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 Copy-right 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.

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 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 seasonand 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..."

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 charmscharms 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 fighteven 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.