After the Frost (28 page)

Something inside Belle snapped. Before she knew what she was doing, she grabbed hold of Sarah's arms. The relief, the fear, the guilt all welled up inside her, crashed around her, a mix of feelings that put an edge to her voice and made her feel out of control and strange.

"Don't you ever, ever do that again," she said, giving her daughter a little shake. "Do you hear me? Not ever again."

And then, to her horror, she started to cry.

R
and stared at her in shocked surprise. He felt out of place as he watched her cry, watched her gather Sarah up in her arms and pull the child to her, and he knew he had looked just that way a few days ago, when Belle brought Sarah back from the canal the first time. He saw himself in Belle's movements, knew how relief and fear and panic forced every other emotion away, how it took refuge in anger. He saw himself in the way she shook Sarah and in her desperate scold, and it surprised him.

He had not thought her capable of it. He had not expected her even to realize the danger, thought she would simply shrug it away—or worse yet, be proud of Sarah for trying such a daring thing. That she wasn't surprised him. Puzzled him. He'd told himself she was still the girl she'd been six years ago—reckless and impatient, irresponsible. The things about her that were different—that fierceness in her manner, the vulnerability she worked so hard to hide—were only little changes, unimportant ones that had more to do with independence than with growing up. He told himself Belle hadn't really changed.

But now he wondered if maybe he was wrong. If maybe he only saw what he wanted to. If maybe he was so afraid she would crawl back inside him that he had deliberately refused to look at who Belle was, who she had become.

Because the woman kneeling on the dock, crying through her fear, the woman who had sounded for a moment like all the mothers he'd ever known, was not a woman he knew.

And he couldn't look at her now and believe she was the same girl of six years ago.

The realization sent a trickle of fear sneaking through him. He wanted to tell himself he was wrong—that she was still the Belle he'd always known—but then he heard her whispering to Sarah, and he knew she wasn't.

"I'm sorry," she was saying. "I didn't mean to yell at you. But you scared me, Sarah. That water's deep, and when I was tellin' you about the bridge, I forgot to tell you how scary it was. The only reason I could even jump at all was because your papa was there holdin' my hand."

Rand tried to swallow.

Sarah smiled warily. "It was scary. And real high."

"I know. It's pretty high." Belle sat back on her heels, wiped at her face with her sleeve. "I think you're too little to do it all by yourself. I was fourteen before I could."

"I'll be fourteen soon," Sarah said hopefully. "C'n I do it then?"

Belle's smile wavered. "I guess so. But until then I want you to promise me you won't come back to the canal by yourself. You take me or your papa with you."

"All right."

"You promise?"

"Uh-huh."

Rand nudged her with his knee. "Say it, Little Bit."

"I promise." Sarah looked at Belle. "I'm sorry I made you cry."

For a second Belle looked embarrassed. But then she got to her feet and wiped again at her face with her hand. Her eyes were still huge and glistening, her cheeks were pink from rubbing, and tears left dirty tracks through the dust on her skin. She looked unsteady and breathless and disheveled.

And Rand thought,
This is the mother of my child
.

He caught his breath in surprise. The mother of his child. He'd never had the thought before, and now Rand found he couldn't stop it, couldn't prevent the idea from taking hold. He imagined what she must have looked like, her body softly swollen and rounded, her movements graceful and seductive in spite of the clumsiness of pregnancy. He imagined her skin, translucent with life, her brown eyes lit with that soft tranquillity that infused expectant mothers, the wisdom that spoke of things men only dream about.

In that moment he knew that he
had
been wrong about her, that she
had
changed, and he'd just refused to see it. He thought of last night and the memory of that long-ago summer evening when she'd said
". . . only if you kiss me . . ."
and suddenly the memory lost its power, was supplanted by a much more evocative picture—that of Belle heavy with his child. Why had he never thought of her that way before?

Rand swallowed. His gut clenched, his heart pounded so hard he thought he might pass out.
Because it was easier to think of Sarah separate from Belle, not a part of her at all. It was easier to think of Sarah as belonging only to him. . . .
And in a hot, aching flash of awareness Rand knew why he'd tried so hard to suppress the image.

It was the most erotic one he'd ever known.

Far more erotic than a green girl trying her first kiss. It was the image of a woman, with all that meant— wisdom and serenity and secrets, rounded softness and knowing smiles, desire and need and forgiveness . . . things a girl hadn't learned yet. Secrets a girl didn't know.

Sweet Jesus . . .

"What do you say we go on home and have a piece of pie?"

Belle's voice broke into his thoughts. Rand stared at her, unable to take his eyes away as he watched her take Sarah's hand.

"Pie?" Sarah asked hopefully.

"I thought I saw your grandma makin' pumpkin." Belle's smile was soft and watery. "It's about my favorite kind."

"Mine too," Sarah said.

"All right, then. Let's go."

She and Sarah started off, talking animatedly and moving down the dock hand in hand, with the sunlight glinting off their hair. Blond and blond.
His daughter. The mother of his child.

Rand tried to push the words away, but they lingered there, raising questions he didn't want to think about, feelings he refused to look at. He saw the way Belle's hips moved beneath that old wool skirt, the strong and graceful sway, and he wondered how maturity had changed the body he remembered, if her breasts were fuller, or her skin warmer, smoother. . . .

He swallowed, struggled to think of Marie Scholl, to think of the scent of roses and the warm, tingling softness of her lips. But the images felt cold and distant, and he could no longer remember what Marie felt like, even though he'd kissed her only a few hours ago. He couldn't take his eyes off the woman walking in front of him, her fingers tight around a little girl's hand. Woman. Not a young girl anymore.
When did that happen? Why didn't you see it before now?

Slowly, feeling disconcerted and strange and frightened, he followed them back to the wagon. But he kept his distance, though he saw the way Belle kept looking back to make sure he was there. Even that was frightening, a memory of other days, when the habit of keeping each other in sight had been strong and unbreakable.
Don't let her get to you. Don't think of it. Don't think of her
, he told himself. It was too dangerous.

But it was impossible not to think of her. He didn't look at her when he got to the wagon, kept his distance as he lifted Sarah into the back and took his own seat beside Belle. He felt weak and unsettled, and he took pains not to brush against her. But he was aware of her anyway. He felt her heat, smelled the scent of sunshine and dirt on her skin. Rand forced his eyes forward, tapped the reins, jerking back from the touch of her arm as the horses started.
Think of Marie
, he told himself.
Think of dark hair and roses. Think of—

"I'm sorry." Belle's voice was low and soft, so soft he could barely hear it above the noise of the wagon. "I know you're mad, and I guess you have a right to be. I'm sorry."

He swallowed, kept his eyes fastened on the road. "I'm not mad."

He felt her gaze darting to him, felt her disbelief in the air.

"You're not?" she asked.

He heard the stark amazement in her tone, and it, too, had the feel of danger. Rand's fingers tightened on the reins.
Lie to her
, he told himself.
Be mad, if that's what she expects
.

But he couldn't. "No," he said softly.

"Why not? It was my fault. I should never have told her we used to jump off the bridge. But I didn't think she would ... I didn't think."

"You couldn't know," he said, searching for something—anything—to say, something besides the questions dancing in his mind.
How did it feel to know my baby was inside you? Did you think of me at all?
But she was waiting, and so he forced out words. Any words. "When you spend more time with her, you won't make those mistakes."

She twisted on the seat. He felt her staring at him.
Don't look at her. Don't say a word
. And he didn't. Not for minutes. He felt her settle back, felt the silence stretch taut between them, let it grow until he couldn't stand it anymore. Even then he didn't want to speak, was afraid of what he might say. But he heard his voice anyway, heard what he said with a vague sense of detachment, as if it wasn't him at all but some disembodied voice. "Paula Rice is having a singing party tomorrow night. She wants you to come."

Belle made a soft sound of disbelief.

His jaw tightened.

"Are you all right?" she asked slowly. "I mean, Sarah almost jumps off a bridge, and it's my fault, and you're actin' like it doesn't even matter—"

"It does matter."

"Then I don't understand."

He was so tense, he felt as if he might explode. It took everything he had to keep the images of her at bay, to concentrate on the conversation and keep from asking the question burning in his mind. Desperately he searched for words. "There's nothing to understand," he said finally. "Sarah's all right. Nothing happened."

He felt her confusion, and something else, something that felt suspiciously like fear. It startled him, enough so that he turned to look at her.

It was the biggest mistake he could have made.

She was staring at him. Her brown eyes were large in a face still pale from panic. But there was no panic in her expression now. There was only wariness, a caution that squeezed his heart and made his fingers clench. Christ, he hated that look, hated the way it made him feel. Lost and wanting. Lonely. Like last night and the night before and every hour since she'd walked into the kitchen and said
"Hey, Rand"
a week and a half ago.

Had it really only been that long?

You're losing control.
The voice rang in his head, heavy with warning. He knew he should get away from her now, yet he couldn't. He felt suspended, lost in eyes that were shuttered against him, eyes that held secrets he was suddenly longing to know, and the urge to lean forward and kiss her was so overwhelming, he felt nauseated with it.

He turned away, stared sightlessly at the horses.

"Never mind," he said hoarsely. His heart was pounding in his ears. "I promised I would invite you."

"I can't believe Paula wants me there."

He kept his eyes forward. "I guess she does."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I suppose she probably wants to see you again, but I don't know for sure. She didn't ask me directly."

"Who did, then? Lydia?"

He thought of Marie and felt a twinge of uneasiness. "Someone you don't know. Marie Scholl."

"Oh. Marie."

Rand frowned, surprised. His uneasiness increased. "You know Marie?"

"I met her at the fair." Belle shrugged. "Mama introduced us."

Lillian introduced them. Rand wished suddenly that he had never mentioned Marie's name. He felt the warning of disaster, the fine edge of fear, and he thought,
Take it back. Tell her it doesn't matter if she goes or not. Tell her if she wants to stay home, it would be better
. But he said none of those things. He said nothing at all. Just waited for her to say no. Prayed she would say no— and prayed he would let her when she did.

She hesitated a minute, maybe more, and then she took a deep breath. "All right," she said slowly. "I'll go"

He felt no surprise at her words, and in the quiet, shivery aftermath of her answer he felt something else entirely, something he didn't want to look at too closely or think about at all.

Because in spite of everything, he knew he had wanted her to say yes. And it scared the hell out of him.

Chapter 20

T
he moon was too bright, it shone through the thin muslin curtains, painting the room in dark and
 
light, in cold blue shadows. Belle watched it move across the floor, watched its slow rise and slower descent, and it felt as if she were witness to every crawling second of the night.

Over and over she relived the day in sharp, painful clarity, from the second Sarah disappeared until the moment they found her. Belle could not lose the image of Sarah perched precariously on that bridge, and she knew that if Rand had hesitated even one minute longer, they would have been trying to drag Sarah from the murky waters of the canal instead of holding her warm, vibrant body in their arms.

It was that thought that haunted Belle, that thought that kept her from falling asleep and sent a shudder racing up her spine. She died a little every time she remembered it. It was funny, but in all those years she'd spent away from Sarah, Belle had never once thought about losing her daughter. Not once had she thought about all the terrible things that could happen to a little girl.

And now she couldn't forget them.

Just as she couldn't forget the feelings that had rushed over her as the three of them stood on the bridge with Rand's arms tightly around her and Sarah. Relief. Joy. Belonging. In that moment Belle realized that she'd never known what it meant to really belong, to be part of something bigger than herself. In that moment she had been, and the feeling was so huge and warm and sweet that everything else paled in comparison. It embraced everything: fear and relief, love and loss.