After the Frost (26 page)

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."

Her face shone. "Oh, good. I've a new gown—it's the prettiest shade of green."

"I'm sure it's pretty on you."

She flushed. Her fingers tightened on his arm. "Oh, I almost forgot. Paula wanted me to ask you to bring Belle too. Everyone's looking forward to seeing her."

He felt the slow tightening of his gut, a pounding in his head, and he hesitated. "I don't know—"

Marie looked at him beseechingly. "Please."

She smiled that pretty, feminine smile, and his stomach knotted, his heart sank in his chest. "I'll ask her," he said faintly.

"Promise?"

"I promise." He said the words and saw the brightening of her face and tried to tell himself it didn't matter. He could spend the evening playing games and laughing with Marie; he could even forget Belle was there. He could ignore that shining golden hair and that warm laughter, he knew he could.

He told himself that as he walked Marie home and listened to her light chatter. Kept telling himself as he left her at the door and smiled a good-bye.

But it was a lie, and he knew it—and knew there was no way out. He would bring Belle to that party. He would bring her there and pretend he was happy to be doing it. He would watch her laugh and joke until he couldn't bear it anymore.

And then he would try to bury his dread.

In the touch of Marie's skin and the smell of her hair.

B
elle opened her eyes, blinking at the sunlight streaming through the big doors of the loft, wondering how long she'd been asleep. From the color of the sunlight she guessed it was probably only late afternoon. She stretched, leaning her head back against the rough wall of the barn, breathing in the musty scent of hay. She wished she could stay here all day and all night—God knew she'd slept better the last two hours than she had since she'd arrived home.

But then, the loft had always been an escape. She glanced around at the huge hayforks hanging from the walls, the hay stored for the winter. She'd needed this today, this time away from everything and everyone. A time just to sit here in the straw and think and sleep without the fear that she would be found. The moment they finished pulling potatoes this morning, she ran to the barn, and the peace of the loft was a balm to her battered spirit, a place where the disturbing memories of last night and the pain of this morning couldn't touch her.

When she was young, she'd come here often to hide in the corners. Sometimes she had lain on her stomach to stare out the huge window overlooking the barnyard, gazing at the rustling fields of corn and wheat and the hills stretching as far as the eye could see. When she was

young, she had never even imagined there was a world past those hills.

Now she knew there was. But as bustling and exciting and frightening as that world could be, she had never loved it as much as the one she watched from this loft. She wanted to stay here forever, to let Rand and her mother just fade away, to grow old sitting in this barn telling stories to Sarah.

Belle smiled at the thought. In spite of what she'd told her mother, her favorite stories had never had much to do with bloodthirsty pirates and scalping Indians. Instead they were about adventures on the canal and talking mules and pretending she could fly when she jumped from the apple tree in the orchard beyond.

They were stories she'd made up on her own because no one else was there to make them up with her. No mother to play games with. No father to get down on his hands and knees and pretend he was a horse for her to ride. Belle closed her eyes again, remembering how much she had wanted that as a child, wondering if Sarah felt that way too. Maybe not. After all, Sarah had a father who was more than a pious portrait on the wall. Sarah had Rand.

And now she had a mother too.

Belle took a deep breath and got to her feet, brushing loose strands of hay from her skirt. She'd been away too long, escaping when she should have been spending time with Sarah. Maybe they could go out to the pond and hunt for frogs, or even go out to the old orchard and lie in the sun and eat apples that had fallen from the trees. Or the canal—Sarah had said this morning she wanted to go back to the canal. Maybe they could saddle up Duke and head on over there for an hour or two. Maybe she could even get some hoggee to put a straw hat on a mule and pretend it was Bandit.

The idea was compelling. Quickly Belle hurried out the big doors to the road, nearly running down the drive to the house. Bushels of potatoes were gathered at the base of the back steps, but Lillian was nowhere in sight, nor was Sarah. Belle went up the stairs, pulling open the door so hard, it slammed against the wall.

At the stove Lillian jumped. "For goodness' sakes, Isabelle, slow down." She turned back to stir the fragrant pot of stew simmering on the stove. "Tell Sarah to grab a couple of those potatoes when she comes in, won't you?"

Belle looked around. "Where is she?"

"I assume she's right behind you. Isn't she?"

"No."

Lillian looked over her shoulder, a frown on her perfect features. "Isn't she with you?"

"No." Belle shook her head. "I thought she was in here."

"Oh, Lord, not again." Lillian dropped the spoon, her face paled. "She said she was going to the barn to find you. Didn't she show up?"

A twinge of worry nudged at Belle. "No," she said. "No, I was alone. But she prob'ly just got interested in somethin' else. I'm sure she's around here somewhere, Mama."

"There's no need to panic," Lillian said calmly, though it was clear she was starting to. "She's probably outside in the yard." She swung open the door and leaned outside. "Sarah! Sarah! Come here this instant!"

"If I was playin' and havin' a good time, I'd never come to that voice," Belle said. She went to the door and stepped past her mother. "Sarah!" she called. "Sarah, come on back and we'll go down to the canal!"

There was no answer.

"Oh, good Lord," Lillian whispered.

"I'm sure she's fine," Belle said, trying to ignore her mother's anxiety. There was no call to be worried, not yet. "Where's Rand? Maybe she's with him."

"He went into town early this morning," Lillian said. She started down the steps, her fingers gripping her apron. "She was here after he left—Sarah! Sarah! Young lady, don't you play games with me! Come here!"

Her mother's voice shattered Belle's nerves. She heard the panic in them, the fear, but she knew that high, punishing tone much too well. "Mama," she said, grabbing Lillian's arm and pulling her to a stop. "Mama, don't call her that way. She won't come—"

Lillian yanked away. "Sarah!"

"Mama, listen to me—"

"Don't you tell me what to do!" Lillian turned on her, eyes blazing. "You haven't spent more than a few days with this child. I've been with her the last two years. She is nothing like you—do you hear me? Nothing! She's a good girl."

Belle jerked back. The words hit her with the force of a blow, the bitterness in her mother's gaze, in her mother's words, ripped into her, bringing back all the old feelings. She tried desperately to keep them at bay. She doesn't mean it.
She doesn't mean it
—the litany rang in her head, and Belle struggled to believe it.