After the frost f

by Chance, Megan

  He felt as if he were on the edge of a bottomless pit, looking down into vast, hollow darkness, and there was nothing there to save him this time if he fell, and he wondered if it was the same kind of darkness his mother had seen before she drove that wagon off the bridge at Rock Mill all those years ago, the same kind of desperate obsession she'd felt for his father, that had sent her into insanity.

  He'd always thought it was the same. When he was twenty-two, and possessed by Belle, he'd believed he was looking into the same darkness his mother had. Believed his obsession with Belle was as destructive, as dangerous. He remembered the way his mother had been before she killed herself. The love between her and his father had been a great, enduring one, but in those last years that love had corrupted itself, had become predatory and cruel, had etched itself in her sharp features. Rand had seen the way it suffocated and exhausted his father. Her constant, obsessive watching pushed Henry away; her jealous rages and bitter accusations destroyed them.

  Finally it had become uncontrollable. Rand remembered the days he and Cort stayed out in the fields until dark, hoping she would be asleep when they came home so that they wouldn't have to watch the way she tortured their father with her endless questions, her cloying tears. But those days came more and more often until they were all like that, until even the nights screamed with the sound of her angry suspicions and the gloom of her depressions filled the air clear into town, scented the kitchen with the sour odor of sauerkraut.

  Rand was ten years old the day she drove away for the last time, and the sky was so gray, it was as if it mirrored her sadness. She left the wash boiling in a kettle in the yard and harnessed the team and left without a backward glance, and the miller said she didn't hesitate when she drove off Rock Mill Road into the millpond below. He said she slapped the reins and forced the horses to go so fast, they couldn't stop. And it was only because there were witnesses that anyone knew what happened to her at all, because they'd never found her body. They'd never found a single thing that told them there was anything but water in that millpond.

  She'd been gone eighteen years, but she haunted Rand. She haunted him because her darkness was inside him, because he understood the kind of obsessive emotion that held on so hard, it was impossible to fight or resist. Because there was a time when he felt he would die if he didn't have Belle beside him every moment of every hour, and he knew that was how his mother had felt about his father, knew he was just like her.

  He thought he'd destroyed it. During the last six years it had disappeared—or if not that, had at least burrowed deep inside him. But now he was on that precipice again, and it was more dangerous than before. More dangerous because Belle was not the girl he remembered, and he could not get the woman she was out of his mind. More dangerous because it felt as if there had always been an emptiness inside him, and she had filled it just by walking into his arms. Just by being in the room.

  Ah, Christ . . .

  Rand glanced down at the harness in his hands. His fingers were trembling; his fear was a throbbing, palpable shadow in the pale lamplight. He forced himself to think of tomorrow, of going to church and listening to Reverend Snopes's rhythmic, lulling sermon. He thought of meeting Marie in the churchyard afterward, of her warm smile and pretty face. She could make his fear go away, he told himself, though he knew she couldn't. Last night, driving her home after the singing party, had taught him that. Even now, less than a day later, he couldn't remember what she'd said, couldn't say if he kissed her good night or not.

  No, he didn't remember Marie. But he remembered the long, cold drive home alone, climbing the stairs to his room, pulling back the heavy quilt on his bed and sliding naked between the sheets. He remembered hearing the clattering of Charlie Boston's wagon coming up the drive, Belle's laughing good-bye, and her step on the stairs. He heard the closing of her bedroom door, and he'd laid there, stiff, muscles clenched, with darkness all around him, inside him. In his heart and in his mind. It had taken every ounce of his control not to follow her into her room, and it was only fear that held him back, fear that drenched him in sweat when he imagined her movements—imagined her nimble fingers on the buttons of that yellow gown, imagined her stepping out of it, imagined the way her cornsilk hair would cling to the brush when she combed it out, how it would crackle and fall to her face, her shoulders, her breasts. . . .

  He'd wanted to bury himself in her, to touch her in places he'd only dreamed about, to make love to her the way he hadn't six years ago. He wanted her wet and pulsing and hot around him, wanted her covered with his scent, branded by his body. He wanted all of it. As much as he had wanted it six years ago. More than that.

  And no thought of Marie could make that go away. He wondered if it ever would.

  But he tried again anyway. He put aside the harness and closed his eyes and thought of her. Tried to smell the scent of roses and imagine what Marie would feel like in his arms, wondered if she could dance. Probably she could. Probably she was good at it. Not like Belle, who stumbled over his feet nervously, clumsily, who bit her bottom lip when she concentrated, who trembled against his hands. No, Marie would be easy to dance with, smooth and practiced and warm.

  He got to his feet, holding on to the image, and went to the barn door. The night was quiet; the house quieter still. There was one light glowing in the kitchen. Lillian, no doubt, reading as she sometimes did after Sarah had her bath. The thought made him tired, and Rand suddenly longed for bed, for sleep too deep for dreams. Carefully he blew out the lamp, sending the barn into darkness, and stepped out into the night, closing the door behind him.

  He walked slowly across the yard, keeping his eye on the kitchen, hoping Lillian wouldn't be offended when he didn't sit down to talk with her. He was so damned tired, it was all he could do to drag himself up the back stairs. Maybe she'd be so engrossed in the "Ladies' Department" of The Ohio Cultivator that she wouldn't care if he walked straight through. He pulled open the back door, hoping. Maybe a simple good night would be enough—

  He stopped short.

  It wasn't Lillian in the kitchen.

  It was Belle.

  She was on her knees, behind the half bath, mopping up spilled water with a towel. Her sleeves were pushed up over her elbows, her back was to him, and her long braid trailed, loose and straggling, over her shoulder, nearly touching the floor. The room was warm and humid, fragrant with the scent of lavender-softened lye soap and water-soaked oilcloth.

  The door clicked shut behind him. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound, and when she saw it was him, she jerked up, cracking her shoulder on the rim of the tub.

  "Damn." It was a breathless sound, almost inaudible. She scrambled to her feet and turned to face him. "I—I didn't hear you come in," she said, rubbing her shoulder.

  He wanted to say something, knew he should say something, but he couldn't. All he could do was stare. The bodice of her dress was dark with water, a stain that trailed down to her waist, fanned over her skirt. Her collar was open, revealing her throat, a pale triangle of flesh, and the striped wool challis of her dress clung to her everywhere else, forming to the soft swell of her breasts, clinging so closely, he could have sworn he saw the beating of her heart. Her skin was rosy from heat, and tendrils of hair curled over her forehead, against her cheeks, dangled to her shoulders. She looked at him uncertainly, with a startled surprise that brought back his hot, dark dreams, and he thought of the press of bodies and the slick heat of skin, thought of her laughing as she wrapped those slender arms around his neck and pulled him close.

  She swallowed, gestured limply to the tub. "I was givin' Sarah a bath," she said. She fumbled with the towel, laid it over the edge of the tub, and then she crossed her arms over her chest. "I just put her to bed."

  "I see." It was all he could say. Even that seemed weak and strained.

  "I'd move the tub back, but—"

  "I'll do it."

  She nodded. "Well, then," she said, motioning to the stove. "Mama left som
e stew warm for you if you're hungry." She moved around the far side of the bath, toward the doorway, and he realized with a start that she was moving away, heading for bed. "I guess I'll see you in the—"

  "Don't go." The words fell from his mouth, unexpected, unwanted, but once they were said, he realized he couldn't take them back, that he didn't want her to retreat tonight, to run away to separate bedrooms and darkness. His earlier thoughts came rushing back: She was dangerous; he should run away from her. But suddenly the thought of sitting here with her, eating supper, was more seductive than his warnings, and much too tempting to resist.

  He spoke before his courage died. "Keep me company while I eat."

  She stopped; the uncertainty on her face grew stronger, brighter, touched with wary fear. She gripped the back of a chair; her knuckles were white. "I don't think—"

  "I'm not asking you to think," he said slowly. "I just want some company, that's all."

  Her indecision was almost painful to watch. But then she swallowed, nodded slightly, and let go of the chair. "All right." She said the words, though her tone told him it was anything but all right. Rand didn't give a damn. He didn't care what made her stay, just that something did, and when she glanced at the stove and said, "I'll get you some supper," he felt such a clean, hot stab of relief, it made him weak.

  Rand pulled out a chair and sat down, waiting while she dished stew into a bowl and cut a thick slice of bread for him. It was strange watching her. He couldn't remember that she had ever served him before, and it was such a womanly, wifely thing to do, it made his throat tight. But he said nothing as she set the food before him, along with the pot of coffee.

  "D'you want some?" he asked, motioning to the pot.

  She sat gingerly across from him. "All right." She scooted her chair back, just an inch or so, but it was enough to show him how nervous she was, and when he poured her coffee, she drew it toward her, stirring in sugar with careful, stiff movements.

  He nudged the pitcher of cream with his fingertip. "Cream?"

  "All right."

  "Do you think you could say something besides 'all right'?"

  "All—" She caught herself and glanced up at him, and a smile touched her lips; sheepish laughter flashed through her eyes before it vanished in caution. She glanced away. "Yeah. Please pass the cream."

  "That's better." He pushed the cream toward her, watched as she poured it, so much, it nearly turned her coffee white. He watched her take a sip, watched her short, slender fingers as she set the cup down again. She sat back in her chair, turned so that she was looking at the tub in the middle of the floor but not at him, and he tried to think of something else to say to ease the tense silence, wondered what had happened to all those conversations they used to have. Had they just disappeared? Or did they linger somewhere, whispering in the air, in the weedy scent of the canal, in the sunlight?

  He hated that he missed them so much. So much, it ached inside him. "Did you get all the apples picked?"

  She nodded shortly. "Yeah. Mama made pie." She started to rise. "I'll get you—"

  Rand surged forward, catching her wrist before she could go. Her gaze shot to her hand, to him, and it was so full of apprehension that he released his hold instantly. She jerked her hand back—too fast—and looked away, and he saw that she was trembling, just as she had this afternoon, in the barn.

  His breath was a tight knot in his lungs. "I don't want any pie," he said.

  She sat back again, but her body was stiff. She looked like a nervous colt ready to bolt at the slightest movement. She kept her hands in her lap, took a deep breath. "All right, then. No pie."

  Silence again. Rand took a bite of stew. It was heavy in his mouth, and it took all his effort to chew and swallow. He grabbed the thick slice of bread, tore a piece off, and tried to think of something else to say, something even more innocuous than before. Finally he blurted the first thing that came into his head. "You were back late last night."

  He cursed himself the moment he said the words, knew they were stupid, that they would bring up things he didn't want to talk about, shouldn't talk about. But despite that, he couldn't dismiss them, couldn't tell himself he didn't want to know. He did. He was burning to know.

  Her head jerked up, defiance flashed in her eyes. "Charlie and I went over to Hooker."

  He tried to keep his voice casual even though the words sent jealousy surging through him. "Did you win any money?"

  "We didn't play poker."

  "You just talked."

  "And drank." Her jaw tightened, her expression was faintly hostile. "Why d'you care? I figured you'd be so busy with Marie—"

  "I was." He looked down at his plate, noting with surprise that he'd shredded the piece of bread into tiny pieces. "We talked. About . . . things."

  "Things?" She raised a sarcastic brow. "What kind of things? Lydia maybe? Or Cort?"

  Her words froze inside him. When he spoke, his voice sounded harsh. "No, nothing like that."

  "She didn't tell you Lydia told her all the gossip?"

  His heart twisted. "No."

  Belle made a sound of disbelief. She stared into her coffee. "Well, she did. But I don't guess you need to worry. Marie doesn't believe anythin'."

  "She doesn't." He knew he should feel relief at Belle's words, but he didn't. He didn't feel anything at all.

  "No." She kept her gaze focused on the cup in her hands. "I guess you prob'ly haven't told her the truth."

  "No."

  "Are you goin' to?" She asked in that flat monotone, that voice he hated. It wrapped around his heart, his throat.

  "I don't know," he said slowly. "Should I?"

  Her gaze snapped to his; her brown eyes were full of surprise and uncertainty and something else. Something that looked suspiciously like pain. "I don't know," she said quietly. "I don't know what kind of marriage you want, Rand. If I was her, I think I'd want you to tell me." She looked away again. "But I'm not her. And I—I know you're . . . ashamed ... of me anyway. You've got this whole town believin' a lie, and I guess—I guess there's no reason to change." She shrugged. "I s'pose Marie'll be happier that way."

  Her words were like blows, pounding against him, knocking away his breath. He heard the pain in her voice, the way she struggled to hide it, and he felt guilty and contemptible. He remembered Sunday dinner at the Millers' two weeks ago, when he'd told her he was ashamed of her and meant it. When he'd hurt her with words because it was easier than hurting himself. And now he knew it wasn't easier. That hurting her tore him apart inside, that what he'd told her had all been a lie.

  He wasn't ashamed of her. He had never been ashamed of her. He was ashamed of himself. Now more than ever. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, it was to find her staring at her hands.

  "Belle," he said. "Look at me."

  She did. Cautiously. Guardedly.

  He swallowed. "I'm not ashamed of you. I—I was never ashamed of you."

  She frowned. Something—hope maybe?—flashed through her eyes, disappeared quickly. "But you said—"

  "I was angry when I said those things." He laughed self-deprecatingly, looked down at his hands because it was safer than looking in her eyes, than imagining hope and wishing he could bring it to her again, wishing she would look at him with trust, the way she used to. He took a deep breath, and his words fell out before he could stop or think about them at all. "You know, the other day, I was . . . remembering that time down at the river, when we were fishing with Cort, and he was teasing you about—about something."

  Her voice was soft. "About how stupid I looked fishin' with a bunch of boys. He said the whole town was laughin' at me."

  "Yeah." Rand nodded. He remembered the scene as if it were yesterday, remembered the soft gurgle of the river, the way the sun fell through the leaves to dapple the ground. He remembered her standing on the bank, barefoot, her skirt hiked up around her knees while she tied a cork to her line. "I remembered thinking then how . . . special . . . you w
ere. Like God had given me this gift. . . ." He shook his head, trying to find the right words, feeling suddenly as if the rest of his life depended on them, as if they were the most important thing he would ever say. He looked up at her. "You were the best friend I ever had. I was never ashamed of you."

  He saw the soft flush creep up her throat, over her cheeks. She glanced down, and he knew by the way she bit her lip, by her tiny smile, that he had embarrassed her, and he knew that he should feel embarrassed himself. He'd revealed too much, much more than he wanted, and he already felt the change between them, the softening, the comfortable familiarity growing in the wake of his words. But though he knew he should feel afraid, knew that he shouldn't have said anything to bring her closer, he didn't care. Suddenly all he wanted was the Belle he used to know, the friend who shared his secrets, his hopes, his dreams.

  He wanted it more than anything. The urge to touch her, to make her smile, was so strong, he leaned forward, reached across the table until he could lift her chin to look directly into her eyes. His heart clenched; he waited for her to flinch, to move away.

  She didn't. She was very still, barely breathing, and he saw the searching look in her eyes, knew she was testing him. He wished he knew what to do, what to say, but he couldn't think of anything, and he felt tongue- tied and desperate, sure she would pull away and leave him, afraid that she would.

  "Belle—" he said. "I'm sorry."

  She didn't say anything for a moment, and he saw the uncertainty in her deep brown eyes, the hesitation. And then, just when he knew she would never forgive him, just when he was ready to drop his fingers and retreat to his room, to silence and loneliness and shame, she smiled.

  Incredibly she smiled.

  It was soft, barely there, but it was a smile nonetheless, and it was so startling, he dropped his fingers from her face and stared at her, uncertain whether to trust it, wondering what it meant. He took a deep breath, and then, with infinite care, he said, "So you . . . forgive me?"