"Are you listening to me, Isabelle?"
"No."
Lillian gave an exasperated sigh, one Belle recognized all too well from her childhood. "Then hurry up with your oatmeal. We've got work to do."
Belle's head jerked up. "We?" she asked incredulously. "You want me to help you with somethin'?"
Lillian nodded. "You and Sarah. The two of you have been running around this farm like children. It's about time you did some work."
"Sarah is a child."
"One is never too young to be useful."
The words had the unwelcome ring of familiarity, and Belle winced. "Oh, yeah."
Lillian threw her a disapproving glance. "Isabelle."
"There's nothin' wrong with havin' a good time, Mama. Maybe you should learn that instead of all these lessons you're constantly preachin' on."
"Finish your breakfast." Lillian untied her apron and hung it on a peg near the door. She pulled another from the peg, an older, coarser one, and put it on with crisp efficiency, tying it with a flourish. She pulled open the door, and a draft of cold morning air streamed into the kitchen. "Sarah!" she called. "Sarah, get in here now!"
"Oh, for God's sake, Mama." Belle pushed back her bowl and got to her feet. "I'll help you if it'll make you feel better, but let Sarah go on and play."
"Sarah played yesterday."
It was an obvious reprimand for the trip to the canal, and Belle took a deep breath and bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. She was too damned tired today to go toe-to-toe with her mother, and it didn't matter anyway. She already knew Lillian would get her way, and Belle and Sarah would be pulling potatoes all day, and that was just the way things were going to be. There was no point in fighting it, and Belle wasn't sure she wanted to anyway. At least she and Sarah would be together, and Belle was fairly certain she could think of some way to make pulling potatoes fun.
Sarah came bursting in the back door. "Here I am!" She threw a big smile at Belle. "Belle, c'n we go back to the canal today? I bet Bandit's there, and we can jump off—"
"Later, Sarah," Lillian said firmly. "We have work to do today."
Belle made a face. "I hope you like pullin' potatoes."
"Pullin’ taters?" Sarah frowned. She looked at Lillian. "But, Grandma, I want Belle and me to go to the canal!"
"The canal will still be there tomorrow." Lillian handed Belle an old brown apron and motioned to the door. "Come along, now, both of you. It's already almost noon."
"It's already almost noon." God, how often she'd heard those words when she was a girl. The sound of them now sent annoyance racing through her. Lillian grabbed Sarah's hand, and the two of them went out the back door. Belle gulped the last few sips of her coffee so quickly, she nearly burned her throat, then she put on the apron and followed her mother and Sarah out the back door and to the side of the house. The day was sunny, but there was a chill in the air along with the lingering dampness from last night's frost. It would be winter soon. Winter, when there was nothing to do but stay cooped up inside, when the morning was as dark as the night before.
It made Belle tired to think of it. Not because she didn't like winter but because being imprisoned by snow and ice meant there was no place to go, no place to escape to. And after last night she was beginning to realize just how much she needed such a place.
Despite herself she thought of Rand again. Of the way he'd come into the tavern and lied to her, of the way he said "I'm sorry"—all that sincerity, all that hope tied up in two words. The two words she'd waited six years to hear. "I'm sorry."
She'd pictured them a hundred times in her mind, imagined him on his knees in front of her, begging for pardon. There were times when she thought the only thing in the world she wanted was to hear him say, "I'm sorry. Please forgive me."
So that she could laugh in his face and walk away.
She'd nearly done that yesterday. Had refused to accept his apology, had left him standing there alone in the moonlight. But somehow it didn't fill her with the satisfaction she'd expected. Instead she felt—empty. Disappointed.
Belle told herself it was because he'd apologized for the wrong thing. He'd apologized for thinking she took Sarah, for not trusting her. But not for treating Belle so badly six years ago. Not for any of that.
She should have accepted his apology, she knew. But something had burrowed inside her, a burning resentment that made her want to reject him, to hurt him. She wanted him on edge, nervous and uncomfortable. She wanted to punish him.
"Belle! Don't dawdle."
Her mother's voice broke into her thoughts, and Belle looked up to see Lillian and Sarah already in the garden. Lillian held a beat-up bushel basket, and Sarah was looking at a trowel as if it were some sort of weird monster. For the first time since her mother suggested it, Belle found herself not minding the thought of pulling potatoes. If nothing else, it would take her mind off last night. It would keep her from searching the fields, looking for some sign of Rand. It would keep her from wondering what she would see when she looked into his face today. And what she would do about it.
She hurried over to the garden.
"There's another trowel over there," Lillian said, pointing. "Isabelle, why don't you start at that end? Sarah, you come and work with me."
"But I wanna work with Belle."
Lillian frowned. "Belle's got her own work—"
"It's all right, Mama." Belle smiled. "Come on, Sarah. You and me can pretend we're huntin' for buried treasure."
"Yeah!" Sarah beamed. She came hurrying over. "I'll be Pirate Kate, 'n you can be my slave."
Belle raised an eyebrow at Lillian. "Pirate Kate?"
Her mother's frown deepened. "Rand reads her those terrible things, not I."
Belle knelt until she was even with Sarah. "Don't listen to her," she said in a loud whisper. "I saw her read 'Bandits of the Osage' once."
Sarah frowned. "What's an Oh-sawge?"
"It's a place. But they've got Indians there."
"I heard stories 'bout Indians. Mean ones that scalp people. I had a bad dream 'bout 'em once."
Belle smiled reassuringly. "Well, they're mostly gone from here. But out west there are plenty of—"
"That's enough, Belle." Lillian came marching over, taking Sarah firmly by the hand. "Go on into the kitchen and get a rag," she instructed Sarah. She waited until the child had gone a few yards before she turned again to Belle. "You'll give her nightmares."
Belle sighed and got to her feet. "I'm just tellin' stories, Mama."
"They aren't fit for a child's ears." Lillian made a sound of exasperation. "Pirates, Indians—the next thing I know, you'll be telling her stories about outlaws and criminals."
"Only if I can think of one with plenty of blood in it," Belle joked. "Really, Mama, you're gettin' upset over nothin'. They're just stories, just a little fun, that's all."
Lillian's face tightened. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Isabelle, you haven't changed at all." Angrily she turned away.
Belle felt the heat of a flush on her cheeks. Her mother's words sounded strangely familiar, and she remembered last night, when John and Charlie had told her she hadn't changed at all and she'd thought it a compliment. Had laughed and smiled and agreed that no, she hadn't changed. The echo of those words rang in her mother's voice, only now they were touched with scorn.
And Belle suddenly realized they weren't a compliment at all. They were more like a curse.
She watched Lillian grab the bushel basket and move with small, weary steps to the other end of the garden, bending at the waist as if she were an old woman carrying a burden too heavy to bear. Belle knew without asking what that burden was.
It had always been the same. It had always been her.
The knowledge made her chest tight, and that, too, was familiar. She'd felt that particular ache since she was a child. For a lifetime she'd seen the disappointment and bitterness in her mother's face, had known that somehow she wasn't the daughter Lillian wanted. In her mother
's eyes she had never been good enough. Never gracious enough, or sweet enough, or proper enough. But Belle thought she'd learned to live with that. In the last six years she thought she'd made peace with it, had learned to make a place for herself.
It was a shock to realize it wasn't true. A shock to realize her mother could still reduce her to nothing. "You haven't changed at all." The words whittled away at her, banging against her defenses, and along with them came the urge to believe them.
Even though they weren't true. She had changed. She'd had no choice but to change. The impetuous, carefree girl she'd been was gone; that girl had disappeared one freezing November, had shattered beneath the onslaught of Rand's betrayal and her mother's angry words. "You're a disgrace to this family, a disgrace, do you understand me?"
Belle swallowed through the lump of tears in her throat, forced herself to take a deep breath and look away. She was done with those memories, done with the restless nights spent hoping her mother hadn't meant the words, wishing somehow that they were a lie. Knowing they weren't. In all those nights Belle had made herself one promise: Her mother would never, never make her cry again. She could live with the fact that Lillian didn't love her. She could live with knowing she would never be the daughter her mother wanted. But she would never let Lillian see how much that hurt.
That's what Belle told herself, anyway. And if deep inside was the hope that maybe someday—someday she would wake up and it wouldn't hurt anymore, then it was only a trivial wish, a passing fancy. A dream that didn't matter now and never had.
But she knew that was the biggest lie of all.
Chapter 18
He waited outside the schoolhouse until the bell rang. The front door opened, and the children came streaming out, talking in high- pitched, excited tones, swinging empty lunch pails and carrying McGuffey's Readers close to their chests. He stood there by the stump in the schoolyard, nodding hellos to the children as they passed, hearing their "Hey, Mr. Sault"s with half an ear. His eyes were trained on the old clapboard schoolhouse, on that open door, and his mouth was dry. He should not be here, he knew that.
But he had no choice. The images from last night still danced in his head, haunted his dreams. Over and over he saw Belle's golden hair, saw the shadowed wariness in her eyes and the defensive way she held her chin. And over and over again he heard the words from their past: ". . . Only if you kiss me. ..."
No, he had no choice at all.
Rand waited until the last child had left the schoolyard, until their voices echoed back to him from the road, and he straightened and looked at the open door.
He swallowed and went inside.
Marie was near the far wall, writing something on the big blackboard. Her handwriting was neat and even, every letter perfectly rounded, perfectly spaced. She reached up to push away a stray hair from her face, and the motion was graceful and delicate even though she didn't know anyone was watching.
Rand leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest, striving for nonchalance even though he felt stiff and vaguely guilty. "'The fat hen is on the box,'" he read. "Exciting reading."
She jumped; one hand fluttered to her chest and she spun around, her eyes wide and startled. "Oh— Rand—" She breathed, blushing. "I—I didn't hear you there."
"Sorry," he said. He stepped closer. The room smelled like chalk dust and woodsmoke from the stove in the corner. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Why you—you didn't. That is, you did, but it's fine."
Rand's smile widened. She was prettily flustered, the knowledge made him feel more confident, even a little cocky. "I just came by to see if I could carry your books home."
"My books?" She glanced at the pile on her desk involuntarily. "Well, I—I'm not sure I should let you."
"Why not?" Rand moved closer. "How can I get to be teacher's pet if I can't spoil the teacher?"
She flushed again. God, she was so easily discomfited —nothing like Belle, who was always so quick to spit out a teasing retort.
He told himself it was refreshing, told himself it was what he wanted. He gave Marie his best smile. "I promise I won't bite."
She looked at him, and he saw the measuring expression in her eyes, knew she was wondering what he was doing and whether she should go along with it. Knew also that she would. So he waited patiently, working to keep his guilt at bay, trying to concentrate on the softness of her face and the way the serviceable gray dress clung to her curves, trying to imagine how that brown hair would look coming loose over her shoulders. Brown hair, not blond. He stepped closer. "Come for a walk with me, Marie."
She sighed, a giving-in sigh, a soft surrender. He tried to remember if she'd made that sound before he kissed her last summer, and couldn't. "All right," she said, smiling. "Just let me get my cloak."
He followed her to the back of the schoolroom, waited while she clasped her cloak about her shoulders. She moved quickly, a little nervously, as they went outside and she latched the door behind them.
"I didn't get the chance to congratulate you for taking second prize at the fair," she said as they started down the path. "Bertha was lovely."
"As lovely as a pig can be." He chuckled.
"I—I watched with your mama," she said.
"Did you?"
"I meant to come down afterward, but then Lydia came over, and—"
"And you didn't think she would approve."
She threw him a look. "That wasn't it at all," she said, and there was a heat in her voice he found interesting. "You know how she can be—she just pulled me away to something. But that's all."
"You weren't worried she'd tell her brother?"
"Tell him what? I told you Charlie and I are just friends."
"I see." He nodded thoughtfully. "I'm not sure he'd say that."
He heard the slight catch of her breath. "Why would you think so? Have you talked to him?"
"I saw him last night down at the tavern."
Her face went rigid. "And you talked about me?"
"No." He shook his head with a smile. "No, he was playing poker with—Belle. I got the impression he wasn't happy to see me."
"Oh. I can't imagine why." She was quiet for a moment. They walked slowly, their footsteps sounding a crunching rhythm on the leaf-strewn road. "Does Belle often go to a—a tavern?"
Rand shrugged. "She used to spend a lot of time down there when she was younger. I guess she never grew out of it."
"Doesn't your stepmother care?"
"She doesn't have much to say about it." He stopped just under a huge oak tree at the edge of the road. The leaves nestled around his feet, fluttered from the mostly bare branches overhead. "I didn't come here to talk about Belle." He paused, measuring the words. "Does Charlie know you and he are 'just friends'?"
Her eyes widened, and there was a touch of annoyance in her voice. "I don't know what he thinks. And I'm not sure I know what you mean. Are you—"
He barely heard her words, but her face filled his vision: the big eyes, the rosy fairness of her skin, her full mouth. He felt the books pressing against his stomach, and he wanted to drop them, to pull her close until he felt her breasts and her hips against his body, until he buried all those visions of Belle in Marie's form and flavor.
But the books were in the way, so he merely stepped closer and bent until her mouth was inches from his and he heard the words stop in her throat, heard her startled breath and the soft "oh my," before he kissed her.
She didn't back away, didn't move. Her lips were soft and heated beneath his, parting slightly—ever so slightly —until he took advantage and forced them open so that he could taste her, so that he could run his tongue along her lips and dip inside. She tasted of peppermint and
smelled of roses, and she was so damned feminine and pretty and gentle that he wanted somehow to destroy it. Wanted to grab her roughly and jerk her against him, to see if she would gasp in surprise at the touch of his body or melt into him.
But mostly—oh, God
, mostly—what he wanted was a different taste, a different scent. What he wanted was bourbon and sweet coffee, soap and water and sunshine. Sweet Jesus, what he wanted. . . .
Rand jerked away, stepped away, putting feet between them now instead of inches, feeling the rush of blood into his chest, his fingers. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to calm down.
But when he opened his eyes again, Marie was staring at him, and her lips were pink and slightly swollen from his kiss, her eyes almost black with emotion.
"Rand," she said—the word was a rush of sound, a drawn-out breath—"Oh, Rand."
He swallowed. This was what he'd come here for, that look of wonder. This was what he needed. There was innocent passion in her eyes, he'd seen it enough not to mistake it, and he knew he could make it less innocent, knew he could turn it into lust and desire, knew he could make her hunger for him.
It would be enough. He could make it enough.
He forced a smile. "So," he said, and the word felt tight, leaden on his tongue. "What about Charlie?"
She licked her lips. "Don't worry about Charlie."
He nodded and started walking again. He heard her light, quick steps behind him as she hurried to catch up, and then she was beside him and she laid her hand possessively on his arm. He let it stay there as they walked for a while in silence.
Finally she broke the quiet. "I know you've been busy," she began. He heard the hesitation in her voice, the slight plea. "What with the corn needing to be cut and all, but I thought—I hoped—well, will you come to Paula's singing party tomorrow night?"
He wanted to say no, but he knew he couldn't. He'd made a declaration of sorts and he couldn't back down. Couldn't kiss her and ask her—however tacitly—not to see Charlie and then ignore her. He knew she wanted to be cosseted and displayed. Probably she had some new dress she wanted him to see. And if he planned to make her his wife, he needed to show a real interest in her. The townspeople expected it. She expected it.
The idea only made him tired. But Rand smiled down at her and tried to look happy. "Yeah," he said. "I'll come."
After the frost f Page 19
