God, yes, to think of nothing but those routine, day-to-day things. The things he'd hated thinking about until just this moment, the things he'd spent his whole life avoiding.
The drying corn sawed at his face and hands as he pushed through it; he felt the spidery tassels in his face and the corn dust shiver into his collar. The warm, milky smell was all around him, soothing him.
"Are you happy? Is this where you want to be?" Belle's words mocked him, tormented him, just as she must have known they would.
"Are you happy?"
Rand pushed his way through the heavy stalks, moving single-mindedly until he was in the center of the corn, until the house was gone, until there was nothing but brown leaves and dusty tassels.
Are you happy?
"Dammit!" He shoved his hands against his ears, trying to block the sound. "Dammit, why the hell did you come back?" But his words taunted him and did nothing to banish the image of her face. He almost laughed at the irony of it. There had been a time when he would have given his life to see her again, and now all he wanted was to exile her forever.
Why had she come back? Why now?
The question was meaningless; Rand already knew the answer. It made sense that she had returned now. Perfect sense, because he had finally managed to stop thinking about her, to stop feeling guilty about the past, to concentrate on anger instead. He laughed softly, bitterly. He'd been feeling contented, or if not that, then almost complacent. He should have known she'd show
Up now.
Someplace in the back of his mind he had expected it, he knew. The truth was, he'd waited for it, in some strange way even wanted it. But not this minute. Not today.
He thought of her standing in the kitchen. She was still small, still delicate. He thought of her slender neck and the fine bones of her face, dwarfed by the huge man's hat, the thick hair that hung in a heavy braid down the middle of her back—a hundred colors of gold all twisted together. All so much the same, just as he remembered.
Rand stared at the tall stalks without really seeing them. He'd told himself that the next time he saw her— if he ever did—he'd be in control. Cool, calm, self-possessed. He told himself she didn't matter, had never mattered, that he'd outgrown the madness that had overtaken him when she was fifteen and he was . . . old enough to know better.
But then he'd walked into that kitchen and seen her standing there, facing him with that familiar, defiant lift of her chin. Hey, Rand. He heard her greeting again in his mind, challenging, wary. She'd lowered her voice to say his name, had almost whispered it, and it felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach—as if, for some strange reason, he hadn't expected her to remember it. And with her voice had come his guilt, barreling back as if it had never truly gone.
What the hell was he going to do now?
"Papa?" Sarah's voice came through the corn, cutting through his thoughts. "Papa?"
Rand shoved a hand through his hair. Sarah. The thought of his daughter brought instant, blessed relief. If anything good had come from that brief, turbulent madness six years ago, Sarah was it. She had kept him sane the last two years—since the detective he'd hired had found her in a boardinghouse in Cincinnati, abandoned by her mother at birth. If Belle thought she was going to take his daughter from him again . . .
She wouldn't, he told himself fiercely. She would have to kill him first.
"Papa!"
Rand took a deep breath. "Stay where you are, Sarah. I'll be right there." He knew exactly where she'd be— perched on a weed-covered stump at the edge of the field, hugging her knees tightly to her chest, waiting for him the way she waited for him every night.
He made his way back through the corn. She was there. Her golden hair shone in the sunlight, and the smile she gave him through the dirt on her face was brighter than any summer day.
"Papa," she said, climbing to her feet and flinging herself into his arms, "you ain't goin' to work no more today, are you?"
He buried his nose in her hair. It smelled of dust and sun and little girl. "No, Little Bit, I'm done."
"Good." She leaned back to look at him, her eyes serious. "Who was that lady who was here?"
He hesitated, not knowing what to tell her. Neither he nor Lillian had ever told Sarah about her mother, and to his knowledge she'd never asked a single question. It had seemed best, when they'd first brought her back—a wary and frightened three-year-old—to wait until she was older, and now he supposed they'd just fallen into the habit. God knew he and Lillian never discussed Belle, at least they hadn't for a very long time.
There might be no need to tell her now. The thought jabbed into his brain, hopefully, fleetingly. It was possible that Belle would just go away. Not likely, but certainly possible. His lips tightened. God knew he'd do everything in his power to make sure she did. "Who is she?" he repeated. "She's Grandma's daughter. Your . . . aunt. Belle."
"You didn't seem very happy to see her."
He smiled grimly. "No, I guess not. I was surprised, that's all."
"Oh." Sarah looked pensive, and Rand realized with a pang that the expression was a copy of Belle's.
He tightened his arms around her. "How's Grandma doing, anyway? Is she finished with the pears?"
Sarah leaned her head back, ignoring his question, staring up at the sky. "Belle could play with me since Janey's dead."
He closed his eyes. "I thought you told me Janey might be better tomorrow," he said wearily.
"Well, I lost her head, Papa. She won't get better."
"Maybe you can find it and Grandma can sew it back on."
"Maybe." She stared at him thoughtfully, her large brown eyes focused on his. "Belle's comin' back, ain't she, Papa?" Then, when he was silent: "Ain't she?"
He wanted to say no, she wasn't. But the words wouldn't come, not to his mind or to his throat, and Rand just stared helplessly at his daughter, unable to think of a single thing to say.
She watched him for a moment, waiting, and then she nodded and squeezed his neck with her plump little arms. "Grandma's makin' pancakes for supper," she said. "With jam. I like that best."
Rand felt the desperation inside him unwind, drifting away, and he gave Sarah a squeeze of relief and joy and fear. "Me, too, Little Bit," he said softly, walking back to the house. "Me too."
From the hotel window Belle watched the street below. She saw the men striding down the planked sidewalk, rounding the corner on their way to the Black Horse Tavern, heard the sound of the Cincinnati, Wilmington, and Zanesville train moving out at the edge of town. From here she could just see the curve of the canal as it followed the bend of the Hocking River. There was a packet boat moving on it now, slowly, leisurely, the people sitting on the upper deck tiny little shadows against the sunset. For a moment she wished she were one of them, wished she had nothing to wait for, nothing to keep her from leaving this town—leaving Ohio.
Though she'd done that already, and she knew that running away didn't change things—not really. Memories had a way of festering in a person's mind, always there, never really disappearing. Oh, there were times when they seemed to be gone, when the day stretched before her open and inviting, full of promise, without regret. But those days were few and far between.
Belle sighed, leaning her forehead against the cool glass, closing her eyes. New York was already like that now—just a memory, a place she didn't have to go back to. She thought of her tiny room in the boardinghouse, the narrow bed and the plain, unadorned walls. Thought of the fact that when she'd left, she never intended to return, had packed everything she owned into the small carpetbag sitting on the bed.
"And take her where? Or have you even thought that far?"
No, she hadn't thought. Hadn't thought of anything but the need to get to Lancaster, hadn't even bothered to expect anything on her return.
Belle squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. What an idiot she'd been. Had she really thought she could just walk into the house and demand they give Sarah back? Had she really believed it wou
ld be so easy? She should have realized the moment Bill Mason told her Rand had
come for Sarah that Rand wasn't waiting for her to come back, didn't want her to.
Not that she ever really believed he did. Bitterly she remembered the last day she'd seen him. It was six years ago, and there had been no fond farewell then, no gentle words. He'd avoided her the two weeks before he was to return to his uncle's in Cleveland to help with the grain shipment, and she knew by the way he averted his gaze whenever she was near that he couldn't stand to look at her. But until that last day she hadn't really believed he hated her. She didn't believe it until he'd already left, until she realized he'd waited for her to go visiting before he sneaked away to board the train.
He'd gone without leaving a single message. Not even a good-bye.
She'd known then that her memory of his cold gaze two weeks before was no illusion, that it had truly been loathing on his face as he watched her flee the barn that clear November night, her hands shaking as she tried frantically to straighten her skirts, still feeling the ache of his body between her legs and the roughness of his touch. He hated her—the certainty of it had stunned her, the white-hot pain of his rejection left her feeling lost and confused. She had not known where to turn or what to do.
He'd been gone a week when she discovered she was pregnant. He was still in Cleveland when, in desperation, she finally turned to her mother for help.
"He will not marry you, and you will not have this baby here, do you understand me? What were you thinking, Isabelle? You're a disgrace to this family, a disgrace, do you understand me?"
"But when Rand comes back—"
"Rand? Do you expect him to defend you after what you've done? I want you out of this house, Isabelle. My God, looking at you makes me sick. . . .
The voice from the past came swirling back to her, even though she'd spent the last six years trying to forget it. But her mother's words didn't hurt anymore, not really. Her mother had never taken her side in anything, and the pain of that was long gone and mostly forgotten —as was the pain she'd felt over Rand's betrayal.
Once, she'd thought she could bear anything as long as he was her friend.
Now she knew she could bear anything without him.
Belle backed away from the glass, straightening her shoulders. The lesson had been hard learned, but she wouldn't forget it. And she wouldn't leave Sarah with the two people who had taught her so well. She had left her daughter in the Masons' care deliberately. They had been her first friends in Cincinnati, had taken her in when she was lost and afraid and destitute. They had given her a job in their boardinghouse and cared for her through the first hard months of her pregnancy, and when Belle decided to go to New York to make a living for herself and her daughter, she had trusted Gem and Bill to care for Sarah—to give the child laughter and love until Belle could return.
But before today that resolution had little impact on Belle's life. Before today Sarah had barely been a person in her mind. Her daughter had been more of an elusive thought, a vague memory of pain and sorrow, of regret. Certainly not a chubby little girl with her father's face and hair and deliberate manner.
Now Sarah was real, and Belle had seen something of herself in her daughter. Not just the long blond hair, but something else, something in the little girl's eyes, in the resentment that had crossed Sarah's face when she stomped out of the kitchen. That was the legacy Belle had given her daughter, and she knew the misery that legacy would cause Sarah, what it was like growing up in that house, smothered by Lillian's rules. For a child with any longing for freedom at all, it was pure hell. Sarah would never be happy here. Safe, maybe—too safe—but never happy.
Belle had no choice but to take her away.
She sank onto the bed, feeling the creak of the bed- frame ropes clear up into her spine. There was only one small problem. She didn't have time to wait them out, to somehow convince Rand she should have Sarah. Belle glanced at the small leather bag on the scarred table. She had money for only one or two days. It wasn't enough, especially since she had to decide where to go from here. She couldn't return to Cincinnati. It would be the first place Rand would look, and there was nothing there for her anyway. Gem had died, and Bill . . . Bill was so drunk with grief, he hardly knew the days were passing.
Belle felt a swift surge of anger at the thought, a quick resentment that the man she'd trusted had shuffled Sarah off to his sister, who hadn't known to contact Belle until long after Rand had taken Sarah away. Belle wasn't sure she could ever forgive Bill for that. And she knew she never wanted to see Cincinnati again.
No, she would somehow have to find the money to get herself and Sarah someplace else. Maybe back to New York. She didn't want to return, but she had a few friends there, and she could find a place for the two of them to stay—at least for a while—until she could find something else. Belle bit her lip. There was no other choice really. She couldn't leave Sarah behind, and she sure as hell couldn't stay.
Or could she?
Belle frowned as the idea took hold. Why not move in? Just until she had the money to leave. Only a few days. She wouldn't be leaving Sarah alone with them then; she could keep a watchful eye, make sure her daughter was all right. Why not?
She was no longer a child. She'd learned not to care about Lillian or Rand. She could survive living with them now; the last six years had made her strong. They could no longer hurt her. The only problem was how to do it. She couldn't simply walk in and announce she was staying.
No, moving in had to be by invitation, and that would be a hell of a long time coming. Rand had inherited the farm when his father died, but Lillian still obviously ruled it. And Lillian—Belle nearly choked on the thought—Lillian would never ask for a daughter who only caused trouble, a daughter who would destroy the untarnished appearances she worked so hard to maintain.
Appearances. Belle laughed softly to herself. There was a time when she hated that word. Hell, she still did. Appearances had run her mother's life—and hers— since before she was born. Appearances were what made Belle leave Lancaster, what had sent her running—
What were going to help her stay now.
Belle remembered how Lillian had told her to come in from the porch yesterday, away from the prying eyes of the neighbors. God knew, if there was one thing Lillian couldn't stand, it was looking bad to her friends.
And turning a long-lost daughter away—no matter what kind of daughter—would certainly look bad.
Very, very bad.
A small smile crossed Belle's face. It was Saturday night. Tomorrow was Sunday, and Sunday meant church. Her mother would be sitting in the front row, head held high, radiating goodness and purity so bright, it would be painful to watch. And if her very contrite, very downtrodden daughter were to ask to move back home—in front of four or five very curious neighbors— then what answer could a devout woman make—except yes?
Belle took a deep breath. It would work. It had to.
The thought brought a surge of relief, a quiet contentment that surprised Belle, and she pushed it away, determined not to look at it too closely.
Because in spite of everything, in spite of Rand and her mother, there was something that drew Belle back here, and she knew it. Because for the last six years she had walked down the muddy streets of New York, past the taverns and the businesses, had dodged pickpockets and grasping hands and smelled the rotting, salty scent of the sea and the smoke in the air—and had thought of cornfields and rivers, of canals running straight and even through the rolling hills and the smell of ripe tomatoes and musty barnyards.
She had missed Lancaster.
It frightened her how much.
Chapter 3
Hold still, Little Bit," Rand cautioned, pausing as Sarah wiggled on the edge of the table.
"I am sittin' still." She moved again, sending bits of blond hair sifting to the floor.
Rand glanced down at his feet. Hair sprinkled his shoes, lay in soft, scattered piles on the wor
n boards of the kitchen floor. He sighed.
"Don't stop! Why're you stoppin'?" She twisted back to look up at him, frowning fiercely. "Papa!"
"All right, all right." Carefully Rand brought the rusted scissors closer, snipping off the strands around her ears, trying the best he could to trim it. Lillian should be the one doing this, he thought, glancing at his stepmother. She sat quietly by the still-warm stove, flipping through the "Ladies' Department" pages of The Ohio Cultivator in the dim lamplight, seemingly ignoring both of them, though he knew she heard every word. He looked back at the floor, at his daughter's shorn braids lying there, still plaited because he'd cut them off without bothering to loosen them. They looked strange, disconcerting somehow, but not as disconcerting as Sarah's newly shortened tresses. Her hair still looked a bit ragged, but he was afraid to take any more off. Lillian would have done this better. Too bad Sarah had asked—insisted—that he do it.
Rand stepped back, critically examining his handiwork. "All right, Sarah," he said, putting the scissors on the table. "You're all done."
She looked at him with wide brown eyes, put a tentative hand to her head. "I think I still feel a braid there."
He smiled and shook his head. "Look down at the floor. How many do you see lying there?"
"Two."
"That's right. How many were on your head?"
"Two." The word was drawn out, hesitantly, thoughtfully, as if she wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. "But I think you should do it some more, Papa. It doesn't feel right."
"It feels fine." He reached for the towel he'd put around her neck and whisked it away, shaking the tiny clippings of hair to the floor. Then he lifted her down from the table. She barely spared him a glance. Instead she raced across the kitchen floor to Lillian.
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