a tinny crack and tumble to the floor.

It was only a matter of time before this idiocy would end and he'd forget Mariah.

Soon he'd be back to his old self, writing articles, drinking tequila, screwing whores, and laughing. Any day now.

It was three full weeks before Jake found the courage to tell Mariah the truth.

They were sitting on the porch swing, as they did every night after supper. Twilight lay in a heavy purple blanket across the farm. Stars glittered in the darkness, cast a million shimmering reflections on the new layer of snow.

He cast a sureptitious sideways glance at her.

She was sitting hunched over, her hands curled in her lap. Pale-faced, sad-eyed, she stared out across the land. He knew that she was searching the fields, waiting for Mad Dog to return.