After the frost f

by Chance, Megan

  "No, I—"

  "People are beginning to talk. Most of your friends are either married or gone." She paused. "You've never said how you felt about it, Rand. You do want to get married, don't you? It would be good for Sarah to have a mother."

  She already has a mother, he thought, but he didn't say it; in fact he banished the thought as soon as he had it.

  Lillian was looking at him avidly, as if the answer was important to her. "Do you want to get married?"

  He didn't know how to answer her. Once, yes, once he had wanted that more than anything. Wanted more than that even, a marriage that made him whole, that filled up the empty spaces inside of him. Had wanted to look at brown eyes staring up at him in the morning, and golden hair slipping through his fingers. Once, , once, he had longed for that with every part of his soul, even though he knew it was wrong, even though he fought it with everything he had.

  It made him sick now to think of it. Sick and afraid.

  He swallowed; his mouth felt dry, his tongue thick. "Yeah," he croaked. "Someday."

  "I did think you liked Marie."

  "I do like her."

  Lillian smiled, a little smugly. "Perhaps you'll see her at the fair."

  "Yeah." His voice was quiet; he heard the shake in it and wished it wasn't there. "Maybe."

  He felt overwhelmed suddenly. The smile on his stepmother's face twisted him up inside. He couldn't believe it, couldn't believe the sudden revelation that she wanted him to get married. Jesus, that she wanted him to marry Marie Scholl. The thought made him cringe, reminded him of today, of what he'd almost done.

  Hell, if Lillian had known, if she even guessed at how powerful his emotions had been only hours before, when he'd almost touched Belle, she would never be telling him to find a wife. She would be warning the girls in town away from him instead of trying to match him up. She would be—

  He stopped, gripping the cup in his hands, stunned.

  Because he suddenly realized that Lillian knew that, too, and it was why she was encouraging him to see Marie. The thought nauseated him. Nauseated and— somehow—tempted him. Rand clenched his fist around the cup, staring down at it, at his hand, at the long fingers still creased—always creased—with dirt. He remembered what that hand was capable of, what he was capable of, with a shudder.

  What if you can't control it?

  But you can. It's only Belle who makes you feel this way. Only Belle.

  He closed his eyes, forcibly loosened his grip on the cup, and then looked up again at his stepmother, who was watching him with steady, assessing eyes.

  "I wonder what Marie is up to these days," he said.

  Chapter 9

  Belle sat on the back-porch stoop listening to her mother and Dorothy and Kenny Alspaugh chattering away inside. Their voices rang with excitement, every word focused on the Fairfield County Fair as if it were the most important thing to come along in years.

  But it wasn't important to Belle. The fair had started after she left Lancaster, so she'd never been, and the thought of spending days talking about cows and pigs didn't excite her at all. No, right now the only thing that brought any enthusiasm was the thought of going into town, finding a job.

  She sighed, resting her chin in her hands and looking out at the yard beyond. She wished she hadn't decided to wait until the Alspaughs came over to go, wished she had just saddled Duke and gone to Lancaster herself. But Lillian told her Kenny was going into town today anyway, and it seemed easier to go in with him—especially because she wasn't certain Rand would even let her take Duke, and the last thing she felt like doing was fighting him over a damn horse.

  Rand. The thought of him sent a shiver coursing through her, made her feel suddenly anxious and ill at ease, and Belle crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself tightly. She threw a glance out at the fields. She couldn't see him, just as she hadn't seen him all day.

  She was grateful for that at least. The memory of yesterday left her even more determined to get the hell away from here. He had almost touched her. Even in her dreams she'd seen his hand, his fingers outstretched to grab her, to yank her back. And her dreams had taken it further, too, had spun out the memory of that long-ago night when everything crashed around her, had brought back every detail: the heated feel of his skin against her hands, the press of his body, the desperate, hungry way he'd kissed her—as if she were his salvation. Then she had believed she was. In the beginning she'd trusted his words and his touch and his need because she wanted to so badly, because she wanted him so much.

  But with only a look he had taught her how foolish that trust was. Belle closed her eyes, remembering again the harsher memory of that night—hard, impatient hands pushing her away, fumbling with his clothes. Angry words that mistook her confusion for hesitation. "Get away from me, goddammit. Jesus—get the hell out of here! I don't want you, don't you understand? Don't you understand?"

  That was the memory Belle had struggled to forget. But now it was back with a vengeance.

  Because there had been that same look in his eyes yesterday.

  She didn't understand why it was there, and that terrified her. She didn't understand the sudden paling of his face and his hoarse voice.

  He'd been afraid.

  Afraid.

  Of what?

  That was the most puzzling thing of all. Rand had never been afraid of anything—especially not of her. It was so odd that last night she had finally decided she hadn't really seen it, that the look in his eyes had been something else, something that wasn't fear at all.

  But in the bright light of day she didn't believe it. Once, she'd known him almost better than herself, knew his every gesture and expression. Belle frowned in confusion. Yes, he had been afraid. She would bet anything on it. She had not imagined the shaking in his voice or his harsh breathing.

  But why? Why?

  It made her uncomfortable not to know, somehow vulnerable. She had the sense that it was important to understand Rand's fear, that not knowing could be . . . dangerous.

  She shook away the feeling. It was probably nothing, she told herself again. Probably she was only imagining that it had something to do with her. Maybe he'd simply seen Lillian in the doorway.

  Belle smiled. That would be enough to scare anyone.

  A noise at the side of the house broke into her thoughts. Sarah scampered around the corner, skidding to a stop when she caught sight of Belle.

  "Hey there," Belle said.

  "Hey." Sarah twined her hands nervously in her yellow gingham skirt. "I'm gonna have the fun'ral today," she blurted suddenly. "I got Janey in a box, only I—I need a little shovel."

  "I see," Belle said. "You want some help?"

  "C'n you find it?"

  Belle nodded. She looked out at the fields. "Where's your papa?"

  "He's in the corn for a minute."

  A minute? Or an hour? Belle took a deep breath and got to her feet. "I guess there's prob'ly a trowel in the barn, then." She glanced over her shoulder. Lillian and the others were still deep in conversation. They wouldn't even notice she was gone. Without hesitation she went down the stairs, motioning for Sarah to follow as she started across the yard toward the barn. If she was very lucky, she could grab the shovel and get out before Rand came marching back from the fields. That didn't give her much time. He never took his eyes off Sarah for longer than a few minutes. He was probably on his way back even now. Involuntarily she looked back at the rows of corn, relieved when she saw no sign of him.

  They walked for a moment in silence. Then Sarah said, "We're goin' to the fair day after tomorra."

  "I know."

  "Are you gonna come too?"

  Belle shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe."

  "Last year we had a pic-a-nic."

  "You did?"

  Sarah nodded. " 'Cept I was little then, 'n I got all messy. I ain't gonna this year, 'cause I'm bigger now."

  Belle smiled. "I 'spect that's true enough."

  Silence. Only
the sound of the drying grass crunching beneath their feet. Then, "Papa says you ain't comin'."

  Belle glanced down. Sarah was pulling nervously on the strings of her sunbonnet, and her brown eyes were large and questioning. Until that moment Belle hadn't decided whether or not she would go to the fair. Until that moment she hadn't really known if she wanted to face the speculative glances of town or the veiled insinuations that had assailed her that first day at church. Besides, with any luck at all she might be busy working at the Black Horse.

  But Sarah's words made all her rational reasons for staying fly away. If Rand didn't want her to go, there was only one thing she could do.

  "Of course I'm goin'," she said. "You didn't think I would miss all the fun, did you?"

  "Are you comin' with us?"

  "I sure am."

  Sarah smiled. "I wanna see the races, but Grandma says I'll get stomped on."

  "Well, you can go see them with me," Belle assured her. "I'll make sure no one stomps on you."

  They were at the barn. Sarah was quiet beside her as Belle wound past the hog pens and the scattered chickens, through the open doors. Even though the barn was full of hay and tools, it seemed empty somehow, every sound echoing eerily off the rafters.

  Belle paused. She hadn't been inside the barn since she'd returned, and she wasn't surprised to see that it was just the same as when her stepfather was alive. Nothing ever changed in Lancaster, and this barn was proof of that. The harnesses in the tack stall were the same ones that had hung on the same hooks forever, the broken stool Henry had mended with a rough piece of fencing still stood by the milking stall—she would have sworn it hadn't been touched in six years—and the old rocker hadn't budged from its place by the toolroom. The piece of broken leather harness abandoned on the seat looked to be the same piece that had always been there.

  It was strange, as if the barn had somehow been lost in time, and Belle stood there for a moment feeling puzzled and oddly unsettled.

  Sarah ran across the straw-strewn floor to the toolroom, breaking the spell. "It's in here!"

  Belle shook off her discomfort. She was imagining things. After all, how much did barns really change? Still, when she followed Sarah into the small room, Belle felt a surge of relief. It was cluttered, disordered as it had never been when she lived here as a girl. Henry had always lined his tools neatly along the walls, but now, though everything was well oiled and cared for, tools were piled on shelves and mounded in corners. Rand obviously didn't share his father's obsession with neatness.

  "How do you s'pose we'll find a trowel in this mess?" she murmured, surveying the jumbled collection.

  "There, maybe?" Sarah pointed hopefully to a darkened shelf.

  It was as good a place to start as any. Belle searched hastily through the cluttered items—an awl, a broken hammer, and some odds and ends she couldn't identify.

  "Not here," she said distractedly, bending to search lower. She reached back, pawing through the scattered tools, trying to feel for an old wooden trowel. "Maybe he's usin' it, Sarah. I don't see—"

  "You don't see what?"

  Rand's voice boomed in the small room. Belle jerked up, banging her head on the shelf above. "Damn!" She backed away, wincing. "Quit sneakin' up on me like that, Rand. Hell, you'd think you were an Indian or somethin'."

  He glared at her from the doorway. "It's not me who's sneaking around. What are you doing in here?"

  "We're lookin' for a shovel," Sarah said. "I'm gonna bury Janey today."

  "I see." He went to one of the piles leaning in a corner and pulled a long-handled shovel from the chaos. "Here you go."

  "That's too big," Sarah protested. "I just want a little one."

  "This'll do," he said. "You show me where, and I'll dig the hole."

  Sarah's face broke into a smile. "You're comin' to the fun'ral?"

  "I wouldn't miss it."

  Belle made a sound of exasperation. "No, I don't guess you would." Especially since she was going to be there. God forbid he should leave Sarah alone with her for more than thirty seconds. She crossed her arms over her chest, giving him her best sarcastic glance. "I s'pose you're plannin' to lead the singin'."

  His mouth quirked. "Better me than you."

  "Sure the farm can get along without you for a while?"

  "Even if it couldn't, I'd find the time."

  "Come on!" Sarah tugged at Rand's hand. "Let's go, Papa." She sent a pleading look in Belle's direction. "Are you comin'?"

  "Oh, yeah." She nodded. "I'm comin'."

  "Hurry 'fore Grandma calls us."

  She glanced at Rand. He stepped back from the door, pulling Sarah with him, and nodded at the opening.

  "After you," he said.

  She widened her eyes in mock surprise. "Manners. How nice."

  "I don't imagine you've seen many of them where you've been," he said. He jerked his head toward the door. "Come on."

  The shock of his words broke over her like ice water. His implication was clear—that she'd been in unsavory, unacceptable places—and what was equally clear was that he felt she deserved to be there. She felt her cheeks redden, and Belle lifted her chin, moving past him quickly, determined not to respond. Not that she could. The surprise of his comment had robbed her of words, even though she knew he would never have said it if she hadn't goaded him.

  You asked for it, a small voice chastised her. She bit her lip, knowing it was true, but the realization didn't make her feel any better. Damn him anyway. Damn him for knowing just what to say to irritate her.

  Had he always known her this well? Had he always been able to wound her with a word, always known exactly what was in her mind? Belle couldn't remember; she had deliberately tried to forget, and now she wished she knew something—anything—of what he was thinking. Once, she would have known. But now those deep-set hazel eyes revealed nothing.

  Except fear.

  The thought reassured her, reminded her that she could get to him, too, that she had the power to disconcert him even though she didn't know why.

  She slanted him a glance, watching his slow, swivel- hipped walk, his smiling nod at something Sarah said. What would it take to put that fear in his eyes again? A word? Something else? Maybe a touch? Belle shuddered at the thought. She swallowed, pushing away the images, concentrating on the ground beneath her feet. It didn't matter. She had no interest in making Rand angry, or fearful, or anything. It would be better if he didn't notice her at all, if he just left her alone until she could get herself and Sarah out of here.

  "I ain't decided where to bury her yet," Sarah was saying as they entered the yard and started around to the front. "Janey liked tulips."

  "I don't think your grandma would take kindly to us digging up her tulip beds," Rand said. "How 'bout if we put her over by the lilac tree?"

  "That's where Scout lies."

  "Well, do you think Janey would mind a cat lying on top of her?"

  Sarah looked thoughtful. "I don't know."

  "1 don't think she would," he said.

  "No, I guess not." Sarah looked at Belle. "Do you think she'd mind?"

  "I don't think so," Belle said. "Scout might even keep her warm in the wintertime."

  Sarah smiled. "That's what I think too."

  "Good, then that's where we'll dig," Rand said. They rounded the corner of the house, and he eased the shovel from over his shoulder and went to the huge, spreading lilac tree beside the porch. "Where's Janey?"

  "Over there," Sarah said. She grabbed a weathered wooden fruit box from the porch and hurried back to them. "She's in here."

  Rand nodded briefly and began to dig. Belle stood back, watching as Sarah set the box on the ground and fumbled with the red flannel rag she'd wrapped the doll in. "1 wisht we had some flow'rs," she said wistfully. "I couldn't find any."

  Rand paused in his digging. "We'll just pretend we have flowers, Little Bit."

  "I don't wanna pretend."

  "We don't have much of a choice."

/>   "But Mister Benson had flow'rs at his fun'ral."

  "Mr. Benson was in a funeral parlor."

  Sarah tugged at her sunbonnet. "Then I wanna take Janey to a fun'ral parlor."

  Rand sighed in exasperation. He ran a hand through his hair. "Sarah, we can't—"

  "What about leaves?" Belle asked.

  "Leaves?" Sarah frowned. "What d'you mean?"

  "Leaves are awfully pretty now," Belle said. "All those colors—seems to me they're even better than flowers. Why, it'd be like puttin' gold on Janey's grave, don't you think?"

  Sarah's brow wrinkled in consternation. "Like gold?"

  "Uh-huh. Not many people are lucky enough to have pretty gold leaves on their graves."

  "That's right, Sarah," Rand agreed—surprisingly. "I think Janey would like it."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  Sarah nodded. "I think Janey would like leaves too." She ran off to gather them, her sunbonnet bouncing over her shoulders. Belle watched her go, dimly aware that Rand stood there, too, motionless for a moment before he began digging again.

  She waited for him to say something to her, but he didn't. Just kept digging. The thud-scrape of the shovel against the dirt—rhythmic, steady—was the only sound between them. Goose bumps rushed over Belle's skin. Rand was digging with concentrated effort. Almost as if there was someone he wanted to put in that hole.

  Me maybe. Belle forced a smile at the thought. She cleared her throat. "You only have to dig deep enough for a doll, you know," she said.

  Rand glanced up at her, a look that sent shivers through her again. One cold, angry look. "I know." He didn't stop digging.

  Belle took a deep breath and turned away. So much for conversation. She didn't even know why she tried. It wasn't as if she gave a damn whether he liked her or not.

  "Papa!"

  Sarah's screech of excitement cut through Belle's thoughts. Her head jerked up, she saw Sarah standing by one of the huge oaks, near a pile of leaves, gesturing wildly. "Papa, come see!"

  Rand straightened. "What is it?"