After the Frost (10 page)

     
Rand laughed shortly in reply. Then they were silent again, for so long, Belle wondered if they had gone in. She strained to hear, leaned farther out. The splintery sill dug into her skin, her nightgown caught and ripped. Belle bit off a curse and stopped, hoping they hadn't heard. Rand had already given her a lecture today; she didn't need another one.

"What was that?" Sarah's voice floated up to her. Belle closed her eyes, held her breath.

"Hmmm?"

Rand's lazy answer brought a sigh of relief. They hadn't heard. Thank God. This was all so strange. It didn't fit at all. The Rand she had seen these last days would not let a five-year-old child up at three in the morning. That Rand would be in bed himself, waiting for the first touch of dawn on the fields. Certainly he wouldn't be sitting on the porch with Sarah, telling stories in the middle of the night. Hell, in the time she'd been here, Belle hadn't heard him do more than order Sarah around or scold her.

She frowned, listening to his soft chuckles in response to Sarah's story, trying to reconcile this man with the one with the stern face and sterner lectures. She would not have expected this from him. Not anymore.

This—this was more like the old Rand.

Belle felt suddenly cold, oddly disturbed, and she drew back from the window, lowering the sash and closing the curtains against the night and the voices. Something nudged at her mind, something she didn't want to hear, didn't want to consider.

Stiffly she crawled back into bed.
It doesn't matter
, she told herself.
It was just one story, just one.
Just one story against a hundred don't-do-thises, a hundred don't-do-thats. It couldn't make up for years of scolding, days of meaningless no’s and silly rules. She knew that better than anyone.

The niggling doubt disappeared, replaced by a reassuring certainty. She wasn't wrong. Rand was no longer the boy she'd run with so many years ago. He had changed, and one story couldn't take away the harsh, unsmiling look in his eyes.

Even though it had taken only one night to put it there.

Belle banished the thought, refusing to remember, to think about it at all. She was doing the right thing. The only thing she could do. She had no choice but to take Sarah away from here, from the same strictures that once made Belle long for freedom. That still did.

No other choice.

She felt more certain of that than anything else in her life. In her mind Belle saw Sarah running free, her long blond hair trailing behind. The image made Belle smile. Yes, this was the best idea; she could hardly wait to make it happen.

Still it was a long time before she forgot Rand's soft laughter.

Chapter 8

     
D
elia Johnson made bread-and-butter pickles last year," Dorothy Alspaugh said, holding a jar of pickles up to the light. Her soft gray eyes narrowed as she surveyed them critically. "But these look good, Lily. My, look at how pretty they lie. It looks almost as if you packed them that way."

     
"I did." Lillian smiled, and wiped her wet hands on her apron. "Those are my fair jars. I did a dozen."

"Well, they are pretty." Dorothy set the jar carefully on the table. "I guess Delia has some competition this year, don't you think so, Belle?"

Belle glanced up from the table, her fingers trailing idly over the jars. "I don't know," she drawled. "Miz Johnson makes pretty good pickles, if I recall."

"Usually," Dorothy agreed. She pulled out a chair and eased her thin body into it. "But she was complaining that some blight got the cukes this summer, so we'll see." She took a sip of coffee and smiled at Belle. "I'm so glad you decided to help us today. We could use an extra hand with the sauerkraut."

     
"Yeah, well it's been a while since I did any preservin'."

"It'll come right back to you, you'll see."

     
"Maybe." Belle took a deep breath and smiled at Mrs. Alspaugh. Then she glanced up at Lillian and wished—again—that she hadn't agreed to help. It had seemed like a good idea at first, when she'd thought Sarah would be in the kitchen as well, but as soon as Belle walked into the room, she knew Lillian had deliberately tricked her. Sarah was outside helping Rand with the chores.

Belle felt a quick surge of resentment.
Just one more day
, she told herself. One more day of feeling trapped. She hadn't had the chance to go into town yet, but tomorrow . . . Tomorrow she'd visit the tavern and get a job. After that it would only be a few weeks before she and Sarah could leave. She could bear anything that long.

"I think I'll do my spice cake for the fair," Dorothy said.

"The one that got second place last year?" Lillian turned from the ten-gallon earthenware jars she was readying.

"I think it would have got first prize if John Abrams didn't have such a fondness for coconut cake—and rum." Dorothy snorted. "I just wish I could get my hands on whoever told Bernice Goslin he was judging. Imagine, a coconut cake with rum icing. Whoever would have thought of such a thing?"

"I don't s'pose you know who's judgin' this year, Miz Alspaugh?" Belle teased.

"Well—no—but I did hear Robert Leith might be."

"Robert Leith?" Lillian asked. She turned back to the crocks, a small smile playing at her lips. "That's certainly lucky. He ate three pieces of spice cake at Peter Benson's funeral a few weeks ago."

"Did he?" Dorothy looked appropriately innocent. "I didn't notice."

"Three pieces." Belle shook her head in mock amazement. "That's somethin'."

"Yes, well." Dorothy got to her feet, fussing at her apron. An attractive blush stained her cheeks. "Where is the cabbage, Lily? I'll get to trimming it."

"It's in the cellar." Lillian stepped back. "I'll run and—"

"I'll get it, Mama." Belle got to her feet.

Lillian hesitated. She flashed a glance at the back door. "No—"

"Even I can find a cabbage." Belle picked up the bushel basket sitting by the table. "How many?"

Lillian looked oddly perplexed. "Really, Belle—"

"How many?"

"Just bring what you can carry. And hurry back."

Belle frowned, feeling suddenly strangled. "It's not like it's miles away, Mama," she said, moving to the door. "I'll be right back."

Quickly, she went down the back steps, the slatted basket banging gently against her legs. The air today was cooler, touched with the dusty smells of autumn: dead leaves and apples and drying hay. There would be a frost soon, Belle thought idly, moving to where the huge doors of the cellar were angled against the house. She noticed the potato plants lying in a browning, tangled heap in the garden. Time to get those up and into the cellar—

Belle stopped, frowning, surprised at the turn of her thoughts. In the six years she'd been gone, she'd never once thought about gardens or frosts or even the weather. The seasons had come and gone in New York, meaning nothing more than sweltering summer days and icy winter streets. She had forgotten that they ever brought anything else.

And yet here she was, knowing instinctively that it was time for a frost.

It made her uncomfortable suddenly, for no reason she could say, and Belle hurried into the dark, shallow pit of the cellar, past the last few crocks of wax-sealed apple butter and the jars dark with fruits and vegetables to the bins that held the pale green cabbages. She grabbed as many as she could and tumbled them into the bushel until it was full.

It was heavy, and Belle lugged it awkwardly around the corner of the house, toward the backstairs, feeling every step grow heavier and heavier the closer she came to that kitchen. The cellar had been a relief, an escape, and now the thought of spending the rest of the afternoon with Lillian and Dorothy, trimming cabbage and listening to their mindless gossip, made her taut with tension.

Belle hesitated at the steps. She heard them bustling around inside, heard the murmur of their voices and their soft laughter. Her stomach tightened.

She took a deep breath, took one step up.

And heard Rand swearing at the hogs in the barnyard.

Belle stepped back. She turned around, seeing Rand and Sarah hovering around the pigpens in the near distance. Carefully, quietly, Belle set the bushel of cabbages on the bottom step. Suddenly she knew why Lillian had hesitated at the idea of sending her for the cabbage. Her mother had been afraid of this very thing, afraid that Belle would see them out there and take the first opportunity she could to escape the mindless chore.

Belle smiled. Her mother was right.

"Mama!" she called up. "The cabbages are right here! I'm goin' on out to the barn for a minute." Then, before Lillian could answer, Belle lifted her skirt and ran across the yard. Rand was bent over the hog, and Sarah was perched on the fence, watching. Neither one even noticed her coming. By the time she reached the bam, Belle was breathless.

     
"Hey there, Sarah!" she called as soon as she was close enough. "What're you doin'?"

     
Sarah twisted around, her sunbonnet whipped off her head at the motion. In the pen Rand glanced up. He was struggling with one of the hogs, the one Sarah had called Bertha, and he looked sweaty and irate. He shook back his hair from his eyes and frowned.

     
"What the hell are you doing out here? I thought you were helping Lil." He glanced at Sarah. "Put your sun- bonnet back on."

     
Sarah didn't budge. She regarded Belle somberly. "Did you come to help us with the pigs?"

     
"I sure did." Belle gave Rand her biggest, most insincere smile. "Since your papa looks like he's havin' some trouble."

     
Rand straightened. "Go on back to the house and help Lillian. We're fine here."

     
"She's got Miz Alspaugh to help." Belle stepped onto the fence, carefully balancing on the top rung beside Sarah. "I think I'll just stay here for a while and watch. That all right with you?"

     
Rand's eyes narrowed, he looked ready to say something, but then he glanced at Sarah.
 
“Fine," he said tightly.

     
"Good." Belle looked at Sarah, ignoring Rand. "So what are you doin'?"

     
"Helpin'." Sarah watched her shyly. She put a careful, tentative hand to her hair. "My hairs is all cut off."

     
Belle nodded. "I see that."

     
"I look like a boy."

     
In the pen Rand exhaled in exasperation. "You do not look like a boy, Sarah. Jesus."

     
Belle lifted a brow. "Well, it's pretty short."

     
"Papa said he wanted me to be a boy," Sarah said.

     
"Oh?" Belle felt a surge of pure anger. She looked at Rand, not even trying to fight it back, and her voice was raw with it. "Is that what you told her?"

     
He looked surprised, she thought. Surprised and disconcerted, but then he stepped away from the pig and wiped his sleeve across his dust-streaked face, and his expression became stony. "Don't tell stories, Sarah," he said tersely. "I didn't say that at all." He looked at Belle. "She wanted it cut that way. She didn't know it wouldn't grow back right away."

     
Belle faltered for a moment. He was so matter-of-fact, so damned calm, that she almost believed him. Almost. But she had learned long ago not to trust Rand, not to believe him. Learned that Rand's truth was often just what he wanted it to be.

     
And she knew what the truth was here. Maybe he hadn't wanted Sarah to look like a boy, but he damned sure wanted to make sure she didn't look like Belle.

     
She smiled bitterly, reached out to touch Sarah's soft, silky hair. The shortened tresses slid through her fingers, glinted golden in the sunlight. "You don't look like a boy," she said. "You still look just like a little girl."

     
Sarah gave her a hopeful smile. "Janey needs a haircut too. Only she don't have no head now."

     
Belle frowned. "Who's Janey?"

     
"My doll."

     
"Oh." Belle nodded. "I see. Where's her head?"

     
"I lost it. Papa says it's in my room, but I think a 'coon got her."

     
"Really?"

     
"Uh-huh. On account o' her neck's all chewed up."

     
"'Coon's don't eat dolls, Sarah," Rand said distractedly.

     
She didn't even glance at him. "One ate Janey."

     
"Maybe you left her in the pigpen," Belle offered.

     
Sarah considered for a moment, her round face screwed up in thought. "Maybe I did," she said finally. "Them pigs'll eat anythin'." She turned to Rand. "Did I leave her here, Papa?"

     
Rand was examining Bertha's hoof. He didn't look up. "I don't know, Little Bit. Maybe."

     
"I'll show her to you," Sarah said. The fence shook as she climbed down. "I'm goin' to show Janey to her, Papa."

     
Rand's head jerked up. "No, Sarah, don't . . ." His words trailed off. Sarah was already racing from the barnyard to the house, her chubby legs pumping.

     
They were alone.

     
Alone. Belle took a deep breath. She had not come out here to talk to Rand. She wanted to avoid him. She pursed her lips, focusing on Sarah until the little girl disappeared into the house, trying to remain calm and in control.

     
"It won't work, you know," he said quietly.

     
Belle turned to look at him. He had released Bertha, and now he stood, hands on hips, a resigned look on his square, handsome features. Belle feigned confusion. "What won't work?"