After the Frost (32 page)

Chapter 22

T
he morning sun was bright in the sky when Belle finally pushed back the covers and got out of bed. Her head was pounding, and she told herself it was because of the beer she'd drunk with Charlie Boston last night after they dropped off a disapproving Lydia. But she knew that wasn't it. She'd gone to the tavern and tried to get her mind off Rand, and his kiss, and Marie, but she couldn't. She couldn't forget the touch of his hands on her face or the desperation in his grip—as if he were afraid to let go of her, afraid she would run. And even through the strong, malty beer she tasted the lingering sweetness of apple cider—and wondered if Marie Scholl was tasting it too.

It drove her crazy, that one thought, and Belle wished now that she hadn't talked to Marie, that Rand's intended hadn't searched her out or said she didn't believe the rumors. Belle wished she'd found soft, pretty Marie insipid and boring, wished she didn't care for the woman at all. But the hell of it was none of that was true. Belle liked Marie Scholl. She was the kind of woman Belle would like being related to, the kind of woman she would have picked for Cort, or for a real brother if she'd had one.

But not for Rand.

God, why had he kissed her? Why had he even touched her?

The question tormented her as she washed, circled in her mind when she reached for the wool challis skirt and basque she'd left hanging over Jesus John's portrait. She winced as her father's disapproving face reappeared, silent and condemning, and for just a moment she wondered what he would say if he knew of Rand's kiss. The thought depressed her. Even though she couldn't remember her father, she felt she knew him. She knew from the portrait how important and distinguished he was, how pious. It was almost as if Lillian had hung the painting in Belle's room in the hopes that John Calhoun's respectability would rub off on his wayward daughter.

Belle snorted at the thought. If anything, it had exactly the opposite effect. That sanctimonious portrait told her as much about her father as she ever wanted to know, told her exactly what he would have said about Rand's kiss—the same thing her mother had said once before:
"You're a disgrace to this family, do you hear me? A disgrace."

But this time Belle knew that her mother was right. Kissing Rand could only lead to trouble, and Belle didn't need her mother—or her father—to tell her that. But she found herself wishing for her stepfather's kind and attentive words, or for someone on this damn farm to talk to. Someone who would really listen.

The kind of someone Rand had been once
.

Belle swallowed. He wasn't that way anymore, and she had to remember it. She tried to tell herself he had no power over her at all. Last night she'd been vulnerable and hurt; it was the only reason she'd let him get close enough to kiss her. But it wouldn't happen again. All she had to do was remember the way he'd treated her before, how easily he ruined her life. She couldn't trust him not to do the same thing again. She would make herself stop loving him. The past could stay the past.

In spite of the words Belle's stomach was tight as she went down the stairs. It was all she could do to keep her breathing steady, and her heart was in her throat when she went down the hallway and stepped into the kitchen, ready to face him.

It was empty.

The relief that surged through her was so overwhelming, she sagged against the doorframe. Thank God she'd slept in. Rand had probably already gone to the fields. With any luck she wouldn't see him until dinner.

She felt a little light-headed at the thought. She poured some coffee and added a healthy dose of sugar and cream before she sat down at the table and took a sip. It was hard to swallow, her stomach rebelled at the taste—just as it rebelled at the thought of breakfast. Belle glanced at the plates still sitting on the table. They were brown and sticky with maple syrup and bits of scrapple, and though usually it was one of her favorite foods, today the heavy smell of the fried pork and cornmeal slices nauseated her.

She gagged, squeezing her eyes shut against the sickness. She tensed as she heard steps on the back stair, felt a moment of anxious fear when the back door opened. A quick gust of bitter morning air swished past her before the door closed again.

"There you are," Lillian said. "I wondered if you were ever going to get out of bed."

Belle opened her eyes, relieved it wasn't Rand. "I was tired."

"I can see that." Lillian was breathless. She held a crock of cream that still dripped from the springhouse. She nodded toward the oven. "There's scrapple for breakfast."

Belle's stomach knotted. She shook her head. "No thanks."

Something passed through Lillian's eyes—Belle had the strange notion that it was disappointment—and her mother hurried to the dry sink. She set down the crock of cream with a heavy clank. "Oh. It used to be your favorite."

"It still is. I'm just not hungry."

"I see." Lillian's tone was slightly sharp, almost— hurt.

Belle dismissed the notion quickly. It couldn't be, not from her mother. Still, Belle felt a twinge of guilt, and she glanced again at the table, wondering if she could get down a bite or so. But the sight of the dirty plates still turned her stomach, and reluctantly she looked back to her mother. "I'm sorry, Mama," she said. "Maybe tomorrow. Where's Sarah?"

"She took some eggs over to Dorothy's," Lillian said. "She'll be back soon." Carefully she poured the cream into the butter churn. "I thought we'd pick apples today."

"That sounds fine."

"I thought perhaps a few pies for the cutters would be a good idea."

Belle nodded. "I'm sure they'd like that. They've always raved about your apple pie."

"First prize at the fair two years ago," Lillian said proudly. She set the crock aside and shoved the warped lid onto the churn. "There are some bushel baskets out in the barn. When you're finished there, would you get them for me, please? Rand said he'd bring them in last night, but . . ." she waved dismissively.

"All right." Belle put down her coffee with relief. "I'll go on out and get them now."

Lillian threw her a glance, a frown wrinkled her smooth forehead. "Are you feeling all right, Isabelle?"

"Fit as a fiddle," Belle said wryly.

"You didn't tell me how the party was last night." Lillian straightened. She pushed back a few loose strands of hair, tucked them deftly into the tight bun at the nape of her neck. "Did things go—well?"

Her mother's look was anxious and concerned. It brought instant anger; Belle knew exactly what Lillian was getting at, knew she was wondering if the rumors had started again. The reminder that her mother still cared so much sent resentment surging through Belle.

She threw her mother a sarcastic look. "Why, everythin' was wonderful, Mama," she said as sweetly as she could. "I managed to get through the whole night without disgracin' myself one time."

Lillian had the grace to flush. "That's not what I meant," she said quietly.

"Wasn't it?" Belle cocked a brow. "Then maybe it was Marie you were worried about. Well, just so you know, Lydia Boston already told her all the gossip about us, but it doesn't seem to matter to her. She still likes Rand. A miracle, isn't it? I guess you must feel much better knowin' that."

Lillian's hands tightened on the butter paddle. Her knuckles were almost white. "Marie's a good Christian girl. I'm sure she feels she's in no place to judge."

"Not like everybody else." Belle snorted.

"Belle, please." Lillian's voice was so soft, it was almost inaudible. "You seem unhappy. I only wondered if maybe something happened at the party to upset you."

The gentleness of Lillian's statement took Belle by surprise. She felt oddly transparent, as if her mother had somehow seen right through her. It made her nervous, even more uncomfortable than she'd been before, and Belle hurried to the back door, needing suddenly to escape the warm, stifling kitchen. "I'm just fine," she said tightly. "Nothin' happened." She pulled open the door, took a deep breath of freezing air. "I think I'll go on out and get those baskets now."

Lillian nodded.

Belle swept out the door, shutting it firmly behind her, shutting her mother and her strange questions away, along with the memory of last night. The cold morning air was brittle and refreshing against her skin, and Belle closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting it burn her throat, her lungs, inhaling the crisp autumn scents of frost and must and apples, the sharp odor of chickens and manure. The chill eased the headache pounding behind her eyes, and with a sense of relief Belle stepped down the stairs and started out to the barn. She was halfway across the yard when she heard Sarah's voice calling behind her.

"Belle! Belle! Wait for me!"

Belle turned. Sarah ran across the yard, her dress flying behind her, her steps uneven on the tangled grass. She came to a staggering, breathless halt.

"Where're you goin'?" she asked.

"Just to the barn to get some bushels. Your grandma wants to pick apples today."

Sarah twisted her chubby hands in her skirt. "I'm good at pickin' apples."

"Oh, yeah?" Belle smiled. "You mean to tell me you'd rather do that than play?"

Sarah looked at her consideringly. "Are you goin' to pick?"

"I s'pose I'm goin' to have to."

"Then I will too."

Sarah's declaration swept through Belle; she felt warm and tingly and suddenly good. She smiled and offered her hand. "Well, come on, then," she said. "Let's get those baskets, and then we'll go out to the orchard and have some fun."

Sarah skipped beside her as they walked, every jerking movement tugging a little on Belle's arm. "Can we jump—"

"No jumping for a while," Belle said firmly. Involuntarily she thought of Sarah on the edge of the canal bridge. Her fingers tightened around the little girl's hand. "We'll do somethin' else instead."

"Like what?"

Belle shrugged. "I'll think of somethin'."

"A game?"

"Yeah. A game." They stepped through the barnyard, past the pigpens to the huge open doors of the barn. She peered into the dimness. "I wonder where those bushels are?"

"They're down here." Sarah pulled her past the stables at the far end of the barn.

The round, slatted baskets were there, just as Sarah said, carefully stacked. Belle let go of Sarah's hand and grabbed two by their handles. "Now, how many of these d'you think you can carry?"

"Five," Sarah said. "As old as me."

"Five," Belle said thoughtfully. "Why don't we start with one and see how that goes?"

Obediently Sarah held out her hands. Belle settled a bushel into her arms, smiling when the little girl scrunched up her face.

"Is it too heavy?" she asked.

Sarah shook her head. "Huh-uh. I can carry lots more." She watched while Belle pulled two more baskets loose. "When we're done pickin' apples, c'n we have a social like the one you and Papa went to?"

Belle frowned. "A social?"

"Yeah—c'n we have one? Grandma says it's like a party—with dancin' 'n' everythin'. Ain't it?"

Belle shook a bit of straw from a basket onto the floor. "Sometimes there's dancin'," she said, shoving it onto her stack.

"Like last night?"

Memories flashed through Belle's head. She pushed them away. "No," she said, hearing the slight edge to her voice. "There was no dancin' last night. Just singin'."

"I like to dance," Sarah said. "Papa dances with me sometimes. Only he ain't done it for a long time."

She sounded so wistful that Belle paused and looked over. "I'll bet that's fun," she said, uncertain what else to say.

But Sarah brightened as if they were the perfect words. "You c'n dance with me instead."

Belle shook her head with a smile. "Oh, Sarah, I can't dance."

"Yes, you can. Please? It's easy." Sarah looked up at her hopefully, the big basket clutched awkwardly to her chest. "I'll show you."

The pleading in Sarah's voice grabbed at Belle's heart. It was easy to give in. "All right," she said. "But just for a minute."

Sarah smiled. She let the bushel fall from her arms and stepped around it. "First we bow," she instructed somberly. She grabbed hold of her skirt and watched Belle expectantly. "You first."

Belle bowed with a flourish. "Now what?"

Sarah dipped in an awkward curtsy. "Now you hold out your hands."

"Like this?" Belle asked, spreading her arms.

"Uh-huh—but you have to hold me." Sarah stepped closer and grabbed Belle's hands, holding them tightly between her chubby fingers. " 'N' you put your feet out so's I c'n step on 'em."

Belle laughed. "I thought you were supposed to teach me how to dance. I can step on feet just fine without your help."

"I step on yours," Sarah said, frowning. " 'N' then we dance."

Obediently Belle stuck out her feet, wincing as Sarah stomped down on her toes. Sarah's fingers tightened around hers as she tried to catch her balance.

"You got to hold me closer," she instructed.

Belle pulled her tight against her legs. "Like this?"

Sarah nodded. "Now you sing a song and we dance."

"We dance." Belle glanced down at her daughter. "You mean like this?" She picked up her foot. Sarah lurched to the right with the movement, slipping off.

"You're not doin' it right," Sarah scolded.

"That's because I'm not sure how to do it."

"You gotta do it like Papa does." Sarah pulled away, pouting.

"Like Papa does what?"

It was Rand's voice. Belle froze, she felt the blood drain from her face. His voice came from the stable behind her, and she had the quick thought that he must have been there the whole time. Watching them the whole time. Her mouth went dry.

Sarah dodged around her, hurrying toward him. "Papa!" she said happily.

"Hey there, Little Bit," he said.

Belle heard him come out of the stable, the swish of straw, the whisk of movement. Heard him pick up Sarah, imagined his quick hug.

"C'n you show Belle how to dance?" Sarah asked. "I was tryin' to, but I can't."