After the Frost (17 page)

"Third place, with a prize of twenty-five cents, goes to Mrs. Emily Groves, for her outstanding corn relish."

There was a flurry of clapping. Belle pushed her way through the crowd, barely sparing a glance for the podium, where Mrs. Groves was graciously accepting her ribbon.

"Second place, with a prize of fifty cents, goes to Miss Margaret Browning, for a simply wonderful pickle relish."

Her mother was just in front. Belle uttered a hasty "excuse me" to the woman beside her and squeezed through. As she'd thought, Sarah stood beside Lillian, looking bored and restless while Lillian watched the judge with rapt attention.

"Hey there, Sarah," Belle said in a loud whisper. "Ready to go to the races?"

Sarah whipped around, and Lillian turned, looking startled. "Isabelle!" she said, frowning. "What are you doing here? I thought Rand—"

"I lost Rand about three hours ago, Mama," Belle said impatiently. "I came lookin' for Sarah. The races start—"

"Shhh!" The woman next to her glared. "They're announcin' first prize!"

Lillian jerked back to the front. The judge smiled broadly, holding up a blue ribbon.

"And now, at long last, it's time for the first prize in the relish class." He paused for effect. "First prize, with an award of one dollar and fifty cents, goes to Mrs. Dorothy Alspaugh, for her delicious pepper relish!"

Dorothy gave a little scream of delight and hurried up to the podium to accept her award. Lillian set her mouth, took Sarah's hand, and started to move away.

Belle followed. "You look upset, Mama," she noted. "I didn't know you even entered a relish."

"I didn't."

"Well, don't feel so bad. I expect your applesauce cake'll win plenty of prizes."

Lillian waited until they were just beyond the crowd, and then she whirled around with a sharp sound of exasperation. "What do you want, Isabelle?"

Belle widened her eyes innocently. "Why, I told you already, Mama. I just want to take Sarah to the races."

"The races?" Sarah's face brightened. "Oh, Grandma, the races!"

Lillian gave Belle an annoyed look. "Sarah's too young."

"I don't know why. I'll hold her on my shoulders so she can see."

"Isabelle, I really don't think—"

"She won't get lost if she's with me." Belle ignored her mother's protest, bending until she was even with Sarah. "What d'you say, Sarah? Want to go watch the horses with me?"

Sarah looked hopefully up at Lillian. "Please, Grandma? Please, can I?"

"Your father and I decided you could go when you were ten," Lillian said.

"I'll be ten when the piggies are born!"

Belle lifted a brow and looked at her mother. "Did you hear that, Mama? She says she'll be ten in no time."

"I said no."

Belle straightened, working to keep her resentment from surfacing. "Mama, I think you'd better let Sarah go with me," she said softly.

Lillian gave her a sharp look. "I don't think . . ." she said, abruptly trailing off.

Belle saw the spark of uncertainty in her mother's eyes, and she knew suddenly that Rand had told Lillian about her threat to tell Sarah the truth—and that Lillian was afraid she would. Belle's throat tightened. God, even her own mother didn't trust her. Her own mother.

She told herself she shouldn't be surprised. Lillian had never trusted her with anything, and Belle didn't know why she expected it now. But still, the thought brought a stab of pain that Belle forced away. It didn't matter. She wanted Sarah, and she would do whatever it took to get her. If that meant letting her mother believe she would go back on her word, then so be it.

Belle took a deep breath. She could almost see Lillian's mind churning, could almost hear her thoughts:
"Will she tell Sarah the truth? Or won't she? Should 1 take the risk?"

Deliberately Belle smiled.

Lillian looked startled, and then she stepped back. "Very well," she said stiffly. "But we'll all go to the races. Together."

Belle felt her smile waver. She hadn't thought Lillian would decide to come with them, but she guessed it wasn't that important anyway. There was no way her mother would put Sarah on her shoulders, no way Lillian would laugh and shout and scream for the horse to win. Belle knew already how Lillian would be. Stiff, unamused. Easy to ignore.

Belle smiled down at Sarah. "Well, I guess we're on our way to the trottin' park."

Sarah grinned back. "I wanna be at the very front!"

Belle shot a look at Lillian. "Well, maybe not the very front, Sarah. But near there, I promise." She reached down, taking Sarah's other hand. "I promise."

R
and leaned against the railpen and sighed with relief. Everything was done. Bertha was snoring in the corner of the pen, fed and bathed, exhausted from her ordeal this morning. There was clean straw, and the dirt had been swept. It had taken him more than two hours to do it, but finally she was as ready as he could make her for the judges. Now he could relax.

He glanced around the roofed, open-sided building. Earlier he'd been surrounded by people, but now there were only a few men left, and the barn was quiet except for the rustling of the animals, the now-and-again clank of feed buckets. He reached into his pocket and took out the plain gold watch that was another legacy from his father. It was nearly time for the races. No wonder everyone was gone.

He shoved the watch away. He hadn't been to the trotting park in two years. Lillian had always thought Sarah too young to go, and though he hadn't agreed, he didn't care enough about it to fight. Now, though, he was alone, and the morning had left him feeling restless.

And he'd run out of things to do to lose the image of Belle's smile.

The races might be just the thing to do it, and if nothing else, it was better than sitting around here. He'd just get Bertha a little more water and then head up to the park. He reached over the fence for the bucket.

"Rand! Rand Sault!" A high, feminine voice came from the far end of the barn.

Rand let the bucket fall. He straightened, turning to see the woman who called him.

Two women actually. They hurried across the floor toward him, their booted feet raising little clouds of dust. He recognized them immediately. Lydia Boston.

And Marie Scholl.

He swallowed, suddenly remembering his conversation with his stepmother—had it only been two nights ago?—and feeling the absurd urge to bolt. But then the two of them were smiling in front of him, and he had no choice but to say hello and smile back.

He made a small bow. "Ladies. How nice to see you."

"Randall Sault! You should be ashamed of yourself, stayin' away so long!" Lydia scolded prettily, shaking her dark head. "We missed you the other night at the singin' party. Paula was sure sorry you weren't there. We all were."

Singing party. His mind went blank for a moment, and then he remembered. "Too much to do," he said briefly. "I'm sorry I couldn't come."

"We missed you." Marie smiled. She was wearing blue today, a sprigged frock that made her look gentle and feminine, and for some reason it made him think of Belle and her yellow wool delaine. Which was absurd. Belle never looked feminine, nor gentle. Even in demure yellow she looked rebellious and startling, like a firebrand dropped in the middle of a hayfield. Marie would never look that way. She would never do anything shocking or unconventional.

The thought comforted him. He smiled back at her. "I'll try to make the next one," he promised.

Lydia smoothed back a dark brown curl. "I guess you've reason enough now that Belle's back in town. No one expects you to go out visitin' when your sister's just come home."

"Stepsister," he corrected.

She gave him a startled look. "Well, yes, that's what I meant. Anyway I figure it's been nearly a week now, and it's about time you were out doin' some socializin'. Paula said she wanted to have another singin' party next week and that you're to come. Bring Belle if you can. Goodness knows we'd all like to see her."

"I've heard so much about her," Marie said. "Lydia tells me she's just a character."

"Well, now, you know I only mean that in the kindest sense, Rand," Lydia gushed. She turned to Marie. "She was always doin' the craziest things, even when she was young. She was always in trouble. Wasn't she, Rand?"

The air around him suddenly seemed too thin. Rand took a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, she was."

"Once she even dared Rand to jump off the Rock Mill bridge. Remember that?"

He felt cold. "I remember."

"But he wouldn't do it. No one could blame him actually. No one even knows how deep that pool is. They say there's a team of horses and a wagon at the very bottom of it."

"Really?" Marie turned an interested gaze to him. "How ever did they get there?"

Rand's throat closed up.

Lydia answered for bim. "No one knows. Some drunkard probably. I guess there's a hundred stories about it. Oh, goodness, there's Ben Groves!" She shot them an apologetic look as she went hurrying off. "I'll be right back. Ben! Ben!"

Rand stared after her, still reeling over her words. A hundred stories, she'd said. None of them true. Rand's stomach knotted, the memories of his mother's suicide crowded, dark and menacing, at the edge of his mind. Frantically he pushed them away.

"A hundred stories," Marie said softly, as though she'd read his mind. "Well, now, I never knew that. Can you imagine? I guess now I'll have to find someone who can tell me all those stories."

"Charlie knows them," he managed.

Marie's face fell. Rand thought he saw a swift flash of disappointment cross her pale brown eyes.

But then she smiled. Lightly. Softly. She glanced nervously toward Lydia and Ben Groves. They were too far away to hear, but still her voice was very soft, very shy. "I'd rather hear them from you."

"Oh?" Her comment took him by surprise, the last vestiges of memory drained away. She was disarmingly, naively honest. Rand ran his tongue over his teeth. "I'm not sure Charlie would like that."

She laughed lightly, nervously. "Oh, but Charlie- he's—we're not—it's not like that."

Suddenly Rand understood. He glanced at Marie, who was looking at him with those shy, honest eyes, and he knew that this had all been a plan, that Marie had deliberately sought him out. She wanted him, maybe even thought she loved him. Charlie had only been a substitute, and Rand realized that he had hurt her when he'd drawn away. He had treated her unfairly. Had thought for a few months that he might want a wife and then thought better of it, so he'd simply stopped seeing her.

But he wasn't sure how he felt now, and before he could decide, she looked at him nervously, licked her full lips, and something about the way she did it triggered a memory. He took in her slender curves, the way the blue-sprigged calico flared gently over her hips. He remembered a kiss he'd stolen from her last summer. Chaste, gentle, barely touching. Remembered the way her lips had felt under his.

He remembered Lillian's words of a few nights ago.
"You should be thinking of marriage, Rand. After all, you're nearly twenty-eight."

Marie Scholl.
Maybe
.

He gave her his best smile. "So you and Charlie are just friends, huh?"

She flushed. "Yes."

"And you don't think he'd mind that we're standing here talking to each other, alone."

"N-no."

"Or that he'd mind if I asked you to come to the races with me this afternoon?"

She looked shocked, confused for just a moment, and then she lifted her eyes to his, smiling. "Well—he's in Cincinnati buying a new ram."

"Guess he can't mind, then."

"No." Her smile widened. "I guess he can't."

"Good. Then let's go." He offered his arm. Lydia was still talking to Ben Groves not far away, but he knew Marie had forgotten all about her friend. Rand was in no mood to have Charlie Boston's sister following behind them anyway. Being seen alone with him at the races would hardly tarnish Marie's reputation. There would be a hundred other people there, jostling and crowding for space. There wouldn't even be a chance for them to be alone.

And he didn't regret that. He didn't want to look into her soulful brown eyes and know she wanted him to kiss her. He didn't want to have to make that decision. For now all he wanted was to forget about everything, and Marie Scholl had always been the perfect way to do that.

She talked animatedly beside him as they made their way past the stands selling food and crafts, weaving their way through the crowd. Before they even reached the track, he heard the sounds of cheering, and he hastened his step, anxious to get there. He wanted to stand at the rail and watch the horses sweeping around the third-of-a-mile track, wanted to feel Marie's hand at his elbow and hear her voice cheering along with his. But he didn't want to make conversation.

When they came to the trotting park, he threaded his way through the people, pulling.Marie behind him until they were near the front. The first race had already ended, but cheers still filled his ears. He couldn't hear the words Marie was shouting at him. Someone jostled them, and Marie reached up and grabbed at her hat, holding it in place and laughing as the second race began.

"Come on, Devil!" Someone beside him shouted. "Come on, now! Faster! Faster!"

"Go, Dan! Get that nag runnin'!"

"Holy hell, that mare's a doer!"

Rand laughed, for the first time in days feeling free and unencumbered. The excitement rushed through him, the blood in his fingers and cheeks tingled. The horses flew around the track, their hooves pounding the dirt, nostrils flaring. He glanced back at Marie. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittered with excitement.

"Who do you want to win?" he shouted to her.

"The—!"

"The what?"

"The roan!"

"The roan it is." Rand pushed through the people until he was against the rail. He felt her behind him, at his back. He leaned forward. "Come on, boy, run! Run!"

The horses rounded the final curve. The roan strained to the front. Rand felt the blood rushing to his head, felt the pull of the muscles in his neck as he yelled along with the others.