After the Frost (33 page)

"You were, huh?" He moved into Belle's line of vision. She heard the rustle of his footsteps, saw the walk that was still smooth and swivel-hipped even with Sarah held tightly against him. The very grace of it made her stomach flip. She thought of last night and the way his mouth felt against hers, the rough heat of his callused hands against her face.

Don't let him do this to you
. But then she looked up at him, and it felt as if her heart went slamming through her body, as if God were deliberately trying to make sure she lost this battle.

Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the walls, gilding his hair and his skin, touching the shadows in his face. He stood there, holding Sarah in his arms, looking for all the world like a loving, doting father, like a good friend. Nothing at all like the man who kissed her last night.

But then he bent to let Sarah down. When he straightened, Belle saw that his expression was carefully neutral. Anger stabbed through her, a quick, piercing pain. He had sent her world into turmoil last night, and now he was looking at her as if he didn't even remember, as if none of it mattered.

Because it doesn't. You knew that.

"Belle can't do our kind a' dancin'," Sarah said. "We hafta teach her."

He looked down at Sarah. "Maybe she doesn't want to learn how."

"But she does. She said she did." Sarah sent Belle a pleading look. "Didn't you?"

Belle had to force the words from her throat. "I don't know, Sarah. My feet might not be big enough for you to stand on."

"Yeah, they are. Come on, Papa, show her!"

He sighed. "Little Bit—"

"Please!"

He took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair. "All right, but just for a minute. I've got things to do." He reached down, grabbing Sarah's hands. "Step up on my shoes—"

Sarah tugged away. "Not me," she said impatiently. "I know how. Show Belle."

Rand's head jerked up; Belle saw the shock register in his eyes—the same shock she knew showed in hers. Her stomach twisted, she felt the heat of embarrassment work its way over her cheeks. "Sarah, we don't have time," she heard herself say. She stepped back, out of reach of Rand's hands. "Come on, let's get these baskets back to Grandma—"

"But I want Papa to show you how to dance." Sarah whined.

"He's got other things to do."

Sarah ignored her. "Papa, you said you would."

Belle saw him hesitate, saw the way he ran his tongue over his teeth, as if he were considering Sarah's order, and desperation surged through her.
No. No, please don't . .
. But her prayers failed her; she knew the moment he looked up at her, with that careful blankness in his eyes, that he was going to do as their daughter asked. He was going to teach her to dance.

She felt light-headed; all the blood rushed to her fingers, pounded in her heart. She licked her lips, but there was no wetness in her mouth at all, nothing but a tight dryness.

"Rand," she said, but her voice sounded low and raspy, not like her at all. "This isn't—"

He glanced at Sarah. "We need some music," he said.

"I c'n sing," she said brightly. She stepped back, plopped down on an upended bushel, and began clapping her hands. "All right. Ready, set, go!"

Belle's palms grew clammy. Her pulse raced in her ears; it was louder than Sarah's off-tune humming, louder even than the sound of her own breathing. She wiped her hands on her skirt, struggling to control her nervousness, to face him as he stepped toward her—one step, two—and then he was in front of her, and in spite of herself she noticed the way his collar hung open, noticed the wiry curls of hair on his chest.

Remembered what it felt like.

Belle licked her lips again, forcing the thought away, forcing her gaze to his face. For once it was reassuring to see that neutral expression, not to know what he was feeling or thinking. It made it easier somehow. Easier not to feel anything when he took her hand. He cupped it in his palm, tugged her toward him—just a little, but unexpectedly, so Belle stumbled forward. His hand stiffened, supporting her before she fell into him, stopping her only inches away. And then she felt his other hand moving to her waist, felt his fingers sliding into position, molding to her.

It took her breath away. The heat of his hand seemed to sear her. She could feel his skin against hers as if the layers of clothing protecting her had simply melted away, and she felt his fingers spasm against her, heard his quick, bitten-off breath.

"All right," he whispered, his voice hoarse and raw. "Ready? One-two-three, one-two-three . . ."

She couldn't look at him. Every inch of her was aware of him as he led her into the first steps of the dance. She felt the brush of her skirts against his legs, the press of his hips against hers. His scent was all around her, the clean tang of verbena shaving soap and the musk of leather, and Belle was hot and breathless, the collar of her dress too tight, choking her. She tried to focus on the steps, on the steady
one-two-three, one-two-three
of his motions, tried to concentrate on Sarah's humming, but Belle felt stiff and clumsy, and the low timbre of Sarah's tune was meandering and odd.

Rand's hand tightened around hers. "You're shaking," he said in a low voice.

"I'm not." Belle swallowed, directing her gaze to a spot of oil on his shirt, just below his collarbone.

"Yes, you are."

She felt the heat of his breath on the tender skin just below her ear, felt the tiny curls there shiver in response. It sent chills up her spine, goose bumps over her arms. Belle tried to draw away, but he held her fast, kept her moving in that never-ending rhythm,
one-two- three, one-two-three. . . .
And he was right, she was shaking. She felt overwhelmed and strange. The smell of him, the feel of him—it was as if all the dreams she'd had in her life had come down to this moment, when she was as close as she could be to him without feeling pain, when there was no roughness and no anger. . . .

Only fear. Fear that hovered inside her, made her draw back when he drew closer, made her afraid to look in his eyes, afraid to see—anything. Anything would frighten her, she knew. Even that careful bland look. Especially that, because it hid so much, because when he looked like that, she could tell herself it was because he cared, because deep inside he regretted their past.

But that was just a lie, she knew. It was only her imagination, only because she wanted so badly to see it in his eyes. Fear rushed through her at the thought. She stopped so abruptly, he stepped on her feet.

"That's enough," she said, pulling away, disentangling herself from his hands, his arms, keeping her gaze carefully averted.

"Not yet!" Sarah protested. She snapped to her feet, her round face turned down in disappointment. "You didn't even dance my way yet."

"That's right, we haven't," Rand said slowly. He offered his hand again. "Well?"

Belle looked at him then, despite herself, despite every warning ringing in her head, and she knew in that moment that she was right to be afraid. Because she saw the burning in his gaze, and it seemed to be all over her, inside her, around her, to touch her in deep, wet places that no one but he knew existed. Places that ached for him even after all these years.

Places that would always ache.

Belle stepped away, tore her gaze from his. "Not now," she said abruptly, and her voice sounded weak and far away. She grabbed a basket from the floor, held it against her as if it could protect her. As if anything could protect her. "Sarah, we've got to get these bushels back to your grandma. She's waitin'."

"But, Belle, you said—"

"She's right, Sarah," Rand said quietly. "Go on, now. I guess you've got apples to pick."

Relief made Belle weak. Her fingers tightened on the basket. She bent to grab another one.

"But will you show her sometime?" Sarah said plaintively.

"Maybe sometime."

Sometime.

The word plunged into her, a quiet threat, a lingering promise.

No,
she thought.
Not sometime
.

Not ever.

Chapter 23

T
hat evening Belle slumped into the chair, burying her face in her hands. The hard work of the day had left her tired and aching, but in spite of that her mind was wide awake and restless.

And it was his fault. All his fault. Belle had tried to bury the feel of him, had done her best to concentrate on picking apples and lugging the full bushels to the back stairs. But all that work had only exhausted her, made her feel more tired and vulnerable than ever.

Even helping her mother make four apple pies hadn't taken Belle's mind off the dance in the barn or her uncomfortable reaction to it, and now she was beginning to wonder if anything would, or if she was just destined to relive it in her mind for the rest of eternity. The thought made her heart clench in her chest. God, she hoped not. All she wanted to do was forget it, to go up to her room and sleep blissfully for days. But it was early yet; supper was only just over, and though it was rapidly getting dark outside, there was still an hour before Sarah went to bed.

An hour to sit here in the kitchen and wait. An hour to dread Rand's return from the barn. She'd been lucky so far. He hadn't bothered even to come in for supper tonight. She'd hoped it was because he was too busy, and she hoped it lasted. Another hour was all she wanted. One more hour.

Lillian pushed back her chair and got to her feet. "Sarah, would you help me clear, please?"

Sarah looked up from swirling her fork through the rest of her pie. "I can't."

"Why not, young lady?"

"'Cause I'm pretendin' I ain't got no hands."

"Well, pretend later." Lillian reached for Sarah's plate. "Tonight's bath night, and I'd like your help while I heat the water."

"But I—"

Wearily Belle looked up. "I'll help, Mama."

"Isabelle, I think—"

"Let Sarah be." Belle got to her feet and grabbed two plates from the table, bringing them to the dry sink. "She's just a little girl. She can go play before bed."

She looked up to see her mother staring at her. It sent an instant stab of irritation through her. "What is it?" she asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. "Afraid I'll break somethin'?"

"No. No, not at all. It's just—well—never mind." Lillian frowned as if she were trying to understand something, and then she shook her head and looked back at the dishes.

"I was thinkin' I can take my bath tommorra," Sarah said from the table.

"Why's that?" Belle asked.

"
Weeellll
." Sarah hesitated. Belle could almost see her searching for a reason. " 'Cause I'm not dirty now."

Belle's weariness seemed to evaporate. It was all she could do not to smile. Sarah looked almost comical staring up at her, with her short hair standing in little cowlicks all over her head and her brown eyes big and solemn. "And you'll be dirty tomorrow?"

"Uh-huh."

Belle leaned down until she was face-to-face with Sarah. "I think you're dirty now," she teased. "And if you won't take a bath, how'm I goin' to teach you a new game?"

Sarah looked skeptical. "A bath game?"

"Well, I was goin' to teach you one, but now I don't know. If you won't take a bath . . ."

"I might take a little one." Then, when Belle frowned, Sarah said, "It can only be a little one, or my skin'll get all wrinkly."

From the sink Lillian made a sound that was suspiciously like strangled laughter.

Belle straightened. "All right, then, it'll be a little one. But you have to promise to do what I say."

"And you'll teach me a game?"

"Yep." Belle got to her feet and grabbed the few remaining dishes from the table.

Lillian took them from her and plunked them into the washtub. She ran her hand across her forehead. "Would you put more hot water on for me, please, Isabelle? There's an extra pan there. I'll go on out and get the tub—"

"I'll do it, Mama. You go on upstairs and get some rest. I'll give Sarah a bath." Her own words surprised Belle, but suddenly she realized it was exactly what she wanted. It was the one thing that could put the memory of today and last night out of her mind. A night alone with Sarah, doing what mothers did everywhere. A night washing Sarah's hair in the quiet lamplight, teasing a smile from her.

Belle wanted it so badly, it was almost painful.

Lillian looked at her in surprise. "But—"

"Please, Mama." Belle reached for the heavy pan beside the stove, struggling to keep from revealing just how important this was to her. "Just trust me for once. I'll take care of it. I can. Really."

Lillian looked away, into the washtub. "Of course you can," she said slowly.

"Then, you'll let me?"

Lillian took a deep breath. "I suppose I don't have much of a choice. You are—"
her mother
. The words fell unspoken between them; the anticipation of them lingered in the air.

But Lillian didn't say them. She kept her gaze on the dish in her hand. She swirled the washrag over it carefully, slowly. "When you were young," she said, her voice so soft Belle had to strain to hear it, "you were just the same. I used to have to beg you to take a bath. There was this—this wooden doll one of the hired hands made you, and we would fight over whether you could take it in the water." Lillian lifted her hand as if to explain, and then she let it fall again, limply, uselessly. "I was always so afraid ... it would fall apart."

An odd sadness came over Belle at her mother's words. She looked away, looked at Sarah, who was grabbing knives and forks off the table. "Maybe," she said, equally quiet, "you should have let it."

Lillian shrugged. She glanced up, smiled weakly. "I think I could use some rest after all. We've plenty to do tomorrow."

Belle nodded. The sadness drifted away as if it had never been, but she remembered it, and as she listened to Sarah play, the memories flitted through her mind, snatches of a life so long ago that they felt vague and not quite hers. Her aunt's house in Columbus. Cold parlors and slippery chairs and stiff-necked nightgowns that were torture to wear. Aunt Clara's high, shrill voice screeching at her to come in from the yard, and a house that was so quiet, even the slightest noise sounded like thunder.