After the frost f

by Chance, Megan

  "How's it look, Grandma?"

  Lillian glanced up from the journal. She frowned, weaving her fingers through Sarah's short locks. "Don't you think it's a bit short, Rand?"

  He shrugged. "That's how she wanted it."

  "Well, then." Lillian smiled and sat back. "You look pretty as a picture, Sarah. Be careful, now. You've got hair all over your shoulders."

  Sarah stepped away. "Where's Janey?"

  "Upstairs, I think." Lillian picked up the farming journal again.

  "I wish she had a head so Papa could cut her hair too."

  Rand reached for the broom in the corner. "I think your grandma could cut Janey's hair better."

  "I'm gonna go get her." Without waiting for either of them to answer, Sarah rushed out of the room. In moments Rand heard her footsteps on the stairs. He finished sweeping up the hair and put the broom away, pausing at the small window overlooking the backyard.

  It was a beautiful night. The sky was deep blue, the trees black shadows against it, their limbs raggedly dressed with leaves that fluttered loosely, ready to fall. There were no stars; the same clouds that had kept the day muggy were hiding the moon. It meant there would probably be no frost tonight either, and the thought disappointed him. He was ready for autumn. Ready for the trees to be bare and the cold nights and colder mornings. Ready for the thick hoarfrost crunching beneath his feet, coating the corn. It was harder to work in the autumn, harder to face the cold mornings, but he loved it anyway.

  Even though the season held all his worst memories.

  He turned away from the window. "Looks like there won't be a frost tonight," he said, moving to the stove and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  Lillian glanced up. "I've still got potatoes to get up."

  "Well, you'll have time." He took a sip of the steaming brew, grimacing at the strong, bitter taste. "The apples look good."

  "Yes. We're lucky. Dorothy's trees look terrible this year." She flipped pages. "I think I'll wait until after the fair to pick."

  "Hmmm." He pulled out a chair. It groaned as he dragged it across the floor and sank into it. The coffee cup in his hand clanked on the table, spilling a little pool of the hot liquid onto the wood. He looked at it idly and then glanced back to Lillian, who was still immersed in the journal.

  But she only looked as if she were concentrating on it, he realized. And her chair was moving quickly, erratically back and forth, not with her usual slow and gentle motion.

  She was restless, he thought. Like he was. Restless and jumpy and irritable. And it was all because of one person—the one person he and Lillian had been careful not to mention all day.

  Belle.

  He suddenly felt warm. Rand shoved his hand through his hair and pulled at the collar of his shirt. He grabbed at the coffee, bringing the cup so roughly to his mouth, he scalded his lips.

  "Damn!" He slammed the cup on the table again. Coffee splashed out, burning his skin, and Rand jerked away, swearing beneath his breath.

  Lillian looked up, raised a slender blond brow. "Randall?"

  "I'm fine." He bit off the words.

  "I see. Good thing you weren't that fine when you were holding those scissors."

  He tensed instantly at the slight reprimand. They were both edgy, and her chastising only made him want to blurt out the words he'd been struggling to keep at bay. He felt he might explode if he didn't.

  Rand clenched his jaw, vowed to keep quiet. There was no point in mentioning it, in making them both upset. And, too, he was afraid to say the words, afraid that voicing his worries might somehow make them real. But before he knew it, the words on the tip of his tongue slipped out anyway. "She'll be back, you know she will."

  Lillian sighed. "Of course." No "who are you talking about," or "what did you say?" Belle was there in the room with them even though she'd been gone for an entire day. "She's always been willful."

  "Willful." Rand laughed shortly. "That's diplomatic."

  "What would you have me say?" Lillian was achingly calm as she rose from the rocker and put aside the periodical. She went to the stove as if she had a purpose, as if there was something for her to do, but she just stood there, her callused fingers playing over the jars of pears still resting on the sideboard, her hand casting shadows over the glass glinting in the lamplight. She didn't look at him. "I didn't expect to see her again."

  There was something in her voice, something he didn't recognize, but it didn't sound like the sorrow or distress he expected. It was more like—fear. Rand frowned. "Neither did I."

  "What will you do?"

  He took a deep breath, buried his face in his hands. He had no idea what to do. The last hours it was all he'd thought about, even through the distraction of dinner and cutting Sarah's hair. Belle never left his mind, as much as he tried to force her out. Jesus, he wished he could just tell her to stay away and trust her to do it, wished he could put physical space between them—so much of it, and so hard to cross, that she wouldn't even attempt getting near him or Sarah. God, how he wished.

  But he couldn't do those things, and he knew it.

  "I don't know," he said wearily, looking up. Lillian was watching him impassively, and he wondered what she was thinking. "I can tell her to get off the farm, but I don't guess that will work for long."

  "No." The word came out on a whoosh of breath. Lillian picked up the coffeepot, made to pour herself a cup, and then set the heavy tin pot back on the stove without taking any. "Belle does what she wants."

  The fear was in her voice again. It surprised him. Not because she struggled to hide it but because it was there at all. He tried to remember if he'd heard it from her before, but he couldn't. They'd made it a point never to talk about Belle. He'd assumed it was because Lillian knew how much the subject pained him.

  But now he wondered if she had other reasons as well, reasons that had nothing to do with him.

  He had never bothered to wonder how Lillian felt after Belle left. The truth was he'd been too twisted up by his own emotions to care. Now when he thought about that time, his memories were clouded by fear and guilt. He could no longer see it clearly, and there were days when he wondered if he ever had. In his memories Lillian was only a formless blur. He remembered coming home from Cleveland and her telling him Belle was gone, remembered her saying Belle was pregnant but that was all. If she had been angry or condemning then, he had forgotten. He'd never even had a hint that she might be afraid.

  Now Rand thought about asking her about it, but he thought better of it. The two of them had a courteous, careful relationship. He'd been almost grown—nearly eighteen—when she married his father, and Lillian had never been a mother to him. But after Henry died, she just kept on taking care of the farmhouse—and Rand— as if nothing had changed.

  And he liked it that way, liked the way the days had led one into the other, always the same, sunrise to sunset; requiring no thought, nothing more than daily routines that only changed with the seasons.

  Damn Belle for coming back, for trying to change things. Damn her for making him have to decide on a course of action when all he really wanted to do was go on, day after day, without having to think or act or do anything more than grow corn and oats and hogs.

  Rand closed his eyes, feeling anger well up inside him, struggling to force it away. From upstairs came the sound of footsteps. Rand glanced at the ceiling. "She'll try to take Sarah. We'll have to watch her," he said finally, slowly. "Every moment."

  "You think watching her will be enough?"

  "There's no other choice," he said, hearing the faint edge of desperation in his voice. "What else can we do? We can't—"

  The sound of Sarah's footsteps pounding down the stairs stopped him, and Rand swiveled in his chair, looking toward the doorway to see his daughter burst into the kitchen, clutching Janey, the headless doll. She skidded to a stop just in front of him, and it was as if she brought sunshine into the room.

  "I'm gonna be a monster now," she declared, shak
ing back her head and baring her teeth. "An' everyone has to do what I say, or I will—eat them."

  "You will, huh?" He smiled. "Well, I'll show you what we do to monsters here—" and before she could move, Rand lunged forward, grabbing her and pulling her to him, burying his face in her neck and feeling her warm, wiggly vibrance clear into his bones.

  Sarah giggled in his arms, a pure, happy sound that made her whole body squirm. "Papa!" she said. "You're s'posed to be scared of me!"

  "Oh, I am scared." He pulled away, making a face. "See? I'm shaking."

  Sarah roared, curling her fingers in pretend claws and launching herself forward to bite his neck. "I've got you forever!" she declared. "You can't escape!"

  He threw a glance at Lillian over Sarah's head, saw her watching them with a small, satisfied smile, and Rand closed his eyes.

  "Papa!" Sarah protested. "You're s'posed to be screamin'. I've got you!"

  "You sure do, Little Bit," he said slowly, feeling desperation and fear and longing sink inside him. He buried his face in her hair, held her tight. "You've got me."

  Chapter 4

  Organ music was swelling from the open doors of the Salem Church by the time Rand finally maneuvered the buckboard into the yard. They were late. The morning had been filled with little frustrations —not the least of which was Sarah's sulking about her new haircut—and he was exhausted. Too exhausted even to look up when Lillian grabbed her woolen shawl and climbed from the seat. She gripped the splintery gray wagonside and leaned over Sarah, who was a ball of blue gingham in the corner. Her voice held the sharp edge of impatience. "Sarah, come along, now, you'll miss Sunday school."

  "I don't wanna go. I look like a boy."

  "I've had about enough of this, young lady." Lillian's voice brittled with exasperation. "Come along."

  "No." Sarah stamped her foot against the floor. The wagon shook. "I look like a boy!"

  His daughter's voice shrieked in his ears, making Rand's head pound, and he looked up wearily. "No, you don't, Sarah. Do as your grandma says. Please."

  Sarah didn't budge. Her sunbonnet was hanging uselessly around her neck, her fingers clenched Janey. Her face was set in a look he knew well—too well. She was prepared to sit there all morning.

  Not today, he prayed silently, uselessly. Please, God, not today.

  Rand rubbed his eyes. The prayer didn't help, just as he'd known it wouldn't. Sarah's expression didn't change. Damn, he was too tired to deal with this today. He tried to ignore the pain in his head as he climbed down from the seat and went to her. "Come on, Little Bit," he cajoled impatiently. "You're the one who wanted your braids cut off. You liked it last night. Remember?"

  Her lower lip protruded farther. "I thought it would come back. You said it would."

  "It will," he said wearily. "It just takes awhile to grow."

  "I want it back now!"

  "Sarah—"

  Rand silenced Lillian with a look and turned back to his daughter. He held out his hand. "Come on."

  Sarah threw him a tentative glance, and then she shook her head. "I don't want to."

  Christ, what he wouldn't give for a few hours of sleep. For a moment Rand toyed with the idea of climbing back in the wagon and going home, but a quick glance at Lillian put an end to that idea. She and Sarah were in a test of wills—again. His stepmother was prepared to stand there until dark if she had to. Once again she was expecting him to be on her side.

  And once again he was somewhere in the middle.

  Rand sighed. "You look just fine, Sarah," he said, forcing a weak smile. "No one's going to make fun of you. Why, with that new dress, you're the prettiest girl here."

  She looked at him doubtfully. The organ music grew louder, there was a commotion on the steps behind him, and Rand turned to see the Sunday-school students gathering beneath the huge maple tree to take their lessons in the warm morning air.

  "Look, you see? They're already starting. Why don't you go on over and say hello?"

  She tried not to look over, though he could tell she wanted to. "No."

  Rand looked over his shoulder. "I guess you don't want to see Mary Helen, then, do you? Or Lizzy—why, it looks like she's brought her doll too."

  Sarah's pout disappeared. She got to her knees, hesitating as she looked at the crowd of children. "Where?"

  "Maybe it's even a new doll," he said as casually as he could. "I can't tell from here—"

  "All right." She stood up. "I'll go see 'em for just a minute."

  Rand lifted her out of the wagon, careful not to meet his stepmother's chastising gaze as he set Sarah on her feet and watched her run off to join the other children.

  "You spoil her, Rand," Lillian said as they started across the lawn. "You need to tell her what to do, not cajole her. If you don't watch it—"

  "Don't say it." He held up a warning hand.

  Lillian frowned. "We should talk about this, Randall. She has too much of Belle in her as it is."

  "Don't say her name to me today. I don't want to hear it. We can talk about this tomorrow." Or the next day, or the day after that. Or never. He pushed back his broad-brimmed hat, already feeling sweat gather on his forehead. "It's Sunday, she won't be coming around. Let's not ruin the day."

  It was the only good thing about this morning, the one thing he counted on. The entire goddamned night he lay awake in bed, staring at the planked ceiling and torturing himself by wondering when she was coming back. And the one thing—the only thing—that had comforted him was the knowledge that today was Sunday. Belle hadn't been in a church since she was old enough to say no, and he doubted that aversion to religion had gone away. At least he hoped it hadn't.

  It was possibly the only time in his life he actually wanted to go to church.

  They approached the steps of the small brick building just as the congregation burst into hymn. The singing streamed from the doors to float on the air, and Lillian quickened her step. "Good heavens," she murmured. "We're already late."

  "No one will even notice," he reassured her in a low voice as they went through the doors and into the tiny vestibule. The chorus was painfully loud, the voices only increased the hammering in his head, and he swept off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could turn around and head back home. But it was too late now. They were here. They paused at the entryway, and his gaze ran over the congregation, searching for an empty space in the pews. He'd just have to make sure they went directly home afterward. No going to dinner at someone's house, no visiting—

  He stopped short.

  She was here.

  She was here, in church, and she was dressed all in yellow, with an old straw hat perched on her braided blond hair. She was standing alone at the end of one pew, turned toward the aisle, and she held a hymnal in her hand. But it was closed, and she wasn't singing.

  She caught sight of him, and her head jerked up as if she were waiting for him. And then she smiled—a defiant, challenging, "try to do something about it" smile that sent a familiar ache deep into his stomach. An ache followed by anger so intense that for a moment he couldn't breathe.

  The music stopped. The hymn was over. He heard the thud of closing hymnbooks, the rustle of clothing as people turned to stare.

  "Rand." Lillian's voice was low and urgent in his ear, her face flushed. "Rand, for heaven's sake, let's sit down."

  He barely heard her. Anger made him hot and stiff, and he struggled to control it. He felt Lillian's fingers on his elbow. Mechanically he walked with her to the nearest pew and slid onto the smooth wooden seat. He took the Bible she placed into his hands and let it fall open. Belle wasn't looking at them any longer. She had taken her seat with the others. But he knew people were looking at her—and him. He heard the whispers, quiet little daggers piercing his skin, and the warm air suddenly seemed muggy and suffocating. He felt dizzy with the pain in his temples.

  "Welcome, neighbors." Reverend Snopes walked to the pulpit, his dark robes billowing around his corpulent k
nees. "Please open to Luke ten-thirty, and let us begin . . ."

  What the hell was she doing here? It was Sunday, for Christ's sake. *

  " 'A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves . . ."'

  She wouldn't even go to church for funerals, much less a Sunday service.

  "'. . . stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead . . ."'

  Rand felt as if the world had turned upside down. He was more stunned by this than by her unexpected visit the day before yesterday, because this was more puzzling, more unexpected. He stared at her, seeing every detail: the way the rapid fanning of the woman beside her stirred the tendrils of hair escaping from her braid, the way her shoulders shifted beneath the yellow muslin delaine, and he had the sudden urge to yank her outside and demand to know why the hell she had come to church this morning.

  Then he felt Lillian's hand on his wrist. Her fingers tightened on his skin, both a warning and a comfort, and Rand forced himself to take a deep breath, to close his eyes for a moment. Gradually the pain in his head receded slightly; the preacher's words became a meaningless murmur in the back of his mind. He knew what he would see if he opened his eyes—Lillian's tight expression, the curious glances of their neighbors—and so he kept them closed. He knew it all, had lived it all before. God, he'd thought—he'd hoped—he would never have to bear it again, but here it was, and incredibly it felt just the same. Six years later, and it felt just the same.

  Belle's sudden disappearance had spawned a hundred different stories, enough to fuel months of gossip. Even now sometimes in a bar or at a social, he heard low voices speculating about what had happened to Belle Sault, heard the half-admiring, half-disapproving "She was a character, all right," and saw the slow shaking of heads. As though there'd been a goddamned tragedy, he thought angrily.

  Rand swallowed, trying to calm himself, to banish the guilt washing over him in heady, nauseating waves. No one knew the truth anyway. It was just another example of how skillfully Lillian had smoothed over the whole thing. He couldn't remember now the story she'd told— something about Belle living with a cousin in Philadelphia, maybe—but whatever it was, Lillian had done her best to create a seamless fiction.