Yes, the next time.
Rand swallowed and sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. He remembered how she'd cried out beneath his hands last night, how her body had arched against his. Remembered how it had felt to be inside her, how she'd pulsed around him, and he remembered how he slammed himself against her, how he hadn't been able to get enough of her, not the taste or the feel of her. He'd driven himself in deeper and deeper, and when his release crashed over him, when he finally surrendered, it was to a sweetness so overwhelming and complete that he was stunned at the intensity of it.
And suddenly Rand knew that he'd loved her with his soul last night—that he'd done more than that. He'd given her his heart.
He wanted her for an eternity.
For six years he'd felt only half alive. He'd thought it was because of the dreams he'd given up, the things he'd put aside to take care of his responsibilities, his obligations.
But he knew now it wasn't that. Now he knew what he had yearned for all those sleepless nights. He'd wanted her. Wanted her smile and her laughter, wanted those days spent in the sun by the canal. He wanted to talk to her, to hear her ridiculous stories and the honest way she spoke, to see her in the morning and know she was his forever.
He'd thought she was his obsession, and maybe she was. Maybe he was destined to turn into his mother, to destroy them both with that darkness he was so afraid of. But after last night he began to believe maybe he wouldn't. Last night the madness had finally fallen away in the touch of her skin, the smell of her. It had disappeared, leaving behind gentleness and care, leaving behind a reverence for every inch of her. And he wondered suddenly if maybe it was only the denial that had blinded him, if maybe he was trying so hard not to want her that he'd forgotten there were no longer any reasons to deny himself. She was no longer fifteen. She was no longer his responsibility.
And this was no longer obsession.
There was no darkness in how he felt for Belle, and no danger. There was only need, and heated desire. He should have seen it long ago, should have recognized it when he saw her walking hand in hand with their daughter that day on the canal. The day he'd realized she was a woman, the mother of his child. The day he told himself all he wanted back was their friendship.
Yes, he wanted to be friends with her again. Friends who laughed and joked together. Friends who talked through the days. Friends who told secrets far into the night, and made tender, passionate love until morning. That was all he'd ever wanted. Not adventure, not faraway places. Just Belle. In his bed and in his heart.
Sweet Christ, he loved her.
It was that he'd been so afraid of.
But now the fear was gone.
The orchard was quiet. The sun had only just broken over the horizon, and the birds were starting to sing, but there was a stillness about the trees, a strange, seductive tranquillity that filled Belle's mind, her heart.
She should leave, she knew. It had been a mistake to go to him last night, a mistake to think she could give him up after one night, that after it she could go back to just being his stepsister, a casual friend. She had not thought it through, and now she wished she had. Wished for once that she wasn't so impulsive, that she had more of Rand's thoughtful steadiness. She would never have gone to him if she'd been more honest with herself.
She loved him, and love didn't go away after a night like that. It only grew stronger.
What a fool she'd been to think anything else.
Belle leaned her head back against the trunk of an apple tree, looking up through the nearly bare branches to the sky. Her body ached, not just because of the way he'd played her last night, but because she wanted him still. Just the thought of the way he touched her made her stomach flip, sent erotic shivers racing through her. It was nothing like six years ago, nothing like anything she could ever have imagined. She still felt the wonder of it, the sensations that crashed over her, the tender seduction of his kiss. She had not known it could be like that, and she wished now she had known, wished she'd had some idea. Oh, God, if she'd known, she never would have gone to him.
Because now she didn't know how she could bear to be without him, how she could be around him without remembering, without wanting. She didn't know how she could watch him marry Marie and know he was taking the pretty schoolteacher to his bed each night, and not hate him for it.
How the hell could she do that?
Leave, a small voice told her, but it was no longer so easy, and she knew it. If it had only been Rand, then maybe she could leave. Maybe she could get on the next train and run fast and far away. But it wasn't just Rand. There was Sarah too, and Belle knew that she couldn't leave Sarah behind. She couldn't wave good-bye to that little girl and go away. Not for a year. Not even for a week. Not ever.
But she couldn't take Sarah either. She'd abandoned that plan the day she'd seen those marks on the door and realized how much Sarah belonged here, how much Rand loved her. This was Sarah's home, this was her family.
And Belle could either be part of that family or leave it behind forever—alone.
There was no choice, and she knew it. She was bound here, as tied to the land and its rhythms as she was to Sarah. New York City had never been home, Cincinnati had never been home. Home was right here, in the gentle sway of the oak trees circling the house, in the cool dark of the canal. She belonged here in Lancaster. Even the gossip that surrounded her was as much a part of the ebb and flow of life as the corn; it linked her forever to the people she'd grown up with.
No, she could not leave.
She did not want to leave.
But she didn't know how to stay either.
Staying meant watching life go on around her; it meant watching things change, watching Rand's family grow up, being an aunt but never a mother. A few days ago she had thought it would be enough. She thought she could bear being a part of their lives without being necessary, to be the spinster aunt, the best friend, the wayward daughter. They were all roles she knew she could play, roles that required nothing but her presence. But after making love with Rand, she knew she wanted to really belong, to be an important part of their lives, to be as necessary as breathing. She could never be that for Rand. His life was planned already, and it included Marie, not Belle. He might want her, but he didn't love her, and she had no choice but to live with that.
Though there would never be anyone else for her. Since the day she and her mother had arrived, and Belle had seen him watching from the porch—a long, lanky eighteen year-old with hazel eyes full of dreams—she had loved him. First with the innocent love of a child, then with the curious infatuation of a girl, and now, finally, with the kind of lasting, soul-deep love that would be with her forever.
Belle sighed, closing her eyes against the rosy haze filling the sky, against the steady ache of tears. She didn't know how to live with that land of love, but there was no other choice, not really. She would stay because she couldn't go. She would stay and try to make her life as complete as she could, try to take her joy from Sarah and the farm—and hell, even from her mother. All she could do was try.
She had disappeared. No one knew where she was. Not Lillian, not Sarah. Rand was so afraid she'd left for good that he checked her room, rifled through her things until he reassured himself that wherever she'd gone, it wasn't for long. Her coat and hat were still on the peg by the door, and the meager collection of dresses she owned still hung in the wardrobe. But it wasn't until he saw the small pile of coins on her bed-stand that he felt relieved enough to go back to the fields and cut corn. She wasn't going anywhere without money, and he suspected that pile was all she had. But even then he watched the road all day, searching every wagon for a sign of her.
He tried to work through his worry, put his body and his mind into cutting corn, but he couldn't ignore the nagging sense that something was wrong, and when Lillian called him in the late afternoon to come get ready for the Alspaughs' husking bee, he dropped the corn knife and went inside eagerly, anxious to see B
elle again, determined to talk to her.
She wasn't there. The house was empty except for Lillian, who was busy wrapping a buttermilk pie to take over to the party. She glanced up when he came through the door, watched him quizzically as he raced to the hallway and called upstairs for Belle.
"She's not here," Lillian said. "She and Sarah went over already. They took the baked beans."
The relief that raced through him at her words nearly left him faint. "So she was here, then."
Lillian frowned. "Of course she was here. Where else would she be?"
Where else? Cincinnati or Cleveland or even Columbus. Anyplace else. But he didn't bother to answer. He felt a sudden, desperate need to get dressed and get to a party he'd been dreading until this moment. He started for the stairs.
"Rand?" Lillian called him back. She looked up at him, her smooth forehead wrinkled with worry. "Rand, is something wrong?"
He shook his head. "Nothing's wrong," he lied.
Her eyes were sharp. "I don't believe you," she said slowly. "Just as I didn't believe Isabelle when she came in today after being gone all morning." Her fingers tightened on the edge of the pie plate. "Please do me the courtesy of telling me what's going on in this house, Randall. Did something happen between the two of you? Did you have a fight?"
He swallowed. "No. There was no fight."
Lillian's gaze seemed to cut through him; he had the strange feeling that she could see what he was thinking, that she could look at him and know he and Belle had spent the night wrapped in each other's arms.
Lillian took a deep breath and looked down, and when he saw the flush moving over her cheeks, he knew he was right. She was aware of everything, there could be no more illusions between them.
"I see," she said slowly. "What about Marie?"
Rand didn't hesitate. "I broke it off with Marie on Sunday," he said. He smiled slightly, self-deprecatingly. "Or rather, she broke it off with me."
Lillian glanced up. "She knew?"
"Yes. She knew." Rand raked his fingers through his hair. He looked away, at an iron pudding mold hanging on the wall. "I don't think I hid it very well."
"No, I don't imagine you did."
He glanced at her. She was staring at him, and he had the feeling that she was waiting for him to say something, waiting for some declaration, or an excuse. Waiting for him to say he was sorry, that he would end it between himself and Belle. The same way she'd watched him six years ago, with that patient waiting, the same look that begged for an explanation.
And this time there was only one.
"I love her," he said. "I don't want to be without her."
He expected Lillian to wince, to try to dissuade him, but she did neither of those things. She looked at him steadily, and her voice was calm and even. "I know," she said quietly. "I suppose I've always known."
He frowned, perplexed. "And you won't—stop it?"
She smiled slightly. "Could I?"
"No."
"Oh, Randall." She sighed. She shook her head slowly, looking down at the pie on the table. "When I first married your father, I so wanted us all to be a family. A real family; brothers and sisters, a wife, a husband. ... I wanted to believe you and Isabelle were really brother and sister. I wanted everything to be perfect." She touched the edge of the golden piecrust, crimping it between her fingers as if she could somehow change the shape. "But that was absurd, I know. We were all just strangers really." She smiled wistfully. "Not a real family at all."
"I don't know what a real family is, then," he said slowly. "What does it have to be, Lil, if not people who care about each other?"
She didn't look up. "I just can't help thinking sometimes, if I had done something different ..."
"You couldn't have predicted what happened between Belle and me," he said slowly. "No one could. There was a time when I would have prevented it if I could, but now . . . now I'm glad I didn't."
"All I've ever really wanted is for her to be happy, though she won't believe it." Lillian's voice was soft and low, but he heard the pain in it, and the resignation. "And you of course."
"I know that."
"And this"—she looked up at him—"this will make you both happy?"
He inhaled slowly. "Yes."
She motioned to the doorway, and the smile on her face was small and yielding and a little bit sad. "Then I suppose that's all I can ask. Now, go get dressed. We don't want to be late."
By the time he and Lillian arrived, the Alspaughs' barn was full of people. The huge doors were opened into the yard, and outside there was a bonfire. The smell of smoke and burning leaves floated on the air, blending with the rich scent of baked beans and the sugary sweetness of doughnuts.
The husking was well under way. Stalks of corn were piled on the floor, and the older men were working steadily, with clean, economical movements, bending over the stalk and grabbing an ear, shearing the husk from one side with the flat, pointed husking peg before they yanked away the remaining husk and broke the ear from the stalk.
Rand looked past them, into the barn, his gut clenching anxiously when he didn't see Belle.
He glanced at Dorothy, who was setting Lillian's pie carefully on the long table in the yard. "Have you seen Belle? Or Sarah?"
"They were over there, last I saw." She motioned to the barn. "I know Belle was talking to Lydia's brother."
Charlie Boston. Rand turned away, scanning the yard for Charlie's tall, lanky form. It looked as if the whole town had come to the bee. There was no sign of her. No sign of her, or Sarah, and Rand had the quick, ridiculous thought that she might have taken this chance to leave, that maybe she was back at the house now, packing her bags.
But then he heard the cheering from the barn and saw the older men rise stiffly from their stools, drifting out to the table where their wives waited with full plates and coffee. It was time for the rest of them to take a turn. Rand looked up to see Lydia Boston gesturing to him.
"Rand, come on over!" she called. She came running up to him, a huge smile on her face. She looped her arm through his and pulled him toward the barn. "I thought you'd never show up, and here you live just next door."
"I shouldn't even be here," he explained. "There's our own corn to cut."
"Well, it'll be dark soon, and you can't cut it in the dark," she said. "It's time for some fun now. Come on and sit beside me."
Together they went into the barn. Lydia was chattering beside him, and Rand listened with half an ear, watching the people laughing and talking, scanning the barn for any sign of Belle. He saw Charlie Boston finally, but no Belle. And as Rand took his seat and grabbed his husking peg, he saw Marie across the barn. She glanced up and caught his gaze, and her smile was warm and welcoming, though a little wary too. And he noticed that when her gaze slipped from his to Charlie's, her smile grew even warmer.
Christ, where was Belle?
The others filed in, and Rand's panic grew. Especially when Kenny and the older men brought in another shock and spilled it onto the floor, and everyone dove in, both men and women, grabbing for ears, laughing and joking at who was husking the fastest, the slowest. He heard the jibes with part of his mind, and Rand grabbed a stalk himself and started to work, trying to listen and smile. But he couldn't concentrate. All he could do was wonder where she was.
It nearly drove him crazy; his fears nagged at him until he was ready to throw down the stalk, to leave the damn bee behind to go home and find her, reason with her. He was a half second away from doing it.
Then she walked in.
He had just grabbed an ear, was splitting the husk with the peg when he looked up and saw her. She was standing at the edge of the crowd, and when Charlie Boston called something to her, she smiled and came forward, breaking through the others until she was in plain view. She was wearing the wool challis gown she'd worn the night she gave Sarah a bath, and the colors in it—brown, green, rust—lent color to her skin, complemented the different golds in her hair. She had braided it sim
ply, the way she always did, but when Rand looked at it, he saw instead the way it had been last night, crackling and wild around him, like heavy satin in his hands.
She was so damned beautiful. For a moment he couldn't move, just stood there, poised over the corn, watching her as she went over to Marie and leaned back against the corncrib. Someone threw her a husking peg, and she looped the leather straps over her fingers and laughed at something Marie said, and then she stepped forward to grab a stalk.
And saw him.
Their gazes met. She stiffened, and he saw her brown eyes widen, saw a flash of expression. But then it was gone, and the shutters were over her eyes again, the careful guard against feeling, and Rand knew that he'd been right to be afraid. He grew even more certain when she tore her gaze away and stepped back to Marie without looking at him again. As if she hadn't seen him. As if he didn't exist.
His chest tightened. His plans for a future with her wavered in front of him, mocking him, a useless dream that had little meaning and less possibility. Last night had obviously meant nothing to her, and he wished he knew what she was thinking, what she expected, whether she intended that they spend the rest of their lives this way, looking at each other from across a room, wanting without speaking, burying the past and the present between them, denying a future.
The thought made him weak; he faltered when he picked up another stalk, rammed the husking peg into his hand. With a curse he dropped the corn, grabbing his fingers.
"What's wrong, Rand?" Lydia asked solicitously. "Did you hurt yourself? Can I help?" She leaned forward, reaching for him.
He shook his head, stepped away at the same moment he heard the raucous shouts around him.
"There it is!"
"Who's it gonna be?"
"Rand, you'd better take the forfeit now, 'fore someone beats you to it!"
He heard his name and glanced up. Marie had stepped forward, and she was laughing and blushing, holding a partly husked ear of corn in her hands.
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