After the Frost (27 page)

"Mama," she tried, but the word came out broken and hesitant, and Lillian wasn't listening anyway.

She had already turned away. "I want you to go up to the springhouse," she ordered. "And then to the orchard, wherever you think she might be. I'll try the cellar and the yard. Now, hurry." She looked over her shoulder, her face icy cold. "And Isabelle, you bring her right back if you find her, do you understand me?"

Belle nodded. "Yeah, Mama," she said dully. "I understand."

And she did. She understood better than she wanted to. The emotions were there, on Lillian's face, in Lillian's eyes, and Belle knew that to her mother Sarah was more than a granddaughter.

She was the daughter she'd never had.

Belle watched as Lillian hurried away across the yard calling Sarah's name, and an unexpected, unwelcome pang of jealousy surged through her. She wondered if Lillian had ever been this worried for her. Wondered if all those times she'd sat in the hayloft ignoring her mother's calls to come home, there had even once been a touch of panic in Lillian's voice.

Somehow she doubted it.

It bothered her that the thought hurt, made her uncomfortable that she was jealous of her own daughter.
You should be glad she loves Sarah so much
, she thought. Except that she knew what love meant to Lillian, knew it meant stifling rules and overprotective demands.
Or maybe that was just for you
.

Belle swallowed, pushing away the thoughts. It wasn't important now what Lillian thought of her. What was important was finding Sarah—and finding her first so that she could protect the child from Lillian's anger. Because Belle knew Sarah was probably just hiding, just as Belle had done a hundred times. She was almost certain that somewhere Sarah was listening to Lillian's panicked voice and giggling as if it were all a game.

But by the time Belle had checked the springhouse, the barn, and the orchard, she wasn't so convinced. She told herself she was only starting to get worried because she heard Lillian's call in the distance, and it sounded more panicked than ever. There was an edge of hysteria to it that was high and biting, lingering long after her voice died. It shivered up Belle's spine, prickled against her skin. It was all right, she told herself. Sarah was just playing. Just having a good time. Of course she was. She had to be.

"Sarah!" Belle called. "Sarah, come on home now! I promise you won't get in trouble!"

Where the hell was she?

"Sarah! Sarah, if you come out now, I'll give you a big surprise!"

Her voice vibrated in the air. The only answer was the nickering of a horse in the pasture.

Sarah was all right.

She was only hiding.

She was just playing a game.

But the reassurances felt hollow. Belle hurried to the smokehouse. Sarah would be there, she knew it. Probably playing in the ash pile. She would be covered in gray and streaked with soot, oblivious to the calls. . . . Belle tore open the door.

There was no one there. Nothing but blackened hooks and dust that rose in the draft. No little girl playing in the ashes, waiting to be found.

Oh, God. Oh, God, where is she?
The panic Belle had not allowed herself to feel suddenly flashed through her blood, making her heart pound and her knees weak.
Where is she? Where is she?

"Sarah!" she called, and she no longer even made the attempt to soften her words, or even to offer bribes. All she wanted was an answer, and it could be anything. Laughter, tears, anything. Just as long as it was an answer. She understood now the stark relief on her mother's and Rand's faces when she and Sarah came back from the canal. For the first time she understood what she'd done to them, how worried they must have been, how frightened. The thought made her sick with shame.

God, where is she?

"Sarah! Sarah!" Belle heard her mother's voice blending with hers, a singsong echo in the hills.
"Saaaaaarah!"
"Sarah!"
"Saaaaaarah!"
"Sarah!" It almost made her crazy, the rhythm of that sound.

But Sarah was nowhere. Not in the pasture, not in the smokehouse or the privy. And Belle knew from her mother's cries that she wasn't anywhere else either. God, where could she be? Where the hell could she be? Belle tented her hand over her eyes, staring into the sun, hoping to see her—a speck against the hills, a spot of movement. Why the hell hadn't she just taken Sarah with her to the barn today—or even to the canal, like Sarah wanted? Why hadn't—

The canal.

The thought plunged into her mind, sent her heart falling.

Not the canal.

But she knew suddenly that it was exactly where Sarah had gone. She heard the little girl's voice in her mind, heard all the things Sarah had ever said about the canal.
"Can we go to the canal today and jump off the bridge?" "You mean the boats go forever and ever down to China?" "Papa used to jump too?" "I wanna jump. Can we?"

Belle felt sick with fear, and she realized with a nauseating sense of guilt that this was what she'd been hoping for from Sarah, this independence, this sense of adventure. She'd spent the last two weeks doing her best to inspire it.
"Your papa and me used to jump from that bridge all the time. We'd get on a boat headin' to town and then jump off and walk on back. That was some of the best fun I ever had."
She'd told all those stories, stories about going alone to the canal, and fishing in the river, and running barefoot in the grass.

But there was one thing she'd forgotten. One thing she hadn't thought about at all. She'd been twelve years old when she'd done those things, not five.

And she had never been alone. There had always been Rand, or sometimes Cort.

The panic surged through her now, making her blood race, filling her mind with images: Sarah walking along the bridge, scurrying to jump on one of those boats, dodging the tow chains—the heavy, clumsy tow chains . . .

Belle ran. Her feet pounded the ground so hard, her teeth banged together. God, how could she have been so stupid? Why hadn't she thought? She should never have said those things to Sarah, should never have tried so hard to be a friend that she'd forgotten she was an adult and Sarah was just a little girl. Such a little girl.

Please, God, let her be all right
. Belle pulled her skirt over her knees and ran faster. There were so many things to be careful of—had she even mentioned them? The deep, murky water, the slippery decks of the barges. And those missing boards at one end of the bridge—the rotten rail. Oh, God . . .

"Mama!" she screamed, sliding down the path from the springhouse to the yard. "Mama!"

Lillian came racing around the corner of the house, breathless and pale. "Where is she? Did you find her?"

"She's at the canal." Belle gasped. "I know it. I told— her. Dammit, I told her—what to—do—"

Lillian blanched. From the front drive came the sound of a wagon, the crunch of gravel beneath heavy wheels, the steady, hollow clop of horses' hooves. She gripped her apron. "Rand," she said. "Thank God."

Belle didn't wait. She went dashing around the corner of the house, racing in front of the wagon. Rand jerked up on the reins. "What the he—"

 
"It's Sarah." Belle breathed. She felt Lillian behind her, heard her mother's breath, harsh and ragged as her own. "She's at the canal. She's gone to the canal by herself. To jump off the bridge."

 
Rand's face went white. He jerked his head toward the seat. "Get on," he ordered. Then, while she scrambled to get aboard, he said to Lillian, "Stay here. Get hot water ready. And blankets. Lots of blankets." Then he hit the reins, and they were off.

Chapter 19

“W
hat the hell's going on?" Rand shouted over the noise of the wagon, but he didn't slow, didn't take his eyes from the road.

Belle grabbed onto the edge of the seat, trying to keep her balance as they hurtled down the road. "Sarah disappeared this afternoon. She's been talkin' about the canal, so I figured—"

"Who was watching her?" The question was bitten off and angry.

Belle flinched. "No one."

Rand's face hardened. She saw his anger, knew that he had already assigned blame—and she also knew that she deserved his contempt this time. Guilt swelled in her chest, a deep, throbbing ache that made her sick with worry and self-recrimination. She was to blame, after all. She should have been watching Sarah. She should never have taken her to the canal the first time, or told her stories. Should never have urged Sarah to take the same meaningless, stupid risks Belle had been safe taking at twelve.

What kind of a mother was she anyway?

No kind of mother at all.

The thought brought a lump into her throat, sent a wave of hopelessness crashing over her. But it was true, and she knew it. She hadn't acted anything like Sarah's mother. She'd been too busy being Sarah's friend. She wanted Sarah to like her, and Sarah did. But liking was different from loving or respecting. Yes, she was Sarah's friend. Sarah's ally. But she wasn't Sarah's mother. Being a mother meant keeping a child safe, taking responsibility.

And you've never taken responsibility for anything
.

Belle squeezed her eyes shut.
"Don't go to the canal alone," "Stay away from the well," "Don't climb on those fences."
The rules she'd always hated mocked her now. For the first time Belle realized what they really meant. They meant the difference between life and death. They meant safety, they taught caution.

And she had deliberately taught Sarah to disobey them.

Belle felt faint at the thought.
You're to blame if something happens to her. You're to blame.
She remembered all the times she'd ignored the rules, thought of all the things she'd done, and with a flash of insight she realized just how much danger she'd been in. Hell, Rand and her mother had been right not to trust her. She couldn't even take care of herself. How the hell could she take care of a little girl?

She thought of that day she and Sarah spent at the canal. The way the sun glinted off the water, hiding the lethal murkiness below. She thought of Sarah's rapt gaze as she looked at the bridge. God, why hadn't Belle seen it then? Why hadn't she realized that the idea of jumping off that bridge onto the boats below would take hold in Sarah's imagination? Why hadn't she remembered what it felt like to have that same thought eight years ago, when she was still a child—the challenge, the exciting question of what it would feel like to have the wind whoosh by you, to feel the rough deck beneath your feet and know you'd done it?

Why hadn't she remembered?

"Can't you go any faster?" she yelled.

Rand shot her a quick, contemptuous look. "We're going as fast as we can." He stared back at the road, and his expression was grim, his jaw set. Belle thought of Sarah's melon-stained face and the gurgle of her laugh, thought of her wobbling, deliberate walk, the way her bare feet pattered on the floor.
Please, oh please . . .

As if Rand heard her plea, he slapped the reins against the horses, yanked them into a sharp turn that sent Belle slamming into him, sent the wagon careening around the corner and onto the road leading to Hooker's Station. Belle almost wept with relief when Rand slowed the wagon in front of the warehouses. She was off before it even stopped, was running past Shenky's stand and down the boardwalk. There was a break between the warehouses, a space the width of one person, maybe two, and she tore through it, skirting the rotting harnesses and crates littering the ground, scraping her hands against the splintery sides of the building when she lost her balance. She heard Rand's footsteps just behind her, heard the harsh gasp of his breathing joining hers. The blood pounded in her ears; she tasted the bitter salt of panic on her tongue.
Please, God, let her be all right. Let her be all right and I'll never break another rule again. I promise. Please—please, I promise. . . .

"Sarah!" Her voice bounced off the walls, an eerie, hollow sound. "Sarah!" She pushed through the last few feet, burst out onto the loading platform, skidding to a stop just before the canal dipped away below her. Involuntarily she glanced toward the bridge.

Her heart stopped.

Sarah was there. Sitting on the edge of the bridge, in a space where the railing had broken away, her little feet dangling bare in the chilly breeze, her hair shimmering in the sunlight. Waiting for a barge to make its way down.

Belle surged forward. "Sarah!" she called, and was stunned to see Sarah look up and wave and struggle to get to her feet—

Rand lurched past her, pounding down the length of the loading platforms toward the bridge. "Sarah, sit down!" But Sarah only looked confused at his shout, and she stumbled.

Belle gasped. She felt suddenly faint. "Sarah!"

Sarah regained her balance and smiled. "Belle! Papa! Look what I can do!" She held her hands out and took a step along the edge.

Belle's stomach fell. "Sarah, no!" Her feet seemed to move without her, her body felt heavy and leaden as she ran down the loading docks after Rand, dread and fear hammering in her head. Rand wasn't going fast enough. Oh, God, he wasn't going fast enough.

Then everything seemed to happen in slow motion. She and Rand reached the bridge at the same moment Sarah took another step. Belle saw the wavering of her daughter's body, the swift look of panic as she lurched to the right—

Belle lunged toward Sarah, but Rand was already there, grabbing at her, pulling her back from the edge, grasping her with desperate strength. Belle didn't think. Desperately she ran to them, and suddenly she was enveloped in Rand's arms, too, her face pressed against Sarah's back—smelling her skin, her hair.

For a moment—just a moment—Belle was overwhelmed with a sense of security, of warmth, of belonging. The feeling was so strong, it made her weak, and she clutched at Sarah, wanting things to stay just this way for only a few seconds longer. But then Sarah struggled in their arms, and Rand was stepping away, Sarah was sliding out of his grasp. The moment she hit the ground, she turned and smiled up at Belle. "Did you see me?" she asked. "I was doin' it real good before then. I been practicin'."