A twinge of guilt shot through her. She took a sip of coffee, swallowed quickly. "One of those nights again?" she asked.
His eyes widened—again in surprise, as if he thought she would have forgotten his bouts with sleeplessness. "Yeah."
"Still drinkin' warm milk?"
He looked at her quizzically. "It never helped much."
"It didn't taste good either."
His eyes didn't leave her face. "No."
Belle looked down, disconcerted by his gaze, feeling the blood rise in her cheeks. Something about his look disturbed her, the same way his words had yesterday when he'd asked her to the party, when his quiet invitation made her feel weak and strange, made her say yes despite her best intentions. That moment standing on the bridge had changed something between them; she felt the shift in the air, in the shape and tenor of his glance. Something was different, something that made her feel uncomfortable and exhilarated and nervous, something that took her anger and urged her to move carefully, cautiously.
Sarah climbed down from her chair. "Come on, Belle," she said. "Hurry 'n eat so we can go play."
Lillian looked over her shoulder. "Not until the onions are done. Dorothy'll be here shortly."
Sarah pouted. "But, Grandma, we gotta go see the frog."
"The frog will still be there later."
Belle pushed aside her coffee and got to her feet. "Come on, Sarah. Let's go on outside for a minute. I want to tell you somethin'."
Lillian frowned. "Isabelle—" she said sternly.
"Just for a minute, Mama," Belle said. She grabbed Sarah's hand.
"But—"
"It's all right," Rand said slowly. "Let her go."
His gaze was slow and scrutinizing; it made Belle feel strangely light-headed. Discomfited, she turned away, ushering Sarah to the door.
"Where're we goin'?" Sarah asked as they stepped outside into the frosty morning air. "Can we go to the pond—"
"Not now," Belle said firmly. She closed the door behind them and sat on the step, pulling Sarah down beside her. "We're goin' to help Grandma with the onions first, because she asked us so nice, and then we'll go out to the pond when we're done."
"But the frog might be gone by then."
"He won't be gone." Belle smiled as reassuringly as she could, resisting the urge to pull Sarah into her arms and squeeze her tightly. "Besides, I know a special way to get frogs to come out, and if you're real good today, I'll show you how."
Sarah looked at her with wide eyes. "Really?"
"Uh-huh." Belle glanced out at the yard, white with frost that was rapidly melting in the sunlight. She heard the cows lowing in the pasture. It was so peaceful now, it was hard to believe there was anything dangerous in the world at all. Belle licked her lips. "I want to tell you somethin', Sarah. Can you listen real carefully? This is important."
Sarah nodded. "All right."
"Good." Belle searched for the right words. Though she'd spent all night rehearsing them in her head, now she felt tongue-tied and oddly nervous. She took a deep breath and twisted to look into Sarah's face. "Yesterday, when you went to the canal by yourself—that was a very bad thing to do."
"But you said we could jump—"
Belle winced. "I was wrong, Sarah. Your papa told you not to go down to the canal, and he was right. I was a big girl when I did all those things. You're not a big girl."
"I will be soon."
Belle nodded. "Someday. But not yet. D'you remember why you can't go down there by yourself?"
" 'Cause it's dang'rous."
"That's right. It's dangerous." Belle squeezed her hand. "Lots of things are dangerous, Sarah. That's why we tell you no sometimes, so you won't get hurt. That's why your grandma and your papa make rules."
Sarah's face scrunched up in thought.
Belle squeezed her hand. "We can play together and have a good time, but we have to follow the rules so we don't get hurt."
"But can we—can we still go to the pond?"
Belle smiled. "Well, I don't know. Is there a rule?"
"Papa says I ain't s'posed to go by myself."
"That's good. But I don't guess you'd be by yourself if I came along, would you?" Belle got to her feet, and when Sarah held out her hand, Belle pulled her up too. "Anytime you want to go to the pond, or the orchard, or anywhere else, you just ask me. I'll go with you if I can."
"Anywhere?"
Belle grinned. "Just about."
"Will you come to the pond 'n show me the frog secret?"
"Yeah, I'll show you the frog secret."
Sarah tugged on her hand. "Let's go now."
Belle knelt until she was even with Sarah. She put a finger to her lips and grinned. "There's another rule, Sarah, but this one'll be our secret, okay?" She waited for Sarah's nod before she went on. "You've always got to help your grandma when she asks you."
"She yells at me when I don't," Sarah said.
"That's right." Belle tried not to laugh at Sarah's glum face. "But good girls help their grandmas, and right now Grandma needs us to help pickle some onions for the cutters." She threw Sarah a conspiratorial wink. "But I'll tell you what: I know your grandma pretty well, and I'll bet if we're real nice, she'll let us go early so we can find that frog of yours."
Sarah's eyes lit. "Really?"
Belle squeezed her hand and smiled. "Really."
The wagon jounced and rattled on the pockmarked road. Every jerk sent pain into Belle's already clenched jaw, made her curl her freezing fingers more deeply into the laprobe tucked around her legs. Her whole body was tight, both from cold and tension, and she was glad the moon hadn't risen quite yet, glad for the dark that wrapped her in soothing, shadowed blindness. It made sitting next to Rand easier somehow, as if by not seeing anything but his shadow, she could pretend he wasn't there, pretend the two of them weren't on their way to a party she'd forgotten all about until this afternoon, when he'd come into the kitchen while they were pickling onions. Until he'd looked at her with that searching, puzzled glance and said in an oddly soft voice, "We'll leave after supper."
That voice reminded her again of her thought that things had somehow changed between them, even though the only solid evidence of a change was when he'd taken her side against Lillian at breakfast. Even that felt elusive and not quite real.
And it could be nothing, she told herself. It could just be your imagination. Maybe.
Maybe not.
Belle swallowed. She glanced at the darkened forest along the road, wishing suddenly that she'd never said she'd go to Paula's party. There was a strange sense of inevitability about it that reminded her of that cold autumn night six years ago, when everything had fallen apart around her.
She told herself she was wrong, that tonight was nothing like that time, that it was just a harmless party, a chance to have a little fun and nothing more. But she didn't really believe it. Things were too different, and she was too aware of him beside her, too aware of his watchful quiet, of his strange tension. When they finally pulled up in front of Paula's house, Belle waited as patiently as she could as Rand maneuvered the buckboard into place along the front of the huge white house, next to a wagon whose canvas top sported the words Thaddeus Homer, Music Master. But the moment they stopped, she pushed the lap blankets aside and shoved them under the seat, jumping to the ground and moving to the house before he had the chance to touch her or say anything.
He tied the horses quickly. When she reached the leveled sandstone steps to the house, he was already beside her. The parlor curtains were drawn, but light glowed through them, sending silhouettes dancing against the fabric. Belle heard laughter and talking, a rumble of sound in the quiet night. Rand knocked on the door. Almost immediately it was flung open.
"Rand!" Paula Rice swept into the doorway, a rustling, shimmering streak of bronze silk and ruching and strawberry-blond hair. "Marie told me you were comin', but I didn't believe her. And you've brought Belle too!" Belle found herself suddenly enveloped in Paula's a
rms, overwhelmed with the scent of violet water. "I'm so glad you came." Paula stepped back, holding Belle at arm's length. "Oh, you look just wonderful—doesn't she look wonderful, Lydia?"
Lydia Boston moved into the doorway, genteel and polished in a gown of dark green silk, her gaze scrutinizing as Belle took off her too-big man's coat. Belle ignored it. She and Lydia had never really been good friends anyway; all those years ago Lydia had been, if not the source of the lies that fed the gossip mill, then at least an eager contributor. She had been in love with Rand then herself, and he had rejected her, and Belle had long since realized that Lydia had only acted out of jealousy and anger.
But just the same, Lydia had never liked her, and tonight, seeing Lydia's hard smile of greeting, Belle knew things hadn't changed. Not that she gave a damn. Charlie's sister had lost the power to hurt her years ago.
Belle forced a hello.
Lydia's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hey there, Belle, it's so nice to see you. And you, too, of course, Rand." Her voice was cloying—so sweet and insincere, Belle's teeth ached.
Rand didn't seem to notice. "Good to see you, Lydia." he said, sweeping off his hat. His hair shone dull gold in the lamplight. He glanced into the open parlor. "Who's here?"
"Why, everybody," Paula gushed, taking Belle's coat. "Tim and David Parker—you remember them—and Sally and Paul. Sophie Lang, of course, and Tom Webster, and . . ." She chattered on, and Belle listened with half an ear. She was too busy looking into the crowded parlor, trying not to catch anyone's eye as she took in the rows of mismatched chairs and the people milling around the refreshment table at the back of the room. There was no one here she remembered, or even wanted to remember, except for Lydia and Paula. And Lydia sure wasn't worth getting reacquainted with.
". . . and Marie of course," Paul finished, taking Rand's coat and hooking it beside Belle's on the pegs by the door. "I know you're anxious to see her, Rand, so go on in. Help yourself to gingerbread and cider."
Belle felt him pause. Studiously she avoided his glance, felt a wave of relief when he finally turned and went into the parlor, disappearing among the others. She forced a smile and looked at Lydia. "Well, how have you been, Lydia? 1 saw your brother the other night. He seems happy as ever."
Lydia's smile looked stretched. "He's been just fine," she said, throwing a glance into the parlor as if she were searching for something. "Until lately of course."
"Until lately?"
Lydia swung her head back around. "Oh—well—he said he lost some money to you last night."
"Are you still playin' cards, Belle?" Paula laughed. Her hand fluttered to the onyx broach on her breast. "I thought sure you'd outgrown that by now."
Belle raised a wry brow. "No point in outgrowin' it when there are people like Charlie just achin' to lose their money."
"I suppose not." Paula said. She put her arm around Belle's shoulder, pulled her close. "Now, Mr. Horner only just arrived, so we have a few minutes. You just have to tell me where you've been all this time. There's a rumor goin' around that you were in New York City."
"Well, that's a true one," Belle said.
"Good heavens, such a big city! I was tellin' Lydia I couldn't even imagine a city like that. Why, I'd get lost in minutes. Didn't I say that, Lydia?"
Lydia nodded distractedly, still scanning the parlor. "You surely did."
"How ever did you survive there?"
Belle shrugged. It was hard to do, wedged as she was against Paula's shoulder. "Dumb luck, I guess."
"Tilly Bronson's cousin, Tom, lives in New York City. She told me he got pickpocketed just last month."
"That'll happen," Belle said. She frowned at Lydia, who wasn't paying any attention at all. Charlie's sister was practically goose-necked near the parlor door.
"Thank goodness it doesn't happen here." Paula released Belle finally, stepping away in a whoosh of violet- scented air. "I'm happy enough to be—really, Lydia, what are you lookin' for?"
"Well, nothin' really—ah!" Lydia turned back to them with a smug smile. Belle felt a twinge of discomfort. It only got worse when Lydia walked over to take her arm. "Why don't you come on in the parlor with me, Belle? I'll bet you're thirsty after that trip, and Paula has the best cider."
Belle studied Lydia suspiciously, trying to decide whether to go with her or not. There was a glint in Lydia's eyes that didn't bode well at all.
She hesitated and looked at Paula, thinking to mutter some excuse about wanting to talk to their hostess a bit longer. But just then there was a knock on the door, and Paula rushed to answer it. "Oh, please go in," she threw over her shoulder. "Help yourself, Belle."
The chance was gone. Belle couldn't think of a single excuse not to go with Lydia. Her feeling of dread grew stronger. She tried to ignore it as she turned back to Lydia. "You don't have to watch after me, Lydia. I'm sure you've got—"
"Oh, but I insist." Lydia pulled her toward the crowded parlor.
There was no escaping; Belle felt uncomfortably closed in as they stepped into the room. In the far corner the music master was running his fingers over the keys of the piano, checking the tuning. It was too loud, and the air was too hot, and the musty smell of a room closed up for too long was only barely covered by the nauseating scent of burning oil and orrisroot potpourri. There were people everywhere—sitting, laughing, talking.
She glanced at Lydia, who had dropped her talonlike grip to survey the room again. There was a predatory look on her face that reminded Belle—too much—of the women at church two Sundays ago. Lydia patted her dark hair self-consciously. "Why, it seems as if everyone's here, doesn't it? Now, where did that handsome stepbrother of yours get to?"
The question sounded odd, forced. Belle tensed. The piano pounded in her ears. "He's around somewhere, I guess. Where's—"
"Oh, there he is!" Lydia's voice was high with satisfaction, so much so that Belle turned again to look at her. Charlie's sister was staring toward the piano, and her gray eyes were sharp, her features tight. Feeling again that strange sense of dread, Belle followed her gaze.
And knew instantly what Lydia Boston wanted from her.
Rand stood on the other side of the piano. He looked relaxed, happy as Belle hadn't seen him in—in so long, she couldn't remember. He held a cup of cider in his long fingers, and he was laughing. Laughing while he bent over a songbook spread open on the piano. Laughing while the lamplight shone down on his hair, gilding the tawny, sun-streaked strands with light.
Laughing while he looked into Marie Scholl's smiling face.
Belle's breath stopped. Her chest felt tight, and there was a fierce, burning pain somewhere in the region of her heart. Marie Scholl. Suddenly everything fell into place: the way her mother had introduced Marie at the fair, the subtle smile on Lillian's lips, the way she emphasized the word friend. And Rand's invitation of yesterday. "Marie told me to ask you."
Belle felt the color drain from her face. God, she was going to be sick. Right here, in front of everyone. The realization plunged through her, along with a wave of such intense jealousy and pain, it made her dizzy.
Oh, God. Oh, God, please don't let me care about this. But she did care. She cared with every part of herself, so much, it made her shake, and before she had a chance to fight it, to shove it back into that dark place in her heart, that place where she was safe, he did the one thing that stripped her defenses clean.
He looked at her.
It was as if the years fell away, as if she were flung back in time to that first night so long ago, when she'd watched him kiss Elizabeth Thornton from across the fire. Belle saw him stiffen, saw the dawning realization in his eyes, and she felt caught in time, trapped in a memory from which there was only pain and no escape. She felt the warm air on her skin; the odor of potpourri faded beneath the scent of firesmoke and Charlie Boston's bay rum. And Belle suddenly knew she'd been lying to herself all these years, that she'd told herself she could harden her heart, make her feelings for Rand disappea
r in anger, fade away. But they hadn't faded at all.
She was still in love with him.
Panic crashed over her, caught in her throat, made her knees weak. She felt Lydia's hand on her arm, saw Rand lean down and murmur something to Marie, and then he was leaving the piano, moving through the crowd, and Belle knew why she'd felt that sense of inevitability, of fate. Because just as he had that night so long ago, he was coming to her now.
She jerked away from Lydia. Distractedly she heard Lydia's shocked gasp, but Belle didn't stay to listen, and she didn't give a damn if the others saw or what the hell they thought. All she cared about was getting away. She couldn't bear it if he saw how she felt—it would destroy her to listen to his explanations or his pity. She pushed through the people, desperate to get to the door, to disappear in the darkness where she could gather her strength. All she needed was a minute—just a minute. Enough time to remember who she was and what she wanted. She could face him then, she knew it, when her walls were back in place, when she'd had time to really remember how it was.
Paula was just coming through the parlor. "Belle, where are you going? Mr. Horner is just about to start—"
Belle didn't even listen. She flew past Paula and her violet-water scent, was across the hall before anyone could say a word or even come after her. But by the time she reached the front door, she heard the voices. The murmurs of concern, the hushed, gossipy whispers that fell into the silence left by the piano. All so familiar. All so painful. She wrenched open the door and plunged into the night.
Chapter 21
He told himself not to go to her. He told himself it would be madness. But the words were rote and meaningless now. The last few days had been building to this moment, the longing he'd been fighting for days—years—exploded within him. He felt the warmth of Marie's hand beneath his, and knew that he should try to lose himself in her. He also knew he wouldn't.
"I'll be right back," he whispered—a whisper because it took all his strength to do even that. Before she had the chance to answer, he moved away from her.
After the frost f Page 22
