After the Frost (11 page)

     
"Trying to be her friend. Making me think you care about her."

     
"Maybe it's not you I'm tryin' to convince."

     
"No?" He raised a heavy brow. "Who, then?"

     
"Sarah."

     
"Ah. Sarah." He looked away for a moment. "Do me a favor, Belle. Leave her out of your little games. She's just a child."

     
It was amazing how he knew just what to say. She tried not to wince. "It's not a game, Rand."

     
"Oh?" His eyes searched her face, darkened when he met her gaze. "Tell me something, Belle. Did you think of her at all when you were in New York?"

The accusation floated between them, condemning, wounding. The implication in his words infuriated her. As if he expected she wouldn't think of Sarah, as if the decisions she'd made had been impulsive and selfish.

As if he expected nothing else from her.

Anger rushed through her, hot and uncontrollable. Belle jumped from the fence, yanking the brown wool of her skirt back when it grabbed onto a rough board. She glared at him. "You'd like it if I said no, wouldn't you?" she asked hotly. "It would make it all so easy, wouldn't it? Then you could go ahead and believe what you did was right. That it was all my fault and you weren't to blame for any of it."

He flinched. "That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?" Belle laughed shortly, disbelievingly. "I don't think I've ever even heard you say you were sorry, Rand. So I guess that means you never were." She picked up her skirts, half turned, meaning to walk away, feeling the burn of his words in the sudden ache behind her eyes. Damn, this was stupid. Stupid that he could still affect her at all after all this time. . . .

"Belle. Dammit, don't—" Rand lunged forward, reached to grab her arm through the fence.

Belle's breath caught in her throat. Fear, so potent she felt paralyzed, rushed through her. She jerked back at the same moment he stopped short, his hand outstretched, inches from her. For a second she saw that hand in all its intimate detail, creases and dirt, rough fingernails, calluses, and then slowly he curled his fingers into his palm, dropped his hand back to his side.

She looked up at him. He was white beneath his tanned skin. His breath shuddered from his chest. She heard it as loudly as her own, and it sounded just the same—harsh and rattling, sharp with fear.

Carefully she took a step backward. She wondered what to do, whether to run away or stand there and pretend it hadn't happened. He had almost touched her. Had almost laid his hand on her and yanked her back, and the realization brought with it flashes of memory. Almost as strongly as if he had touched her, she felt his hand. Flesh on flesh. Dry and warm—almost hot. At her throat, at her waist, at her breasts . . .

Belle swallowed, fought the urge to close her eyes. She couldn't let him know, wouldn't let him see that she remembered, that she cared at all. Much better that he should think she didn't remember anything.

She raised her chin, even though she was shaking inside, and tried—unsuccessfully—to look him in the eye. "I'll just go on inside," she said weakly. "Mama prob'ly needs me now."

"Yeah." He sounded as shaken as she felt. "I saw her at the door a minute ago, looking for you."

"Oh. Then I guess I'll—"

"Here's Sarah," he whispered.

Belle heard it then, the pounding of footsteps on the hard ground as Sarah ran toward them, cutting off escape, relief. Belle turned slowly, watching as Sarah skidded to a stop in front of her.

"Look! Look, here she is!" Sarah held the headless doll out to Belle solemnly, brown eyes wide. "This is Janey."

"Janey." Belle forced a shaky smile. She was incredibly aware of Rand behind her, of the fact that he was watching them as she knelt in front of Sarah and reached for the doll. Her hands were trembling, and she took the lumpy rag body quickly into her lap. It lay there limply, grossly reminiscent of a broken human being, bits of stuffing leaking from the torn neck. Belle poked at it with her fingers. "You'd better have Grandma sew this up, or she'll lose all her insides."

"It's her guts," Sarah informed her.

Belle nodded. "I know."

"I'm gonna bury her tomorrow if I can't find her head."

Belle looked at her somberly, wishing she could think of what to say, knowing with some far part of her mind that she had wanted this opportunity to make friends with Sarah, had wished for it. And once again Rand had ruined things. It was the first time Sarah had said more than a few words to her, yet Belle was too shaken to think of a single thing to say back.

She got to her feet. "Well, then," she said inanely. "Why don't we go see if we can find it first?"

Sarah looked at her, hesitating for a moment, still cautious. "If we can't, will you come to her fun'ral tomorrow?"

"Sure," Belle nodded distractedly. "I'll come."

"Good." Sarah smiled. "You c'n bring the flow'rs."

  
T
he acidic tang of cabbage was heavy in the kitchen. It, along with the anisy scent of caraway seed, nearly knocked Rand back when he came into the room. He grimaced as he grabbed a cup of coffee and slumped into the rocker by the stove. They'd been making sauerkraut; the thought depressed him. God, he hated sauerkraut, the smell of it, the slimy feel, the sour taste. It reminded him of when he was young. It had been his mother's favorite food, the thing she ate whenever she was depressed or lonely, the dinner she served whenever she was begging for his father's forgiveness.

Which was always, he thought angrily. The house had always held the odor of sauerkraut. Always. He couldn't smell it now without thinking of her, of the way she'd been, sad and too penitent, throwing herself in Henry's lap while his father flushed with embarrassment, her

voice sharp with fear.
"I'm sorry, love—oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to act so jealous. You were just askin' Dorothy if she needed anythin', I know that now. It's just that . . . I'm so afraid you'll leave me. Please say you won't leave me. ..."

Rand winced and pushed the memory away.

"I kept some dinner warm for you," Lillian said as she walked into the room. "Are you hungry?"

Rand scowled. "This whole damn place smells like cabbage."

"We made sauerkraut today," she answered lightly. She moved past him to the stove, her calico skirt brushing against his arm, and spooned some stew into a big yellow bowl. "I know you hate it, Rand, but I don't, and I'm not letting all that cabbage go to waste just because you don't like the smell."

He felt instantly rebuked; the feeling annoyed him. Rand took the bowl she offered him, but the scent of cabbage was strong in it as well, and he set it back on the stove with a clank. "I'm not hungry. Where's Sarah?"

"In bed. She seemed tired today, so I put her down early."

He felt a twinge of guilt, and he took another sip of coffee, letting the steam warm his face.

"Belle's on the front porch."

He didn't look up. "I didn't ask where she was."

Lillian sighed, sitting in the chair at the other side of the huge fireplace that housed the stove. He heard her rustling in her sewing box before she settled back. "What did the two of you talk about today?"

He looked up in surprise. Lillian had a sock formed around her darning ball, and she was busily threading a needle, squinting at it to focus.

"I tried to keep her here in the kitchen," she said when he didn't answer, "but the first chance she had, she was gone. I assumed she wanted to talk to you about something."

"No." Rand stared at her, at her tight, economical movements, and struggled to keep his feelings at bay. All evening he'd tried to keep from thinking about this afternoon. He'd buried himself in chores, working until he could no longer see, unable to bear the thought of coming in to supper and sitting at this table, watching her and remembering how he'd almost lost control today.

Hell, he'd almost touched her. Almost wrapped his fingers around Belle's wrist and pulled her back. Because he couldn't bear that damned vulnerability, the tough shell she put up around it. Because he wanted to see that shell crack, wanted to see her cry, even—hell, just wanted to see anything. She made him feel guilty and afraid, and when she'd said the words, when she'd said,
"You never said you were sorry, Rand. I guess that means you never were,"
he had wanted to touch her so badly he couldn't stop himself, wanted to spin her around and look into her eyes and tell her it wasn't true. Tell her he'd spent every damn waking moment since she'd gone hating himself, hating her, being sorry.

But he couldn't say that, because then she might forgive him. Because then she would let him close enough to touch her again, and that was the most dangerous thing of all. Touching her meant the darkness would come to bury him again. And he couldn't let it, had to fight it before it overtook him the way it had his mother, before it controlled him for good. It almost had once— he remembered that much too well.

His hands shook when he remembered.

He gripped his cup forcefully. Lillian was looking at him, questioning him with her silent gaze, and he wished he knew what to tell her. But there was nothing to tell, nothing that didn't shame him. What should he say?
"Belle said I'd never told her I was sorry—is that true? Didn't I? Couldn't she tell how sorry I was? Didn't she see? Didn't you?"

No, he couldn't say those things. He couldn't even think about that time anymore; the thought of it brought a deep, dark bleakness that filled him up inside. He remembered how it was before, how the obsession for her had started with such a little thing—nothing more than her smile of welcome, the light he saw in her eyes when he came home from Cleveland that spring. A smile that was for him alone, he knew, because even though Cort had watched over her in Rand's absence, she never smiled at his older brother that way.

Rand had been intrigued and pleased, and it had changed the way he looked at her. Suddenly he found himself watching her, wondering what it would be like to touch her, to kiss her. But that easy emotion had grown out of control so damned quickly, had grown demanding and insatiable before he knew what happened, and he could not forget how pervasive it was, how hard to fight. Jesus, he was afraid of it. So damned afraid.

He swallowed. "She came out to talk to Sarah, not me."

Lillian frowned. "Do you think that's wise?"

"No, I don't think it's wise. But you tell me how the hell to stop it. I don't know."

"Hmmm."

That was all, just "hmmm," but there was a wealth of meaning in that sound, and Rand had the sudden notion that his stepmother already knew exactly what had happened in the barnyard, knew what he and Belle had talked about, knew he'd lost control. It wouldn't matter what he said, she already knew and had already made up her mind what it all meant and what to do.

     
"You haven't seen Marie lately, have you?" she asked suddenly.

     
Rand choked on the coffee. "Marie Scholl?" he asked in surprise.

     
"Um-hmmm."

     
"God, no. Not for weeks."

     
"Perhaps you should." Her voice was calm, without inflection, and Rand stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out just what she meant.

     
"You want me to see Marie."

     
Lillian shrugged. "Only if you want to, Rand. I thought you liked the girl."

     
Rand frowned. He hadn't thought of Marie Scholl since before Belle had returned. Not since the church dance in August. There, in the balmy summer night, with lightning bugs glowing in the wheat fields, he'd thought idly that maybe Marie would be a good wife if he ever decided he needed one. She was pretty in a soft brown way—brown hair, brown eyes, brown dress. Slender, gentle, smelling of ... of roses, he remembered.

     
"I liked her well enough," he said. "I heard Charlie Boston's seeing her now."

     
"She's a fine girl."

     
"Yeah." He nodded. "She is."

     
Lillian dropped her darning into her lap, straightened slightly in the chair. When she looked at him, her gaze was probing. "Have you given any thought to marriage, Randall?"

     
He nearly dropped his cup. "Marriage?"

     
"I know we haven't talked about it," she said, picking up the darning again, whipping her needle in and out with swift, efficient strokes. "But I had hoped by now you might have found someone you cared for. After all, you're nearly twenty-eight."

He paused, uncertain what to say. "I don't—"

"Why not Marie Scholl?"

Rand stared at her in confusion. "What's this all about? I didn't know you were so anxious for me to get married."

"Well, it's not my decision," she said, taking a deep breath. "But 1 do think it's time. Sometimes I'm afraid you . . . Because I'm here . . . Well, I didn't want you to feel you couldn't get married for my sake."

"No, I—"

"People are beginning to talk. Most of your friends are either married or gone." She paused. "You've never said how you felt about it, Rand. You do want to get married, don't you? It would be good for Sarah to have a mother."

She already has a mother, he thought, but he didn't say it; in fact he banished the thought as soon as he had it.

Lillian was looking at him avidly, as if the answer was important to her. "Do you want to get married?"

He didn't know how to answer her. Once, yes, once he had wanted that more than anything. Wanted more than that even, a marriage that made him whole, that filled up the empty spaces inside of him. Had wanted to look at brown eyes staring up at him in the morning, and golden hair slipping through his fingers. Once, , once, he had longed for that with every part of his soul, even though he knew it was wrong, even though he fought it with everything he had.