If You Believe

328 Pages·1993·0.85 MB·English

by  Kristin Hannah

If You Believe
Kristin Hannah
HE NEVER INTENDED TO STAY.
SHE COULDN'T BEAR TO LET HIM GO.
Mad Dog Stone was a carefree drifter, a man who loved life on the open road
and never looked back. Mariah Throckmorton was lonely and frightened, hiding
from a past filled with heartbreak and scandal. A man in need of love, a woman
in need of laughter-He wandered onto her quiet apple farm in search of a few
days' work, threatening her peace of mind and stirring the hot, passionate
emotions she tried so hard to hide. Theirs was a love born against all odds,
impossible to count on, _
impossible to hold. •
Together they would face the heartache of loss, the price of passion, the
aftermath of betrayal. For only then would they learn the bittersweet truth-that
love exists only if you believe.....
ISBN 0-44^-14637Also by Kristin Hannah Published by Fawcett Books: ONCE
IN EVERY LIFE
THE ENCHANTMENT
A HANDFUL OF HEAVEN
IF YOU BELIEVE
Kristin Hannah FAWCETT GOLD MEDAL • NEW YORK
To Elisa Wares, Rob Cohen, and Megan Chance, who always believe in me.
Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is
coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed"
and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
A Fawcett Gold Medal Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1993
by Kristin Hannah All rights reserved under International and Pan American
by Kristin Hannah All rights reserved under International and Pan American
Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine
Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in
Canada by Random House of Canada Lim-ited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-90539 ISBN 0-449-14837
Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition: January Special
thanks ...
Lori Adams, for a truly great idea. Maybe next time ... Vicki McClellan and the
fabulous Seven Hills Winery. Jill Marie Landis, and Jill Barnett for knowing just
what to say. Always.
Prologue
JULY 1894 SOMEWHERE IN TEXAS
Mad Dog took the first punch. A hard-knuckled right to the chin that sent him
stumbling back against the ropes. The sharp, metallic taste of blood filled his
mouth.
A roar of approval swept through the crowd.
He shook his head and blinked. His vision cleared. The crowd stared back at
him.
Hundreds of upturned faces, circlets of pale pink against a sea of drab, dark
clothing.
They whispered in anticipation. He closed his eyes, listening, knowing what
would follow. Waiting for it, needing it.
It started slowly, tentatively, a single voice, a single pair of clapping hands. One
person joined in, then another and another, until the hot, dry Texas air became a
living, breathing monster of enthusiastic sound. A pulsing chant of voices raised
in unison. "Mad Dog, Mad Dog, Mad Dog ..."
Adrenaline coursed through his body, made his breathing quicken. God, he loved
this.
He pushed himself away from the ropes and sauntered toward the center of the
makeshift ring. An expectant hush fell over the fairgrounds.
He backhanded the trickle of blood from his mouth and gave his opponent a
slow, lazy grin. The same devil-may-care, you-haven't-hurt-me smile he'd given
a thousand times before. "That the best you got, Sue?"
The huge, hairy man glared at him. His ham-sized hands balled into dangerous
fists.
"Name's Stew, you two-bit piece o' shit."
"Stew? As in Stewart?" Mad Dog glanced at the spectators. As if on cue, they
leaned slightly toward him, waiting . . . waiting.

"Well, hell," he drawled, "with that punch, I figured your name was Susan for
sure."
The crowd burst into laughter.
"You arrogant bastard—" Stew lunged forward.
Mad Dog skipped to the left, ducked, and spun back.
Stew stumbled to a stop and looked around, confusion wrinkling his heavy face.
"Oh, Stew ..." Mad Dog taunted.
Stew turned toward the sound.
Mad Dog punched him. Hard.
Stew staggered back against the ropes, clutching them for support.
Mad Dog glanced down at his fist and shook his head. "Damn, that hurts, don't
it, Sue?" (
A ripple of laughter, punctuated by applause, worked through the crowd.
"Why, you . . ." Stew launched himself off the ropes and barreled toward Mad
Dog.
Mad Dog braced himself, his lazy grin faded. He waited a tense second, then
slammed his fist into Stew's jaw. Bone hit bone in a grinding, crunching smack.
Stew exhaled in a booze-scented grunt of pain. A look of almost comical
disbelief crossed his fleshy features before he pitched, face-first, into the dirt.
The mob roared with approval.
Mad Dog looked up from Stew's prone body and grinned at the swarm of sweaty
humanity gathered around the ropes. He raised his right hand and made a fist in
humanity gathered around the ropes. He raised his right hand and made a fist in
the air. Then he grabbed a towel and wiped his face.
He felt an arm curl around him, yanking him close. "You done good, kid. Like
always," said a gravelly, tobacco-fed voice.
Mad Dog slowly lowered the towel from his face. Sneaky Joe, the fight's
promoter, grinned up at him through watery gray eyes.
"Thanks, Joe." Mad Dog tossed his towel into the corner and patted Joe's
humped back. "Where's my cut?"
"Right here." Joe dug deep in his ratty pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. "One
hundred and fifty-two dollars. Should last you till next season. If you're careful."
Mad Dog pocketed the money without bothering to count it. "When have you
ever known me to be careful?"
Joe laughed. "Never."
Mad Dog went to the corner of the ring and picked up his Stetson, clothes bag,
boots, and a bottle of tequila. Everything he owned in the world.
Tearing off the cork, he took a long, satisfying gulp of tequila and wiped the
dribble from his unshaven chin and drooping mustache.
Joe scurried up behind him, moving as quickly as his misshapen body would
allow.
"See you at Rochester in May?"
Mad Dog took another long, slow swallow and smiled. Rochester was the first
fight of the season—and his favorite. There was a particularly pretty widow in
town. He'd been in Rochester every May for sixteen years. It was as close to a
commitment as he'd ever made. "What'd stop me?"
Joe glanced back at the still unconscious, spread-eagle body of Stewart Redman.
"Not him for damn sure."
Mad Dog slowed. "That reminds me, Joe. About the talent you been finding to
fight me . . ."
fight me . . ."
Joe winced. "Yeah?"
"They're perfect. Keep it up."
Joe grinned. "I'll check the veteran's home in Rochester."
"You do that." Mad Dog's gaze strayed to the thinning crowd. Paper and debris
littered the brown, scorched grass. The yellow-hot sun streamed through the
fairgrounds, silhouetting the retreating crowd. Multicolored tents dotted the
field.
From somewhere came the musical sound of laughter.
It took him only a second to find her. She stood apart from the rest of the
spectators, facing the ring instead of turned away from it. Long, curly blond hair
framed her pale face and veiled her arms, its outline gilded by the sunshine. A
scandalously low neckline showcased her considerable charms—charms Mad
Dog remembered from his last time through town.

A smile curved his mouth. He loved to have a pretty woman waiting for him
after a fight—even if he couldn't remember her name. He waved at her. She
waved back, and started walking toward him, her movements slow and
seductive.
Mad Dog slung the clothes bag over his shoulder and put on his hat and boots.
"Gotta run, Joe. See ya next year."
Joe chuckled. "You're gonna spend all that money tonight, ain't ya?"
Mad Dog vaulted over the ropes and dropped onto the crisp grass. The woman
ran over and threw her arms around him, hugging him with abandon.
He closed his eyes. God, she smelled good. Like hot, sexy nights in a featherbed.
Like passion.
He loved women, all women, but especially the easy, alley-cat types who
He loved women, all women, but especially the easy, alley-cat types who
showed up for his fights. They cost him, but it was worth it. They laughed with
him, kissed him, and undressed for him with ease—his money ensured it. And
when he left, they waved good-bye with a smile. Just the way he liked it.
He grinned down into her beguiling, promise-laden blue eyes. Suddenly,
fleetingly, he wished he remembered her name—it was Susannah or Sunshine . .
. something that started with an S, but he couldn't for the life of him recall what.
Not that it mattered, of course. She didn't expect him to remember it. That was
the beauty of women like her. They didn't expect anything except gold coins and
heavy breathing.
"Mad Dog?" She purred his name in a practiced, seductive voice that stirred all
the hard, wet memories it was intended to. "You going to stand around here all
day?"
He glanced down at the creamy swell of cleavage and pulled her even closer.
"Not a chance, darlin'," he whispered against her small, soft ear. "Not a chance."
Chapter One
WASHINGTON STATE SEPTEMBER
Mad Dog leaned back against the shuddering wall of the box car. The article he
was writing about homeless-ness lay beside him, forgotten for the moment.
Wind clawed his face and raked his hair, curling the papery edges of his
notebook. The metallic clackety-clack of the iron wheels vibrated up and down
his spine.
Two short blasts of sound rose above the clattering of the train. The piercing
wail hovered momentarily in the air, then melted into the puffing chugs of steam
and disappeared. Wheels locked with a clanging screech.

Another town. The words carried with them the familiar magic, the seductive
allure of unopened gifts.
He reached for his clothes bag. It was slumped in the corner of the boxcar, the
patched, grayed fabric caved in on itself. There was next to nothing inside—just
a faded change of clothes, a bedroll, and a few notebooks—but it was everything
Mad Dog had. Everything he needed.
Except food and money.
He shook his head. It was too bad he hadn't saved something from that last fight.
Just enough to get him a place in Mexico, a few bottles of tequila, and a willing
woman to keep him warm through the winter . . .
Winter.
He thumped his head back against the corrugated metal wall and closed his eyes.
Christ, he hated that word. It was one of the few things that actually depressed
him.
It was still autumn; almost an Indian summer, in fact. But yesterday's warm sun
It was still autumn; almost an Indian summer, in fact. But yesterday's warm sun
didn't fool him. He'd been drifting across this country for too long to be fooled
by Mother Nature.
Winter was coming. Winter, when the world was cold, the fields were fallow,
and work was impossible to find. Winter. The season when homeless,
unemployed vagrants like Mad Dog were found dead by the side of the road and
thrown in markerless paupers' graves by lawmen who didn't know what it felt
like to be footloose and carefree ... or alone and hungry and filled with despair.
He had to find work now, during harvest, while there was work to be found.
There would be no more fairs until late spring, no way for his fists to earn the
money he needed. He had no choice but to get a real job.
Shit . . .
The train whistle blew again, three short, sharp blasts.
Mad Dog stuffed a half-finished editorial into his canvas bag and staggered to
his feet. Standing in the open doorway, he stared at the blurred brown landscape.
Particles of wind-driven dirt stung his eyes, turned into a gritty paste on his
tongue.
He rammed his battered Stetson on his head and jumped. r He landed hard. Pain
ricocheted up his legs and throbbed in his knees. He groaned and staggered to
his feet, brushing the dust from his Levi's.
Goddamn, sometimes it hurt to be free.

He walked to the fringe of a town called Lonesome Creek and stopped. Green
fields fanned toward the horizon like a huge patchwork quilt, the color grafted
by irrigation to a brown prairie that rolled into forever. In the distance, bluish
gray hills rose into a sky so blue, it hurt the eyes.
A cold, early morning draft buffeted his stubbly cheeks and pulled at his long,
unkempt mustache. He crammed his hands in his pockets, trying to find some
meager warmth in the holey interiors.
The town was practically empty this early in the morning, which was just as