After the Frost (31 page)

"Belle," he gasped, but she was already beyond his reach. Blindly, his heart pounding in his ears, he spun around. "Belle—please. Please. Don't go."

She stopped, twisted to look at him, and her eyes were dark and fathomless in the shadows, her expression bleak. He felt her fear; it shivered between them, stabbed him with unrelenting shards of memory. It had all ended on a night like this, after all. A night with a killing frost. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "God, Belle—"

She stepped back as if his words frightened her. "No," she said slowly, her voice a mere whisper. "Don't do this to me again. I can't ... I don't want to care about you, don't you understand? I don't want to care."

Then, before he could answer her, before he could do anything, she turned and ran away from him, stumbling, to the house without once looking back. He heard the sudden tones of the piano crash into the darkness as she opened the door, and then he heard it slam shut behind her, leaving him standing alone, in cold silence.

The darkness reached for him, and he recoiled from it, told himself she was right, that it was better this way, that he should never have kissed her, or reached for her, or wanted her. It would be better for them both if he kept his distance, if he didn't remember the way things had been before. If he didn't remember the sheer brilliance of her smile, or the way she made him laugh, or the love she had for life that always made his dream of leaving Lancaster seem somehow—unnecessary, unimportant.

He should not remember those things.

No, he should not.

But he did.

And God help him, he missed them.

S
he felt shattered. As if someone had sent her heart and soul flying into a thousand pieces and left her there, just an empty shell in the bright gaiety of a room she didn't want to be in, the center of laughter she wanted no part of. She heard the whispers around her, knew the others were retelling the old gossip—the scandal of the sinful love between Belle Sault and her stepbrothers. She could almost hear the hushed murmurs—
"She had an affair, first with Cort and then with Rand. Why, it was immoral"
—and she knew they were wondering why she'd raced out just now and why Rand had followed her and not returned. She wanted to go home, she wanted to run away, but she couldn't. Not because she gave a damn what they all thought of her but because leaving like that would only be admitting that she cared, that the stories they told were true.

She would never give them the satisfaction. Never.

So she sat there, studying black notes that jumped all over the page, feeling the bruising of her mouth and the grip of his fingers on her face. She sang along, trying to remember words that kept flitting out of reach, tasting the sweetness of apple cider from his lips and the heated salt of his skin.

She felt cold and hot and unsteady; it was all she could do to focus on Mr. Horner and pretend she understood what he was saying. And when they took a break for apple cider and gingerbread, she saw Lydia bend to Paula and smile, and Belle knew the rumors would be flying again, even though Rand's name was already linked with Marie's.

You don't care. You don't care
. And it was true it didn't bother her when they talked about how careless she was; she didn't give a damn if they spoke in scandalized tones about how she spent every night playing cards in a tavern or drank like a man. She didn't even care if they spent hours speculating on where she'd been for six years and what she'd had to do. Those things couldn't hurt her.

But the rest—the rest could. She remembered the rumors from before, the stories that both Cort and Rand had been in love with her, that they'd fought each other for the chance to have her. The rumors had only grown worse when Cort died that summer. It had been a tragedy; Cort died only two months after his father, after Rand came home from Cleveland for Henry's funeral. They'd been grieving anyway, and Cort's death had . . . Well, it was a terrible time, and the gossip had only made it unbearable, had turned the innocent race that killed him—a fun, spontaneous game between brothers —into an old-fashioned duel for her hand. A duel Rand had won.

She'd been called many things then. Cort was reckless and volatile, quick to fight over any slight, real or imagined, but everyone liked him, and in their search for someone to blame, she was an easy scapegoat.

And though the lies that she was responsible for her stepbrother's death had hurt, what hurt worse were the words they'd used to describe her relationship with Rand. The most precious thing in her life, the thing she treasured above all else, had been turned into something twisted and sordid.

And it hadn't helped that Rand believed it too.

Belle swallowed, tried to push the thought out of her mind, along with the memory of the night it had all disappeared. She tried not to hear the words that came echoing back from that time, but they were there anyway, tormenting her, hurting all over again.
"I don't want you, don't you understand? I don't want you."

That night, too, had only started with a kiss. A kiss that held—despite its roughness—something more, a sweetness just beyond her grasp, a joy she knew she could find if she only reached for it.

That was what scared her now. Because reaching for that sweetness had ruined her life six years ago. Loving him, trusting him, had brought disaster.

Belle's heart raced, her throat grew tight. Too well she remembered that November night, the cold look in his eyes, the revulsion in his face, the way he'd turned from her. It was as she'd told him, she couldn't live through that again.

It frightened her that even those memories hadn't killed the love she felt for him. She hadn't managed to destroy that feeling in all the lonely nights she'd been without him, all those dark days she'd spent nursing the memory of his betrayal, the way he'd rejected their friendship as if it were nothing, the way he'd rejected her. He had taught her not to trust him, and she had learned the lesson well.

She had not forgotten that. She might still love him— she couldn't seem to help herself—but even love wasn't enough to make her trust him again.

The thought gave her strength, the words became her litany. Belle recited them over and over in her mind, letting them grow stronger as the singing died and the others began milling around. And as the minutes passed, she felt calmer, more in control.

Then she saw Marie Scholl coming toward her through the crowd, and the fear came back, along with a hopelessness she couldn't shake, a fierce stab of jealousy over the fact that Marie was the one he'd chosen, and not her.

Belle forced herself to look up at Marie and smile as the schoolteacher came closer.

Marie motioned to the empty chair beside Belle, an anxious, concerned look on her face. "Do you mind . . . ?"

Belle's stomach flipped. She swallowed and shook her head. "Sit down."

"I'd been hoping to have the chance to talk with you." Marie sat in a swoosh of pale green silk, a drifting cloud of rosewater. She leaned forward, lightly touching Belle's arm. "I was worried when you went rushing out. Is everything—"

"Everything fine," Belle said stiffly. "It was just a little—hot—in here. I needed some fresh air."

Marie looked sympathetic. "I've always found orrisroot a bit too strong for potpourri, but Paula claims it's her favorite." She smiled, she squeezed Belle's arm tightly and then released it. "But I'm glad to see you here now. I was so looking forward to having the chance to get to know you."

"Really?" Belle couldn't help the sarcasm in her voice. She gestured at the crowded room. "Why? I figured they'd have filled you in already."

Marie looked taken aback, but only for a moment, and then she recovered with a smile. "Well, Rand was right about you. You are rather honest."

Belle bit back a sarcastic laugh. Honest, hell. If she were truly honest, she would tell Marie that just looking at her dark prettiness set her teeth on edge. Belle glanced away, toward the piano, where Mr. Horner was busy gathering the leather-bound songbooks into a neat stack. "You'd better watch yourself," she said blandly. "They're all wonderin' why the hell you're talkin' with me. 'Specially since you know the stories."

"Oh, the stories." Marie leaned closer, close enough that the scent of roses lingered in Belle's nostrils. "Well, I try not to mind Lydia much. She's a nice girl, but she has a terrible tendency to gossip."

Belle looked at her in surprise.

Marie smiled. "I think she's always been a little in love with Rand, don't you? She's just looking for a way to hurt him. Those stories"—she made a dismissive gesture—"why, they're ridiculous. I'm only sorry she involves you as well."

"You don't believe them?"

"Of course not." Marie shrugged. "I can't imagine Rand would ever want to hurt his own brother—and the notion that you're the cause"—Marie's eyes twinkled— "well, Belle, you don't really seem like the kind of girl who trifles with men's hearts."

Belle stared at her. She couldn't help it; Marie's comments surprised her, confused her. They seemed out of place coming from Marie, in contrast with her soft, womanly prettiness. Belle would have thought Marie would be shocked by the stories, that they would offend her prim sensibilities. But Belle had not expected that Marie Scholl would have a strength of character that went deeper than her reserve. Or even that her primness hid such a nonjudgmental mind.

It must be what Rand saw in her. For a moment Belle was overwhelmed by Marie's complexity—by her scent and pretty face and the reassuring smile that so readily dismissed the gossip—and she knew it would be easy to like Marie. Easy to be her friend even in spite of Rand and the fact that he planned to marry her.

Marie laughed. "You look so shocked, Belle. Don't tell me I'm wrong. The stories aren't true, are they?"

"No." Belle shook her head. "No, they're not true."
Not mostly, anyway
. "It's nice to know someone in this town doesn't believe everythin' they hear."

"It's the same everywhere," Marie said. "There are plenty of Christians who don't act much like Christians. Sometimes I think there's no charity in the world anymore."

"Sometimes," Belle grinned, "I think there never was. And if you ever saw Reverend Snopes at Sunday dinner, you'd know what I mean."

Marie laughed. It was a high, pleasant sound that carried through the room, above the talk. It made Belle want to laugh along, but then she saw Rand come in the doorway, and the smile and the laughter died right out of her.

He looked disheveled, windblown, and there was a tension in his movements that filled Belle with a sinking feeling. Especially when he looked up and caught her gaze. Because the look in his eyes held more than desire, or anger, or any of the things she had expected to see.

They held despair.

It made the joy she'd taken in Marie's words shrivel to nothing. His look cut through her, tore at her heart, made her feel lonely again, and afraid. It made her remember the feel of his mouth on hers, the way he'd held her head so tightly she couldn't escape, and she knew that even if that alone hadn't frightened her, the sight of his despair would have. It was too much like before.

But she didn't move when he crossed the room. She heard Marie's laughter and talk with one part of her mind, but the rest of her—the heart of her—was focused on Rand moving through that crowd, on his long, loose-hipped stride. He was in front of them in seconds, a taut, palpable presence. His face was hard, his eyes burning. "Belle, let's go."

"There you are!" Marie looked up at him with a smile. "I thought you'd left for good, and I'd been counting on you to give me a ride ho—is something wrong?"

He looked at Marie as if he hadn't realized she was there. "No. Nothing's wrong." He hesitated. "You need a ride?"

"If you don't mind. Tim Parker was supposed to take me back with him, but then Sophie felt ill, and I wanted to wait for you. . . . Rand, you look pale."

"I'm fine," he said tightly. His gaze went back to Belle, and it was as uncomfortable as before. "Are you ready to go?"

Belle faced him evenly, though her heart was pounding. The thought of riding back with him, even with Marie in the wagon—especially with Marie—made her mouth dry, her palms sweat. She swallowed. "You go on ahead and take Marie home," she said. "I'll get someone else to give me a ride. I heard Lydia say Charlie was comin' to get her. I'll just go back with him."

"Don't do that on account of me, Belle," Marie said softly.

Belle threw her a reassuring smile. "It's all right, Marie," she said carefully. "Besides, I might be able to get Charlie to go on over to Hooker's Station later."

"Are you sure?"

Belle glanced at Rand. He was silent, watching her, and his hazel gaze seemed to sear right through her; it stopped the words in her throat. He didn't want her to go with Charlie—or he didn't want to be alone with Marie, Belle didn't know which. But he didn't say anything, and she realized he wasn't going to argue, wasn't going to insist she come along with them. He was going to let her go with Charlie, and he was going to take Marie home, and he would probably kiss her in the moonlight. The thought made Belle feel sick.

"I'm sure. You two go on." She nodded and got to her feet, anxious to get across the room, to escape. She felt jealous and aching and embarrassingly foolish for feeling anything at all, and the feelings only grew when Rand looked at her with that searching, puzzled stare. He opened his mouth, and she knew he was going to say something—and also knew she didn't want to hear it. Desperately she stepped away.

"I think I'll just go find Lydia and make sure they don't forget me," she said, pasting a smile on her lips.

"Good night, Belle," Marie said.

Rand stepped forward. "Belle—"

She jerked back. "Don't wait up for me," she said. And then she turned and plunged into the crowd, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze. Or the sinking of her heart.