"Your father would be so ashamed of you . . .""Oh, Belle, what would your father say?" Her mother's words rang in her mind. Even after all these years the painted face of John Calhoun still filled Belle with the urge to get down on her knees and atone for her sins. It was that more than anything else that made her push aside the blankets and get out of bed. If nothing else, she didn't want to have to look at him all morning, didn't want to hear the imaginary sermons coming from a mouth permanently painted closed.
Hurriedly Belle combed out her hair, braiding it again before she slipped into an old brown calico work dress, and shoved her feet into a worn pair of boots. Then, steeling herself, she started down the stairs. The old wood creaked and groaned under her footsteps.
"There you are." Lillian stepped from the kitchen into the hallway, wiping her hands on the heavy twill of her apron. "So you haven't decided to lie abed all day. Good. There's work to be done."
Belle paused on the bottom stair and gave her mother a sarcastic smile. "Good mornin' to you, too, Mama. You didn't have to wait around just to tell me that."
"I didn't." Lillian turned, walking back into the kitchen. "I want to talk to you."
Belle's smile faded. She felt the telltale tightening in her neck, her jaw. Still, after all this time, the anticipation of talking with her mother made her edgy. Her steps were wooden as she went down the hallway into the kitchen, and the bright morning sun and the cool air from the open back door only increased her tension. The room was cheerful, though she felt anything but. The familiar scents of sour milk and yeast nearly choked her.
Lillian began scrubbing the dishes. Breakfast was over; the only thing left was the coffee steaming on the stove and part of a buttermilk pie.
Belle forced herself to relax. "Nice of you to leave me some breakfast," she said, pulling out a chair. "Pie looks good."
Lillian didn't spare her a glance. "If you want to eat, be up when the rest of us are."
"I'll remember that." Belle went to the stove, easing past her mother without touching her, and poured coffee into a thick yellowware cup. The pottery was hot, nearly burning her hands as she hurried back to the table and set it down, taking a seat herself. At least there was a place setting there for her, she noted, grabbing a spoon and pulling the cream and the sugar bowl toward her. That was something, anyway.
She shoveled three spoonfuls of the coarse brown sugar into her coffee and a healthy pour of yellow cream and stirred it, clanking the spoon noisily against the cup. "Where's Sarah?"
"With Rand." Lillian plopped a dish into the tub with such violence, it sent water splashing up her arms. "Doing chores."
"Isn't she a little young for that? Hell, I didn't have to feed the chickens at Aunt Clara's till I was seven."
This time Lillian did look over her shoulder, though her eyes were expressionless. "Don't sass me, Isabelle. If you think I've forgotten about yesterday, let me assure you I haven't."
"Why, Mama, I don't think you've forgotten a thing." Belle took a sip of her coffee and pulled the pie tin toward her. The buttermilk custard wiggled gently as she sliced into it with her coffee spoon and took a bite. The taste of it melded with the lingering coffee on her tongue, sweet and milky. "Ummm—good pie."
Lillian slapped another plate into the tub. "Jimmy Dumont came by this morning on his way out to Alspaughs'. He said his mama asked how you were doing.”
Belle took another bite of pie. "You can tell her I'm doin' just fine."
"That is not what I meant."
The anger in her mother's voice made Belle smile. Deliberately she exaggerated the country accent she knew Lillian despised. "Well, now, Mama, s'pose you tell me just what you do mean. I can't read your mind, y'know."
Lillian spun around so quickly, warm water flew from her hands, spattering on the hot stove and sprinkling Belle's face. "Don't you play these games with me, Isabelle. I cannot believe the things you said to Ernestine and Stella yesterday. You deliberately—"
"Deliberately what, Mama?" Belle worked to keep her tone even. "Deliberately told lies? Seems I'm not alone anyway."
"Just what is that supposed to mean?" Lillian frowned.
"Don't tell me you forgot." Belle laughed shortly. "Maybe I'll just bring my pretty little niece on in here, and she can remind you."
Lillian's face tightened. "We had to tell them something."
"And the truth wasn't good enough?"
"The truth was unthinkable." Lillian's voice was condemning, so soft, it squeezed Belle's heart. "I will not tell the world that my daughter—" Lillian choked on the word as if she couldn't bear to say the rest. She stopped, and her delicate nostrils flared as she seemed to marshal her strength. She looked away. "You knew how I felt then, Isabelle. That has not changed."
Belle squeezed the spoon in her hand so tightly, it imprinted her skin. "You knew how I felt then, Isabelle." Yes, oh yes, she knew how her mother felt. Had always known and had tried to forget it, even though it still haunted her sometimes in the quiet of darkness. In her nightmares she remembered the night she'd told her mother about herself and Rand; she still saw the wild way Lillian's hair had come loose from her chignon and the paleness of her skin, the red dots of color on her cheeks. Still heard the sharp, spitting words: "You're a disgrace to this family ..."
Belle swallowed, forcing her fingers to relax on the spoon. "I haven't changed either, Mama," she said quickly, because she was afraid she wouldn't be able to say the words. "I wanted Sarah then and I still do. I had plans for her. You and Rand were wrong to take her from the Masons'. You were wrong to lie."
"You don't know what you're talking about, Isabelle. Things have changed in the time you were away. It's best if you would remember that."
"Best for who, Mama? What were you plannin' on tellin' everyone when I came back?"
"When you came back?" Lillian raised a brow. "Had you planned to come back, Belle?"
The words fell between them like stones. Belle wished she could deny it, wished she could say yes, she'd always intended to come back, to bring Sarah back, but she couldn't. The truth was she'd never meant to set foot in this town again, wouldn't have now if not for Sarah.
Though it wouldn't have mattered even if she had wanted to return. She'd always known she wouldn't be welcome—and she'd been right. She wasn't.
She raised her chin defiantly. "You told me to stay away," she said. "I thought that's what you wanted. Or was I wrong, Mama? Tell me, did I get it all wrong?"
Her mother stared at her silently, and Belle saw the thinning of Lillian's lips, the way the blood drained from her face. No, Belle thought, she hadn't been wrong.
She pushed back her chair and got to her feet, working to keep the emotion from her voice. "I didn't think so. Now, if you don't mind, I'm goin' to find my daughter."
Her mother didn't make a sound as Belle went out the back door into the morning sunshine. She felt oddly drained as she leaned back against the wall of the house. The clapboards were warm and rough against her back, and the air smelled like dry leaves and dust and hay. She took a deep, relaxing breath, willing herself to calm down, closing her eyes. She heard the chickens clucking in the barnyard, the hogs grunting, and for a moment she could almost see herself—twelve years old and chasing the chickens back to the barn, bare feet raising clouds of dust as she ran.
Once, she had loved it here. The day her mother had married Henry Sault was the happiest day of Belle's life. Then she had reveled in the barnyard and the forest and the canal, had loved the loft in the barn where she could see the whole world, had cherished the nooks and crannies where a young girl could hide.
For a moment the high, childish voice coming from near the barn sounded like her own. Belle straightened, blinking away her thoughts. She pushed away from the wall and shielded her eyes with her hand to see into the sun. She thought she saw a movement by the pigpens.
Sarah. Belle's heartbeat sped. Nervously she licked her lips, feeling strangely reluctant to hunt Sarah down. It was st
upid, she knew. Sarah was the whole reason she was here. But now that the opportunity had come, she felt—afraid.
She licked her lips, gathering her courage. To hell with it. It couldn't be that damn hard to talk to a five- year-old. She'd faced far tougher things than a little girl.
She kept telling herself that as she walked across the yard, following the dirt road past the spring and smokehouses to the barn. The huge gray building sat on a hill a short distance from the house, and the road led directly to the second story, where hay and the wagons were kept. Sarah was below, where the big doors swung open into the cluttered barnyard. She was looking at the pigs, her bare toes curled precariously around the second slat of the fence so that she could lean farther over the pens. A group of chickens pecked at the ground around her feet, and Belle saw that the burlap chicken-feed bag clutched in Sarah's hand was leaking a steady stream of cracked corn.
Belle bit back her smile, almost sliding down the steep, narrow path leading to the barnyard below. The deep, heady smell of animals and hay was heavier here, making her nostrils tingle. The chickens scattered as she approached, but Sarah was too involved with the two huge black hogs to pay any attention.
"Hey there," Belle called out. "You s'posed to be feedin' the chickens?"
Sarah looked over her shoulder, then down at the bag at her waist. Her small mouth opened in an O of surprise. "It's leakin'!"
"Yeah, it is." Deftly Belle snatched the bag, folding it so that the hole was at the top. She motioned to the birds. "They liked it, anyway."
Sarah tilted her head back, and the loose sunbonnet slipped off her head, revealing her short locks. Without that long blond hair, Sarah looked even more like Rand. Like him, those brown eyes were too serious, too thoughtful, the small mouth set too firmly. And the wary expression on her face was a copy of Rand's.
Sarah stared for a moment and then she turned back to the pigs. Belle licked her lips, thinking suddenly of Rand's orders yesterday to stay away.
She forced them from her mind and leaned against the fence, watching the big animals snort their way through their meal. "What're you doin'?" she asked.
Sarah shrugged. She didn't bother to look up. "Watchin' the pigs."
"Oh, I see."
Silence. Belle felt uncomfortable and ill at ease, and she guessed Sarah felt the same. The little girl was staring at the pigs as if she expected one of them to talk at any second.
"Which one do you like better?" Belle tried.
Sarah gave her an exasperated glance. "You don't like pigs," she admonished.
"Oh. Sorry."
Silence again. She searched inanely for something to say. Hell, what did one say to a child? Something equally brilliant, like "Which chicken do you think is prettier?" With adults, at least, it was easy. Most people were interested in the same things, even if it was nothing more exciting than the weather.
She bent over, resting her elbows on the fence and leaning out as far as Sarah.
"She's a nice-lookin' hog." Belle pointed to the bigger of the two, pure black except for the spot of white just beneath her chin.
"That's Bertha."
"Bertha, huh?"
"Papa's takin' her to the fair. He thinks she's pretty."
Belle lifted her brows in surprise. She couldn't imagine Rand thinking such a thing, much less saying it. "He does?"
"Uh-huh. Ain't she?"
"Uh—yeah. I guess another pig might think she's pretty."
They were quiet for a moment, both watching the two hogs root around in the dirt.
"Papa said we could have baby pigs next spring." Sarah spoke suddenly. She slanted Belle a tentative glance. "Is it almost spring yet?"
"We've still got a little while."
"Oh." Sarah looked thoughtful. "I wish it was spring now." She wiggled a little, tightening her chubby hands on the splintery fence. "'Cause I'll be ten then, and I'm gonna take me a baby pig and run away."
Belle stared at Sarah in surprise. "You're goin' to what?"
"I'll be able to ride a horse then. Papa said I could when I was ten."
"Is that so?"
"Sarah." His voice came from behind them, low and melodic, startling them both with its quiet intensity. Sarah jumped down from the fence guiltily, and Belle twisted around. Rand stood there, a wicked-looking ax hanging loosely from his hand. Dirt and chaff spotted his bleached linsey-woolsey shirt and clung to the heavy brown workpants, and a few bits of hay threaded through his thick hair. He looked sweaty and tired, and his mouth was set in a familiar grim line.
"Papa, I was just showin' her Bertha." Even Sarah seemed to sense his volatile mood. Her voice was softly pleading.
"I see that." Rand jerked his head toward the house. "Why don't you go on in and see if you can't help your grandma?"
"But I was feedin' the chickens."
"You were?" Rand's gaze slid to the feedbag, still in Belle's hands.
Belle shifted it uncomfortably. "She was. There was a hole in it," she explained lamely.
"Well, you can feed them later. Go on in, now,"
Sarah looked stubborn. Belle stepped forward. "It's all right. We can feed them to—"
"No." There was no anger, no threat in his words. Just a solid, implacable order. "Sarah, I said go inside. Now."
This time Sarah went. Belle watched as the child walked slowly and deliberately across the yard, both hands behind her back, her feet dragging.
Belle turned back to him. "How—"
"Is there something wrong with your memory?" he asked, his eyes narrowed, his tone coldly furious. "I told you I didn't want you around her."
She shrugged. "I know what you told me. I don't give a damn."
"You don't, huh?" He leaned forward, took a step that brought him close enough so Belle could see the dust coating the lines at the corners of his eyes, staining his shirt. Close enough to smell the tang of sweat.
She lifted her chin and faced him. "No, I don't. What're you goin' to do about that, Rand? Scare me away?" She stepped toward him.
He jerked back so sharply the ax he held scraped along the ground. "I won't let you take her," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Never."
Anger surged through her. "Oh, no? We'll see about that."
"I'll fight you every inch."
"I never expected anythin' different from you."
He swung the ax slightly in his hand, glancing down at it as if he wanted to use it on her. "Make it easy on yourself, Belle. Leave."
She glared at him, hostility made her voice tight. "I'm only goin' to say this one time, Rand," she said evenly. "You can threaten me all you want, you can even run me off this farm, but I won't leave without her. I'll keep comin' back and comin' back until Sarah and I go together. That's a promise."
And then she turned and walked away.
Chapter 7
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, twenty-eleven, twenty-three—" Sarah's singsong counting rang in the air over the sound of the boiling kettle and the clinking of utensils on pottery. She scraped her two-tined fork along her plate, through a mound of mashed potatoes and into a puddle of applesauce. "Twenty-six, twenty-one, twenty-two ..."
"Sarah, please," Lillian said.
"But I'm countin' to a hundred."
"Count quietly."
Rand didn't look up. He concentrated on the potatoes and the cold boiled beef on his plate, forcing himself to chew and swallow—anything to keep from looking at Belle. He couldn't stand to see her defensive expression —it was all he could do to ignore the anger already hovering between them. He didn't need to see the proof of it in her face. He slashed into his meat, drowning the bite in horseradish before he put it in his mouth.
"Thirty-ten, thirty-eleven—" Sarah said, her voice a low murmur.
Rand reached for the sugar and put two heaping spoonfuls into his buttermilk. The clank of the spoon hitting the cup seemed obscenely loud. He caught Lillian's nervous gaze across the table, and involuntarily he followed it to Belle, who was slowly, de
liberately, opening a biscuit. She spooned apple butter on it thickly, then followed it with a lacing of maple syrup.
"Thirty-six, thirty-seven . . ."
Rand's eyes narrowed, and he looked away and took a gulp of the sweetened buttermilk. But the sight of her pouring that syrup wouldn't leave him. She used to do that, he remembered. Before or since, he'd never seen anyone else eat a biscuit quite that way.
It bothered him that he remembered.
"Thirty-eleven . . . Papa, what comes after thirty- eleven?"
"There is no thirty-eleven," he said gruffly. "It goes thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one."
"And then what?"
"Pass the applesauce, please." Belle looked at him pointedly.
Rand grabbed the bowl and shoved it toward her.
"And then what, Papa?"
"Thank you." Belle made a show of dipping the spoon in, plopping the sauce onto her plate so that it pooled next to those smothered biscuits.
"And then what?"
"Sarah," Lillian admonished.
"Papa—"
"What?" Rand turned to his daughter almost violently, feeling a surge of impatient exasperation. He inhaled deeply, forcing calm into his tone. "What do you want to know, Sarah?"
"What comes after forty-one?"
"Forty-two."
"And then what?"
"Sarah, that's quite enough." Lillian said. "If you want to count to a hundred, count quietly—and not until after supper."
"Forty-three comes next," Belle said. Abrupt silence followed—so abrupt, her words seemed to echo. She looked up from cutting her meat. "Doesn't it?"
Sarah sat up straighter in her chair. She looked at Belle with big, round eyes and then at Rand.
His stomach tightened and rolled over. He nodded to Sarah. "Yeah. But listen to your grandma, all right?"
After the frost f Page 6