After the Frost (6 page)

Belle laughed again, throwing her head back to bare her slender throat. The motion accentuated her slight overbite, the teeth that seemed a bit too big for her mouth, a feature he'd once found charming. Now the realization that he still did—that he noticed it at all— brought back his guilt, and that made him furious. Damn her. He clenched his fist beneath the table. At the very first opportunity he would confront her, let her know in no uncertain terms that she wasn't fooling him with her charming laughter and seemingly innocent words. He knew what she was up to, and he'd be damned if he'd let her get away with it—

"More green beans, Rand?" Stella Miller was leaning over him, pushing a nearly empty serving bowl at him, and Rand blinked in surprise.

He shook his head. "No thanks, Stella. I've had plenty."

"Why, you've hardly had any at all," she admonished him. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you didn't like my cookin'." She sat down again beside him, a swoosh of blue-striped silk and cotton. "I guess I prefer to think you're only excited at havin' your sister back."

"Stepsister," he corrected softly.

Across the table Belle paused, a bite of chicken halfway to her mouth. She grinned. "You should have seen the welcome he gave me yesterday, Miz Miller. Why, I wanted to leave just so I could come back again."

"I imagine." Stella smiled. She reached for the platter of fried chicken and handed it around the table. "We're all so happy to see you. I guess Lily's the happiest of all, isn't that true, Lil? It's not every day your own daughter comes back." She looked pointedly at Lillian, who smiled woodenly.

     
"No, it's not."

     
Rand took a bite of mashed potatoes. It was all he could do to swallow them.

     
"Try these pickles, Rand." Stella handed him a small dish. "They're this year's."

     
He took one politely, plopping it onto his plate. It glistened sickeningly beside his half-eaten chicken.

     
Stella leaned forward, her beady eyes flashing. "So what kept you away so long, Belle? You were in New York, you say?"

     
"New York's a big city." Paul Miller, Stella's husband, spoke from the end of the table. He wiped his heavy mustache with a napkin and sat back in his chair. "I hear it's full o' pickpockets and such."

     
Stella flashed her husband an irritated glance.

     
Rand's stomach tightened. He didn't want to look at Belle, told himself he didn't give a damn where she'd been or what she had done there. But he couldn't take his eyes from her. He felt the tension in his body as he waited for her answer.

     
"Well," she said slowly, still picking at her chicken. "I guess you could—"

     
"Mama, we're all done." Abby Miller took her last sip of milk and looked at her mother. She squirmed impatiently in her chair. "Can Sarah 'n me go out to play?"

     
Stella nodded distractedly. "Yes, go on—but come on back if you want pie."

     
"Don't get dirty, Sarah," Lillian said.

     
No one was watching Belle—no one but Rand—and he saw the slight tightening of her jaw, the way she took a deep breath as if to hold in her temper. The chicken fell from her fingers, and she wiped them on the napkin in her lap. He wondered if her hands were clenched beneath the table, wondered what the hell she was thinking.

     
There was a clamor as the two girls pushed back their chairs and rushed outside. The front door slammed shut in their wake.

     
Stella swiveled back to Belle, her sharp features taut with curiosity. "I'm sorry, Belle. You were sayin'?"

     
"Dangerous place, New York is," Paul said. "Ain't that so?"

     
Belle looked at him and smiled, the kind of charming smile Rand had seen so many times before, knew intimately. "I s'pose it's dangerous enough," she said slowly. "There are lots of people there. It's a big city."

     
"And you all alone." Stella tsked. "How did you bear it?"

"I wasn't alone, Miz Miller," Belle said. "A friend of mine lives in a boardin' house there. I worked for her."

     
Stella looked scandalized. "In a boardin' house?"

     
"A very respectable house, Stella," Lillian broke in.

     
"I see."

     
"Didn't you say you cooked for them, dear?"

     
Belle laughed, a snicker that set Rand's nerves on edge and stiffened his spine. "No, Mama. I couldn't cook to save my life."

     
Lillian's eyes clouded. Rand saw the subtle thinning of her lips. Her voice was steel-edged. "But when you wrote me, you said—"

     
"When I wrote you?" Belle's eyes opened wide in surprise. "Why, there were so many letters, Mama, I hardly remember that one. Are you sure I said cookin'?"

     
Stella looked avidly from Belle to Lillian. Rand could almost see the woman sniffing for blood.

He scooted back his chair. It screeched on the floor. "How about some coffee, Stella?"

"Oh, of course." Stella jerked to her feet. "Goodness, I was so interested in Belle's stories, I nearly forgot."

Rand felt Lillian's eyes on him, but he leaned forward, focusing his gaze on Paul, determined to change the subject. "So, Paul, are you still planning to show that ram at the fair?"

"You bet I am." Paul nodded. "Spent the last two weeks workin' on that damn sheep's weight. You know old John Stillwell's got a Merino ram himself. Bought it at auction over in Clinton County last week . . ."

Paul went on talking, a slow, heavy cadence that hummed in Rand's ears even though he no longer really listened. He nodded at the appropriate times, made noises of agreement, but he didn't hear what Paul was saying. He was too aware of Belle sitting silently across from him, and of Lillian's cold, stiff silence. Too aware of the fact that they had to spend at least another hour with the Millers before they could gracefully leave.

"Oh, Paul, stop talkin' about that silly ram." Stella bustled back into the room, a steaming pot of coffee in her hands. "Not when Belle was just tellin' us what she's been doin'."

God, the woman was relentless. Rand sat up, opened his mouth to say something, anything to head her off, but Belle beat him to it.

"There's really nothin' to tell." She smiled. She waited while Stella poured coffee and then she reached for the sugar bowl. "I'm just glad to be back."

Paul chuckled. "You can't ever get home outta your blood, I guess. You know, I remember when you and Cort and Rand here used to run wild on the Hocking." He poured a heavy stream of yellow cream into his coffee. "Used to scare old Henry to death."

Rand felt a chill clear into his bones. He grabbed for his coffee, stunned to see that his fingers were shaking.

"Yep." Paul took a sip from his cup. "You know, Stella used to say that if Rand jumped in the river and drowned hisself, Belle'd be right behind him. Ain't that right, honey?"

Stella nodded. She pulled two pies toward her and sliced a knife into one of them. "I surely did say that. Custard or gooseberry, Rand?"

His voice felt forced from his throat. "Gooseberry."

"You two were never apart, that's for sure. We used to laugh at it—why, I remember Belle just sittin' on the cracker barrel at the store, waitin' for Rand to be done workin'. 'Course, that was before you went to Cleveland, Rand. For a while after that it was mostly Cort gettin' Belle outta all those scrapes." Paul shook his head. "That brother of yours was a wild one. Sad thing, the way he died."

Rand's stomach tightened painfully. Stella handed him a piece of pie, and he could only stare helplessly at his plate, at the sticky, amber-colored filling leaking from the crust. "That was a long time ago."

"Ummm, not so long," Stella said. "But then, I guess it seems longer, it bein' so many years since Belle was home. It must seem like ages to you, Belle—especially when you see how much your niece has grown."

Rand's head jerked up just in time to see the surprise in Belle's face.

"Niece?"

"Why, yes. Sarah's just sproutin' up like a weed." Stella kept cutting the pie.

"Sarah." Belle spoke the word on a breath of air, and her brown eyes sparkled dangerously. Rand felt her gaze on him, felt a surge of discomfort at the quick, sarcastic lift of her brow. She was going to say something, he knew it, something to tear apart the careful lie he and Lillian had spent years building and nurturing. One careless word would undo it all, and he felt helpless to stop it, felt the wave crashing over him even as she opened her mouth to speak—

He was on his feet before he knew it, so fast, the table jiggled at his movement. Dead silence fell. They all looked at him curiously.

"I just remembered—something—I—uh—think I left it in the wagon," he muttered. He motioned abruptly to the door. "Belle, come on out and help me."

"I'll help you, Rand." Paul started to his feet. "Just let me get my boots on—"

"No, Paul, I need Belle for this." Rand tried to smile, but the effort was a dismal failure. "We'll be right back."

She sat there, staring at him, and he saw the stubborn light come into her eyes. She was going to refuse and embarrass him in the bargain, he knew it, and Rand felt the urge to go over and pull her bodily from the chair. But that would mean touching her, and he already knew he wouldn't do that, knew it even before she changed her mind and got slowly to her feet, watching him warily as she came around the corner of the table.

"We'll be just a minute," Rand said. He waited while she preceded him out the front door, her yellow dress swinging about her ankles, the long braid still and heavy between her shoulder blades.

The door shut heavily behind them, separating them from the others. In the distance, near the barnyard, he heard the sounds of Abby and Sarah playing some game, but before he could figure out what it was, Belle turned to face him.

She was inches away. So close, he could see the small scar across her upper lip, the mole just below her mouth. So close, he could smell the sun and the dust on her skin, feel her warmth. Rand backed away, his anger disappearing in sudden fear. Jesus, this had been a mistake, asking her to come out here. A horrible mistake.

"What's wrong, Rand?" she asked softly, sarcastically, the whisper of her voice accentuating her slight lisp. "Afraid I might tell on you?"

"Something like that." He was embarrassed by the hoarseness in his own voice. He jerked his head at the door. "You don't know what's been going on here since you left. I didn't want you to embarrass your mama."

"My mama?" The scorn in her words was unmistakable. "My mama is a liar. And so are you."

"Maybe. But I won't have you embarrassing her, do you understand?"

"Do I understand?" She stared at him defiantly. "What are you, Rand, her knight in shinin' armor? Come to make sure the nasty dragon doesn't kill the princess?"

The words stung. "Go to hell."

She laughed then. "She doesn't need protectin', haven't you figured that out yet? She can take care of herself better than either of us."

The bitterness in her voice stunned him. "Look, you don't understand—"

"I understand," she said. She didn't take her eyes from his face. "Tell me, who came up with the lie, Rand? You or her?"

Her unrelenting stare was uncomfortable, reminded him of too many things. "It doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't." She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, out toward the fields. "Does the whole damn town think the same thing? That Sarah's my niece? What'd you tell them?"

The condemnation in her tone stabbed into him, making him feel embarrassed for a lie he'd learned to accept long ago. Rand fought to keep his voice flat. "They think I got a woman pregnant when I was in Cleveland working for Uncle Charles that spring. She died, so I got Sarah."

Belle made a sound—a snort, a half laugh, he didn't know what to call it, but it carried everything she felt in it—bitterness, disbelief, sarcasm, even a vague, self-deprecating amusement. She used to make that sound, he remembered, but it hadn't been so hurtful then, hadn't felt as if it held a world of disappointment in its syllables.

She didn't look at him, stared down at her feet as if she were afraid to look at him, though somehow he doubted that was true. "You were that ashamed of the truth, then?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's good to know." He thought he heard a quaver in her voice, a soft shake that sounded like pain, but when she turned to him and he saw the pure, blazing anger in her eyes, he knew it wasn't pain she was feeling at all.

For some reason, that disappointed him.

But her next words surprised him. "Why did Mama cut Sarah's hair?"

He frowned. "She didn't. I did."

"You did?" Her lips pursed. She looked confused and then, inexplicably, more angry than ever. "Tell me, Rand," she said, "how're you gonna explain it when I take her and leave?"

"I'm not going to have to explain anything," he said. "You aren't taking her anywhere."

"Oh, no?" She raised a brow again, quirked her mouth in a bitter half smile. "You might want to start comin' up with some good stories, Rand."

Her words made his heart pound in his chest. Rand felt suddenly afraid. The thought made him want to laugh at himself. Rand Sault afraid of small, delicate Belle. Belle with the ready laugh and charming ways. Everyone in town would laugh if they knew.

Except he
was
afraid. Small, delicate Belle had a will of steel, and he hadn't forgotten how that ready laugh and those charming ways had torn him up inside and twisted him around so that he didn't know where he was or what to do.

Yes, he was very afraid.

But he couldn't let her see it, didn't even want to face it himself, so Rand stepped away from her, clenched his fist. "I'm just going to say this one time, Belle," he said softly, forcing emotion from his voice. "Just once, so you don't mistake it. I know what you're up to, don't think I don't. You may have trapped your mama, but you can't trap me. You stay away from Sarah. I don't want you near her. Not now, not ever—and I'll do whatever I have to to make sure you stay away. Cross me and I'll make you regret you ever set foot in this state again."