After the frost f

by Chance, Megan

  "I got me a baby snake! Hurry!"

  The shovel handle thudded to the ground. Rand raced across the yard. He was almost there by the time Belle realized what Sarah had said. A baby snake. There were copperheads in these woods, and she knew a baby one was no less dangerous than a full-grown one. To a child like Sarah it could be lethal.

  Quickly Belle followed, but by the time she got to Sarah, Rand was already pulling the little girl back from the pile of leaves.

  "Where is it?" he was asking.

  "In there." Sarah pulled away from him, pointing into the leaves. "You prob'ly scared it away, Papa."

  "Stay back." He grabbed her hand and turned to Belle. "Watch her," he demanded.

  Belle nodded. Slowly, carefully, Rand kicked at the leaves with his foot.

  "Oh, that's smart," she said sarcastically. "Keep doin' that and I'll have to call Dr. Stewart."

  "Quiet." He didn't even look at her. Warily he squatted down, leaned closer. Then incredibly he smiled. "Shhh," he whispered. "Little Bit, come here."

  Belle put a hand out to stop Sarah. "Wait a minute—"

  "It's all right." He gestured for Sarah to move closer. "Sarah, look at this."

  Sarah pushed past Belle's skirt to stand beside Rand. "I don't see anythin'," she said.

  "Right there." He pointed into the leaves.

  Sarah frowned. "I can't see."

  "All right. Just a minute." Rand reached into the leaves, poking around with his fingers. Belle leaned forward, trying to see over Sarah as Rand drew back, this time with something cupped in his hand. When he turned to Sarah, there was a broad smile on his face. "Ready?"

  She nodded.

  Slowly Rand opened his hand.

  Sarah gasped. "It is a baby snake!"

  Coiled in his palm was a tiny garter snake. How he had seen it, Belle had no idea. It was the color of the leaves, brown and gold, and it was still as death, its beady eyes watching them warily.

  "Quiet," he warned. "It's just a little garter snake."

  Sarah's eyes were round. "Can I touch it?"

  He nodded. "Be careful, you don't want to hurt it."

  Tentatively she reached out, touching the snake with the tip of her finger. The reptile moved, curling into a tighter ball, and Sarah jerked back. "It tried to bite me!"

  "No, it didn't," Rand assured her. "You scared it, that's all. It's just a baby, Sarah."

  "Can I—can I hold it?" she asked.

  Rand's eyes were fastened on her face. "Promise to be careful?"

  She nodded solemnly. "Uh-huh."

  "All right, then. Hold out your hand." When she did, Rand straightened her fingers so that they laid flat. Then, with his hand still steadying hers, he slid the tiny snake into her palm. The garter snake shivered. Its tongue flicked out.

  Sarah jerked, but Rand held her hand in place. "Careful, Little Bit."

  She stood there for a moment staring down at the snake, watching it carefully. Then suddenly she looked up, her large brown eyes alight with pleasure, and giggled.

  It was a warm, sincere, heartfelt sound, and it went right through Belle. She wanted to laugh, too, from the sheer joy of seeing Sarah's screwed-up face, but somehow she couldn't.

  You don't belong here. The words rushed through Belle's mind, slicing into her heart, and she stood there watching Rand and Sarah smile together, watching the little snake twist in Sarah's palm. Belle felt suddenly confused, lost and abandoned—as if she were intruding on an intensely private moment between two people she didn't know. She saw the way Rand squatted in front of Sarah, a six-foot-tall man suddenly the height of a five- year-old, saw the way his tanned fingers curled around Sarah's, his eyes reflecting her pleasure—and Belle saw it all as if she were watching strangers in a park.

  You don't belong here.

  Her mouth went dry. Belle stepped back, wishing that she could disappear and hating herself for wishing it. Only minutes ago she'd been annoyed with Rand for intruding on her time with Sarah, but now the tables were neatly turned, and it reminded her suddenly, uncomfortably, of the other night. Everything was the same. She'd felt as out of place listening to their stories, seeing their quiet companionship, as she felt right now.

  She would never have that kind of relationship with Sarah. Belle knew it with a sudden, blinding flash of understanding so painful, it left her breathless. Coming back here had been a stupid, reckless waste of time. What had she been thinking? That she could just walk into their lives and take over? That it would be a simple matter to wrest Sarah away from Rand—that Sarah wanted to be rescued?

  The silly fantasy came racing back. The fantasy where Belle took Sarah's hand, led her to the train, and told her she was safe, that she would never have to go back again. The fantasy where Sarah looked up at her with loving, thankful eyes and smiled.

  The same smile Sarah was turning on Rand now.

  The same loving, thankful look.

  Belle swallowed the lump in her throat, confused and embarrassed. Because the look Sarah reserved for her was nothing like that. Because in her daughter's eyes Belle had never seen anything but uncertainty or common politeness.

  "She's happy here," Rand had said not so many days ago. And she hadn't believed him. Had seen the rebellion in Sarah's eyes, the resentment, and believed that instead. But now, for the first time, Belle wondered if maybe Rand had been right.

  "She's happy here. Goddammit, she's happy."

  Maybe.

  Belle's hands were shaking, she twined them in her skirt, trying desperately to steady them. Rand looked up at the movement. She saw the surprise in his eyes and she knew he had forgotten she was there. For only a moment, but he'd forgotten nonetheless.

  The knowledge made her feel more invisible than ever. Belle swallowed again, tried to smile. "I—think— uh—I'll just go on upstairs for a minute," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "I'll be back—"

  "You ain't gonna miss the fun'ral?" Sarah asked.

  "No. No, I won't miss it."

  But she would, and Belle knew it—and knew they wouldn't miss her at all.

  She turned and walked back to the house.

  Chapter 10

  At first Belle didn't know where to go. She stepped inside the hall and closed the door quietly behind her. The darkened hallway was rich and warm with the scents of beeswax and spice, and she heard the steady murmur of voices, the ringing laughter from the kitchen. It made her feel more alone than ever.

  She didn't know what to do. What the hell should she do? She hadn't expected any of this, hadn't expected Rand to love Sarah or for Sarah to love Rand back. Hadn't expected Sarah to be happy. But she was, and it was obvious Belle's plans to rescue her daughter were stupid and pointless. There was nothing to rescue her from. Nothing except Lillian's stifling control, and now Belle realized Rand would keep Sarah safe from that, just as he had protected Belle from it long ago.

  You were wrong about him. Wrong about everything. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  No, that was not strictly true. She hadn't been wrong about everything. Rand wasn't the same man she'd run away from six years before. He was nothing but a farmer now, a man whose big dreams had somehow disappeared. A man she no longer trusted with her heart.

  But those were the only things that were different, really. In other ways, important ways, he hadn't changed. The last few days crowded in around Belle, smothering her with images: Rand talking to Sarah on the porch, listening to her outrageous stories; Rand digging a hole for a doll's grave; Rand carefully putting a coiled baby snake into his daughter's hand. Belle had forgotten the kindness in him. It had been wrong to think he wouldn't know how to give Sarah the kind of life she deserved. Belle took a deep breath. Rand would do anything for Sarah, she knew that now. Because he truly loved his daughter.

  Belle couldn't take Sarah away from that. In spite of the fact that she would never forgive Rand for what he'd done to her, she couldn't—wouldn't—take revenge on him by taking Sarah.

  Hell, she didn'
t want revenge anyway.

  She didn't know what she wanted.

  Belle put a shaking hand on the banister and slowly went up the stairs, barely hearing the telltale creak of the third step. In her mind she heard laughter, Sarah's high-pitched giggle and Rand's deep, throaty tones. They went well together, belonged together. Rand and Sarah, Sarah and Rand—the names singsonged in her brain like an old game. By all the laws of every land, I give Sarah unto Rand. By all the rafters of the house, I marry the cat unto the mouse. . . .

  She had played that game with Rand once, Belle remembered. One afternoon when she was barely thirteen, in the empty Salem church, she had laughed and married him to a rat, a dog, and a chicken before he'd chased her from the altar.

  Back then it had been the two of them against the world—or against her mother anyway. Belle and Rand. Rand and Belle. There had been a time when Cort had been part of that too. Though older than Rand by two years, and busy with his own life, Cort had been their

  guardian angel—the one who covered their truancy with excuses, the one who defended her reputation that spring Rand was gone. She remembered a story Cort told her once, about a group of swordsmen who banded together against the enemies of a queen. She and Cort and Rand had been like that. The Three Musketeers, Cort had called them.

  The Three Musketeers. The thought saddened her. The three of them had been a family once, just as Sarah and Rand were a family now—a family that didn't include her, even though without her it could never have existed.

  You don't belong here. Not anymore.

  Belle swallowed. She didn't belong anywhere. Not here in this house nor in New York City nor in Cincinnati. She had spent the last six years making sure of it, living a day at a time, never knowing where her next meal would come from or whether she would have a job tomorrow or the day after.

  The only thing she had known for sure in those years was that one day she would come back for Sarah.

  And now that she finally had, Sarah didn't need her.

  Belle stopped at the top of the stairs, staring at the row of closed doors before her, and before she had time to think, before she even knew what she was doing, she moved toward Sarah's room. It was Cort's old room, at the other end of the hall from hers, and as she got closer, Belle could still see the lines drawn on the door, growth markings, scribbled in the cramped, tiny writing of Cort and Rand's mother: Cort: 2 years, 5 years, 6 years . . .

  Belle frowned. Paralleling the marks were others, dark black lines she didn't recognize. She bent closer to trace one with her finger. Growth marks, like Cort's, but scrawled in a different hand, one that was darker, bolder. She squinted, trying to make out the round, uneven handwriting. Sarah: 3 years, 4 years, 5 years.

  Belle's heart pounded in her chest; for a moment the ache was so strong, she couldn't breathe, couldn't even move. It was Rand's handwriting, she recognized it now. Sarah: 3 years, 4 .. . Belle squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn't block the images. Sarah at three, at four. Sarah growing, inch by inch, into the child Belle had just left in the front yard with Rand.

  God, it was incredible that it should hurt this much. But then she remembered how she'd felt the day she left Sarah at the Masons' boardinghouse, and Belle realized it had hurt this badly then, too, and she had only forgotten. In the years that followed, the pain had faded, leaving regret, yes, but relief more than anything else, relief that Sarah was safe and Belle was free—at least for now.

  But she hadn't really been free, and Belle knew it. Freedom was not backbreaking work in boardinghouses and restaurants, scraping by for everything. Freedom was not living hand-to-mouth, working just to eke out a living for herself. No, she had never been free. Especially because the vision of Sarah was always there, always in the back of her mind. Sarah red-faced and mewling, just as she'd been when Belle put her in Gem Mason's arms and walked out the door. And always in the back of Belle's mind was the promise she'd made to return.

  She had always intended to go back once she'd made a good life for them, to show up on Gem's doorstep one day and take her baby back into her arms.

  But there had never been enough money, enough time, enough of the "good life," and though the vision of that baby had stayed with her, it grew fainter and fainter with each passing day, each year. She had not gone back until it was too late and that baby had grown into a little girl she didn't know at all.

  Belle glanced again at the door, trying hard to imagine the way Sarah had looked through the years. Sarah at three had been that tall. Sarah at three had stood in front of this door, gazing up at Rand while he measured her height. Belle could see the way Sarah would have looked up at him, the way she laughed and held out her arms for a hug.

  Belle could imagine all that. But only as a vague vision. She didn't know how Sarah had really looked or what she'd been wearing or what that day had been like. Those memories were Rand's, not hers.

  She had missed it all.

  Regret washed over her, so powerful it left her shaking and the black marks on the door wavered in front of her eyes, melted into a wash of tears. She had not wanted this, had never intended it. When she'd left Sarah with the Masons, she meant to be back in a few months, maybe even a year. No longer. But that time had slipped away from her, and now there was no way to get it back. No way, and yet she wanted it, suddenly wanted it so badly, she ached. Six years, and she had nothing. Nothing but memories of regret and sadness. Nothing but bitterness.

  Rand had it all. He had seen Sarah every morning, had put her to bed every night. Had nursed her fevers and taught her words and shown her the night sky.

  Belle squeezed her eyes shut. It could've been you, and you gave it away. It could've been you. Ah, God, how stupid she'd been. How stupid she still was, thinking she could take Sarah away from that and that things would be fine, thinking that Sarah would love her, trust her, even though they'd only known each other a week. Believing she could just step in and be the mother she'd never bothered to be before.

  Belle made a sound of disgust. She was Sarah's mother, yes, at least physically. But she knew that when it came right down to it, Rand was more a mother than she was. The thought made her sick inside.

  What the hell did a person do to fight that?

  She couldn't fight it, couldn't make Sarah love her. Today had shown her that, even if the last week hadn't. No, much as Belle wanted things to be different, those years had gone. She couldn't bring them back, and she couldn't deny that living in New York had made her a stranger to her daughter. It didn't matter that she was Sarah's mother. Being a mother didn't guarantee a child would trust you or love you. Trust was something that had to be earned, and love sometimes never came at all —Belle knew that better than most.

  Suddenly she saw her plan to take Sarah and run for what it was—hasty and selfish. Sarah would hate her for taking her away from Rand, and God—God—Belle didn't want to see that hatred in her daughter's eyes. Didn't want a mother-daughter relationship like the one she had with Lillian.

  But she couldn't leave either. Before, maybe, it had been possible. Before she'd learned that Sarah was a person and not just the vague, mindless child Belle had imagined. Now it was too late.

  What she wanted was to be Sarah's mother.

  Belle swallowed. She wanted to be a real mother, wanted to see trust and love shining from Sarah's eyes, wanted to hear laughter meant for her ears alone. There was only one way to have that.

  She would have to stay.

  Rand rubbed his forehead to ease the pain behind his eyes. God, he was tired. Tired and tense from the effort of being around Belle, even though he'd only spent minutes with her. It was more than enough. The strain of yesterday was between them, the memory of how he'd almost touched her tormented him, and he wondered again why the hell he'd done it, what had possessed him to reach out to grab her through the railing. After today, after seeing again that damned shield shuttering her eyes and hearing her brittle sarcasm, he wondered why he'd even wanted to explain anything to her
yesterday, wondered what had seemed so important.

  He did not like being around her. He hated the hungry way she watched Sarah. It was why he'd taken time away from the fields to dig Janey's grave today. He couldn't stand the thought of Belle being alone with Sarah, was terrified that one day he would return to find the two of them gone.

  The thought sent a chill running through him, and Rand forced it away and glanced hastily back to where Sarah played near the newly dug grave. Her voice drifted back to him, high and singsongy as she sang to the buried Janey. He should keep the shovel handy, he thought. He wouldn't be surprised if tomorrow Sarah demanded that the doll be dug up again. Rand took a deep breath and walked across the porch, opening the front door and going inside the cool, dark hallway. It would be Sarah's version of the resurrection, no doubt.

  "I need to talk to you a minute."

  Belle's voice seemed to come from nowhere. He jumped, startled, before he realized she was above him on the stairs. His stomach knotted instantly. Reluctantly Rand looked up. He could have predicted how she would look just from her tone. Arms crossed, chin raised, and mouth set. That defiant, challenging look was in her eyes again, along with something else. Rand frowned. Something like—like tears. In fact if he didn't know better, he would have sworn she'd been crying.

  He told himself he was imagining things. He'd never seen Belle cry. Except once, he amended. Just the one time ... He shoved the memory away.

  "I need to talk to you," she said again.

  The words didn't bode well, and he didn't want to talk to her, didn't even want to look at her. Rand eased back toward the door. "Can't it wait?"

  "No." She stepped down. One step, another, and Rand felt like a condemned man waiting for sentencing. But the feeling died abruptly when she stopped and uncrossed her arms, placing one slender hand on the banister. She looked away as if she were uncomfortable. "I —I've been thinkin'."

  "Good news."

  She didn't react to his sarcasm. "About Sarah."

  Rand's blood froze. "What about her?"