After the Frost (43 page)

Rand didn't hesitate. "I broke it off with Marie on Sunday," he said. He smiled slightly, self-deprecatingly. "Or rather, she broke it off with me."

Lillian glanced up. "She knew?"

"Yes. She knew." Rand raked his fingers through his hair. He looked away, at an iron pudding mold hanging on the wall. "I don't think I hid it very well."

"No, I don't imagine you did."

He glanced at her. She was staring at him, and he had the feeling that she was waiting for him to say something, waiting for some declaration, or an excuse. Waiting for him to say he was sorry, that he would end it between himself and Belle. The same way she'd watched him six years ago, with that patient waiting, the same look that begged for an explanation.

And this time there was only one.

"I love her," he said. "I don't want to be without her."

He expected Lillian to wince, to try to dissuade him, but she did neither of those things. She looked at him steadily, and her voice was calm and even. "I know," she said quietly. "I suppose I've always known."

He frowned, perplexed. "And you won't—stop it?"

She smiled slightly. "Could I?"

"No."

"Oh, Randall." She sighed. She shook her head slowly, looking down at the pie on the table. "When I first married your father, I so wanted us all to be a family. A real family; brothers and sisters, a wife, a husband. ... I wanted to believe you and Isabelle were really brother and sister. I wanted everything to be perfect." She touched the edge of the golden piecrust, crimping it between her fingers as if she could somehow change the shape. "But that was absurd, I know. We were all just strangers really." She smiled wistfully. "Not a real family at all."

"I don't know what a real family is, then," he said slowly. "What does it have to be, Lil, if not people who care about each other?"

She didn't look up. "I just can't help thinking sometimes, if I had done something different ..."

"You couldn't have predicted what happened between Belle and me," he said slowly. "No one could. There was a time when I would have prevented it if I could, but now . . . now I'm glad I didn't."

"All I've ever really wanted is for her to be happy, though she won't believe it." Lillian's voice was soft and low, but he heard the pain in it, and the resignation. "And you of course."

"I know that."

"And this"—she looked up at him—"this will make you both happy?"

He inhaled slowly. "Yes."

She motioned to the doorway, and the smile on her face was small and yielding and a little bit sad. "Then I suppose that's all I can ask. Now, go get dressed. We don't want to be late."

B
y the time he and Lillian arrived, the Alspaughs' barn was full of people. The huge doors were opened into the yard, and outside there was a bonfire. The smell of smoke and burning leaves floated on the air, blending with the rich scent of baked beans and the sugary sweetness of doughnuts.

The husking was well under way. Stalks of corn were piled on the floor, and the older men were working steadily, with clean, economical movements, bending over the stalk and grabbing an ear, shearing the husk from one side with the flat, pointed husking peg before they yanked away the remaining husk and broke the ear from the stalk.

Rand looked past them, into the barn, his gut clenching anxiously when he didn't see Belle.

He glanced at Dorothy, who was setting Lillian's pie carefully on the long table in the yard. "Have you seen Belle? Or Sarah?"

"They were over there, last I saw." She motioned to the barn. "I know Belle was talking to Lydia's brother."

Charlie Boston. Rand turned away, scanning the yard for Charlie's tall, lanky form. It looked as if the whole town had come to the bee. There was no sign of her. No sign of her, or Sarah, and Rand had the quick, ridiculous thought that she might have taken this chance to leave, that maybe she was back at the house now, packing her bags.

But then he heard the cheering from the barn and saw the older men rise stiffly from their stools, drifting out to the table where their wives waited with full plates and coffee. It was time for the rest of them to take a turn. Rand looked up to see Lydia Boston gesturing to him.

"Rand, come on over!" she called. She came running up to him, a huge smile on her face. She looped her arm through his and pulled him toward the barn. "I thought you'd never show up, and here you live just next door."

"I shouldn't even be here," he explained. "There's our own corn to cut."

"Well, it'll be dark soon, and you can't cut it in the dark," she said. "It's time for some fun now. Come on and sit beside me."

Together they went into the barn. Lydia was chattering beside him, and Rand listened with half an ear, watching the people laughing and talking, scanning the barn for any sign of Belle. He saw Charlie Boston finally, but no Belle. And as Rand took his seat and grabbed his husking peg, he saw Marie across the barn. She glanced up and caught his gaze, and her smile was warm and welcoming, though a little wary too. And he noticed that when her gaze slipped from his to Charlie's, her smile grew even warmer.

Christ, where was Belle?

The others filed in, and Rand's panic grew. Especially when Kenny and the older men brought in another shock and spilled it onto the floor, and everyone dove in, both men and women, grabbing for ears, laughing and joking at who was husking the fastest, the slowest. He heard the jibes with part of his mind, and Rand grabbed a stalk himself and started to work, trying to listen and smile. But he couldn't concentrate. All he could do was wonder where she was.

It nearly drove him crazy; his fears nagged at him until he was ready to throw down the stalk, to leave the damn bee behind to go home and find her, reason with her. He was a half second away from doing it.

Then she walked in.

He had just grabbed an ear, was splitting the husk with the peg when he looked up and saw her. She was standing at the edge of the crowd, and when Charlie Boston called something to her, she smiled and came forward, breaking through the others until she was in plain view. She was wearing the wool challis gown she'd worn the night she gave Sarah a bath, and the colors in it—brown, green, rust—lent color to her skin, complemented the different golds in her hair. She had braided it simply, the way she always did, but when Rand looked at it, he saw instead the way it had been last night, crackling and wild around him, like heavy satin in his hands.

She was so damned beautiful. For a moment he couldn't move, just stood there, poised over the corn, watching her as she went over to Marie and leaned back against the corncrib. Someone threw her a husking peg, and she looped the leather straps over her fingers and laughed at something Marie said, and then she stepped forward to grab a stalk.

And saw him.

Their gazes met. She stiffened, and he saw her brown eyes widen, saw a flash of expression. But then it was gone, and the shutters were over her eyes again, the careful guard against feeling, and Rand knew that he'd been right to be afraid. He grew even more certain when she tore her gaze away and stepped back to Marie without looking at him again. As if she hadn't seen him. As if he didn't exist.

His chest tightened. His plans for a future with her wavered in front of him, mocking him, a useless dream that had little meaning and less possibility. Last night had obviously meant nothing to her, and he wished he knew what she was thinking, what she expected, whether she intended that they spend the rest of their lives this way, looking at each other from across a room, wanting without speaking, burying the past and the present between them, denying a future.

The thought made him weak; he faltered when he picked up another stalk, rammed the husking peg into his hand. With a curse he dropped the corn, grabbing his fingers.

"What's wrong, Rand?" Lydia asked solicitously. "Did you hurt yourself? Can I help?" She leaned forward, reaching for him.

He shook his head, stepped away at the same moment he heard the raucous shouts around him.

"There it is!"

"Who's it gonna be?"

"Rand, you'd better take the forfeit now, 'fore someone beats you to it!"

He heard his name and glanced up. Marie had stepped forward, and she was laughing and blushing, holding a partly husked ear of corn in her hands.

A red ear.

She looked at him, their eyes met. For just a second, maybe two, and he saw in her eyes what they both knew —that everyone here expected him to kiss her, and that he wouldn't. He was not going to take the forfeit, and in the same split second he thought it, he glanced at Belle, and the look in her eyes sent his heart plummeting to his feet.

That desperate vulnerability was there again, along with a pain he didn't understand, and with a shock he suddenly realized that he had never told her he was no longer seeing Marie. Her words from the night of Paula's party came rushing back, along with his answer.
"She's the one you're goin' to marry?" "Yes."

His heart fell. He knew she had seen him look to Marie just now, and she had misinterpreted it, thought he was going to kiss Marie, to declare himself.

Just as he thought it, Belle turned away, and Rand watched in stunned dismay as she pushed through the others and disappeared.

She was running away.

Running away.

He heard the others shout, saw Charlie Boston swoop toward a blushing Marie.

Rand dropped his peg and plunged into the crowd.

Chapter 29

S
he ran as fast as she could, pushing through the people, grabbing her skirt when she cleared them and tearing across the fields separating their farm from the Alspaughs'. She wanted to get lost, to disappear, to go someplace where no one could find her, where no one could look at her and see the pain she couldn't hide any longer.

She had not expected it to hurt this bad, not really. It had hurt before, when she first saw Rand with Marie, but not like this, not like this awful, blinding ache that made her feel as if she were falling apart inside, as if her heart and soul were shattering into a thousand pieces. Her heart had stopped beating when Marie got the red ear, it had simply frozen in her chest, and Belle hadn't been able to breathe, had felt faint and sick when she saw Rand glance up, saw his eyes meet Marie's.

Belle had known then that she would never survive this. She would never survive a future of watching that, of knowing he was going to kiss Marie and feeling such overwhelming, debilitating pain. Oh, God, she couldn't do it, couldn't—

"Belle!"

She heard the voice behind her and faltered. It sounded like Rand. It couldn't be Rand. He was in the barn, kissing Marie.

"Damn it, Belle, stop!" It
was
Rand. She heard his footsteps behind her, pounding the ground. "Belle!"

Belle didn't stop. She ran faster. The house was in front of her, and she raced up the back stairs, through the door. She didn't want him to see her like this, with tears streaming down her face and her courage in tatters. She did not want his pity, or his kind words. God, she couldn't bear it.

"Christ, Belle!"

She heard the door crash behind him, and then, suddenly, he was so close, she heard his breathing. She would never make the stairs before he caught her. The thought slowed her, had her stumbling to a stop just at the base of the stairs. She swiped a hand across her eyes and turned to confront him.

He nearly fell into her, but he didn't. He stopped inches away from her, and his eyes were burning, but whether it was with anger or pain she couldn't tell, didn't want to know.

"Belle." His hands flexed at his sides; she saw him struggle to catch his breath. "Jesus, what the hell are you doing?"

She lifted her chin and swallowed. "Nothin'," she said as steadily as she could. She motioned limply to the stairs. "I—I just thought I'd . . . go to bed, is all. I'm —all right. You go on back. I'm sure . . . Marie's waitin' for you."

He shook his head. "She's not waiting for me," he said slowly. "She's kissing Charlie Boston."

Belle frowned in confusion. His words made no sense, she didn't believe them. "Kissin' Charlie? I—I don't understand. I thought—"

"Marie and I ended things Sunday." He grabbed the banister, blocking her from moving, his fingers tightening as if he thought she would run and was bracing for it. His gaze seared through her. "When I realized I was still in love with you."

Belle winced. The words mocked her, taunted her, and she tried to step back, but the railing stopped her, kept her only inches from him. She laughed nervously, trying to still the disbelief and pain racing through her, knowing he was mocking her. "You—you . . . love . . . me." She looked away. "Yeah. And I s'pose you want to get married and live happ'ly ever after."

"Yes."

She looked at him, feeling the tears well in her eyes and not caring. "You don't have to do this, Rand. I mean, I know you feel some . . . some sense of duty . . . after last night." She swallowed, tried to force out the words sticking in her throat. "But I never meant for it to be anythin' but just . . . one time. That's all. Just once."

He stepped toward her. "What if I want it to be more?"

She stared at him in confusion. "It—it can't be."

"Why not?"

"I—I don't . . . believe you. Before, you—"

"Before," he repeated quietly. He reached out and took her hand, wrapping his warm fingers around her cold ones, pulling her against his body, whispering against her hair. "Ah, little girl, I was such a fool before. I was so afraid. You were so young, and I was so afraid of how much I loved you. I didn't want to hurt you. Christ, I didn't want to hurt you, and instead I ended up hurting you too much." He licked his lips, took a deep breath. "And if I have to, I'll spend the rest of my life apologizing for it. If you'll let me. Please. Please say you'll let me."

His hand tightened on hers, but he didn't pull her closer, and she knew he wouldn't. Knew she could say,
"No, I don't forgive you,"
and he would walk away. Knew she could say,
"I don't love you,"
and he would never touch her again. And for a split second she wanted to say those things, wanted to end whatever it was between them, to completely destroy it the way it hadn't been destroyed six years ago. There was too much pain between them, too much anger, too much . . . joy.