She had played that game with Rand once, Belle remembered. One afternoon when she was barely thirteen, in the empty Salem church, she had laughed and married him to a rat, a dog, and a chicken before he'd chased her from the altar.
Back then it had been the two of them against the world—or against her mother anyway. Belle and Rand. Rand and Belle. There had been a time when Cort had been part of that too. Though older than Rand by two years, and busy with his own life, Cort had been their
guardian angel—the one who covered their truancy with excuses, the one who defended her reputation that spring Rand was gone. She remembered a story Cort told her once, about a group of swordsmen who banded together against the enemies of a queen. She and Cort and Rand had been like that. The Three Musketeers, Cort had called them.
The Three Musketeers
. The thought saddened her. The three of them had been a family once, just as Sarah and Rand were a family now—a family that didn't include her, even though without her it could never have existed.
You don't belong here. Not anymore.
Belle swallowed. She didn't belong anywhere. Not here in this house nor in New York City nor in Cincinnati. She had spent the last six years making sure of it, living a day at a time, never knowing where her next meal would come from or whether she would have a job tomorrow or the day after.
The only thing she had known for sure in those years was that one day she would come back for Sarah.
And now that she finally had, Sarah didn't need her.
Belle stopped at the top of the stairs, staring at the row of closed doors before her, and before she had time to think, before she even knew what she was doing, she moved toward Sarah's room. It was Cort's old room, at the other end of the hall from hers, and as she got closer, Belle could still see the lines drawn on the door, growth markings, scribbled in the cramped, tiny writing of Cort and Rand's mother:
Cort: 2 years, 5 years, 6 years . . .
Belle frowned. Paralleling the marks were others, dark black lines she didn't recognize. She bent closer to trace one with her finger. Growth marks, like Cort's, but scrawled in a different hand, one that was darker, bolder. She squinted, trying to make out the round, uneven handwriting.
Sarah: 3 years, 4 years, 5 years
.
Belle's heart pounded in her chest; for a moment the ache was so strong, she couldn't breathe, couldn't even move. It was Rand's handwriting, she recognized it now.
Sarah: 3 years, 4 ..
. Belle squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn't block the images. Sarah at three, at four. Sarah growing, inch by inch, into the child Belle had just left in the front yard with Rand.
God, it was incredible that it should hurt this much. But then she remembered how she'd felt the day she left Sarah at the Masons' boardinghouse, and Belle realized it had hurt this badly then, too, and she had only forgotten. In the years that followed, the pain had faded, leaving regret, yes, but relief more than anything else, relief that Sarah was safe and Belle was free—at least for now.
But she hadn't really been free, and Belle knew it. Freedom was not backbreaking work in boardinghouses and restaurants, scraping by for everything. Freedom was not living hand-to-mouth, working just to eke out a living for herself. No, she had never been free. Especially because the vision of Sarah was always there, always in the back of her mind. Sarah red-faced and mewling, just as she'd been when Belle put her in Gem Mason's arms and walked out the door. And always in the back of Belle's mind was the promise she'd made to return.
She had always intended to go back once she'd made a good life for them, to show up on Gem's doorstep one day and take her baby back into her arms.
But there had never been enough money, enough time, enough of the "good life," and though the vision of that baby had stayed with her, it grew fainter and fainter with each passing day, each year. She had not gone back until it was too late and that baby had grown into a little girl she didn't know at all.
Belle glanced again at the door, trying hard to imagine the way Sarah had looked through the years. Sarah at three had been that tall. Sarah at three had stood in front of this door, gazing up at Rand while he measured her height. Belle could see the way Sarah would have looked up at him, the way she laughed and held out her arms for a hug.
Belle could imagine all that. But only as a vague vision. She didn't know how Sarah had really looked or what she'd been wearing or what that day had been like. Those memories were Rand's, not hers.
She had missed it all.
Regret washed over her, so powerful it left her shaking and the black marks on the door wavered in front of her eyes, melted into a wash of tears. She had not wanted this, had never intended it. When she'd left Sarah with the Masons, she meant to be back in a few months, maybe even a year. No longer. But that time had slipped away from her, and now there was no way to get it back. No way, and yet she wanted it, suddenly wanted it so badly, she ached. Six years, and she had nothing. Nothing but memories of regret and sadness. Nothing but bitterness.
Rand had it all. He had seen Sarah every morning, had put her to bed every night. Had nursed her fevers and taught her words and shown her the night sky.
Belle squeezed her eyes shut.
It could've been you, and you gave it away. It could've been you.
Ah, God, how stupid she'd been. How stupid she still was, thinking she could take Sarah away from that and that things would be fine, thinking that Sarah would love her, trust her, even though they'd only known each other a week. Believing she could just step in and be the mother she'd never bothered to be before.
Belle made a sound of disgust. She was Sarah's mother, yes, at least physically. But she knew that when it came right down to it, Rand was more a mother than she was. The thought made her sick inside.
What the hell did a person do to fight that?
She couldn't fight it, couldn't make Sarah love her. Today had shown her that, even if the last week hadn't. No, much as Belle wanted things to be different, those years had gone. She couldn't bring them back, and she couldn't deny that living in New York had made her a stranger to her daughter. It didn't matter that she was Sarah's mother. Being a mother didn't guarantee a child would trust you or love you. Trust was something that had to be earned, and love sometimes never came at all —Belle knew that better than most.
Suddenly she saw her plan to take Sarah and run for what it was—hasty and selfish. Sarah would hate her for taking her away from Rand, and God—God—Belle didn't want to see that hatred in her daughter's eyes. Didn't want a mother-daughter relationship like the one she had with Lillian.
But she couldn't leave either. Before, maybe, it had been possible. Before she'd learned that Sarah was a person and not just the vague, mindless child Belle had imagined. Now it was too late.
What she wanted was to be Sarah's mother.
Belle swallowed. She wanted to be a real mother, wanted to see trust and love shining from Sarah's eyes, wanted to hear laughter meant for her ears alone. There was only one way to have that.
She would have to stay.
R
and rubbed his forehead to ease the pain behind his eyes. God, he was tired. Tired and tense from the effort of being around Belle, even though he'd only spent minutes with her. It was more than enough. The strain of yesterday was between them, the memory of how he'd almost touched her tormented him, and he wondered again why the hell he'd done it, what had possessed him to reach out to grab her through the railing. After today, after seeing again that damned shield shuttering her eyes and hearing her brittle sarcasm, he wondered why he'd even wanted to explain anything to her yesterday, wondered what had seemed so important.
He did not like being around her. He hated the hungry way she watched Sarah. It was why he'd taken time away from the fields to dig Janey's grave today. He couldn't stand the thought of Belle being alone with Sarah, was terrified that one day he would return to find the two of them gone.
The thought sent a chill running through him, and Rand forced it away and glanced hastily back to where Sarah played near the newly dug grave. Her voice drifted back to him, high and singsongy as she sang to the buried Janey. He should keep the shovel handy, he thought. He wouldn't be surprised if tomorrow Sarah demanded that the doll be dug up again. Rand took a deep breath and walked across the porch, opening the front door and going inside the cool, dark hallway. It would be Sarah's version of the resurrection, no doubt.
"I need to talk to you a minute."
Belle's voice seemed to come from nowhere. He jumped, startled, before he realized she was above him on the stairs. His stomach knotted instantly. Reluctantly Rand looked up. He could have predicted how she would look just from her tone. Arms crossed, chin raised, and mouth set. That defiant, challenging look was in her eyes again, along with something else. Rand frowned. Something like—like tears. In fact if he didn't know better, he would have sworn she'd been crying.
He told himself he was imagining things. He'd never seen Belle cry.
Except once
, he amended.
Just the one time ...
He shoved the memory away.
"I need to talk to you," she said again.
The words didn't bode well, and he didn't want to talk to her, didn't even want to look at her. Rand eased back toward the door. "Can't it wait?"
"No." She stepped down. One step, another, and Rand felt like a condemned man waiting for sentencing. But the feeling died abruptly when she stopped and uncrossed her arms, placing one slender hand on the banister. She looked away as if she were uncomfortable. "I —I've been thinkin'."
"Good news."
She didn't react to his sarcasm. "About Sarah."
Rand's blood froze. "What about her?"
"I want to tell her the truth about me."
He stared at her dumbly for a moment, unsure what she was talking about, and then it dawned on him. The truth. About Belle. Sweet Jesus.
The realization stunned him. "Jesus, Belle, you can't be serious."
"Why not? I'm back now, there's no need to keep lyin'. How am I s'posed to be a mother when everyone thinks Sarah's my niece?"
"Be a mother?" His voice was a whisper. God, he couldn't make it more than a whisper. "Oh, Jesus—"
She inhaled sharply. "Hell, Rand, you act like it was some kind of crime. All I want to do is tell her the truth. I would've thought you'd want that too. Or—wait—I s'pose you've come to like livin' a lie."
Her sarcasm banished his shock. Rand found his voice again, and with it his anger. He stepped forward, curling his fingers around the banister, blocking her from coming down the stairs. "You don't know anything about the truth. And if you think I'm going to let you walk out there and tell that little girl anything, you're crazy. Do you understand me?"
"No, dammit, I don't—"
"Well, let me make it clear," he spoke carefully, watching anger tighten her face and not caring. "You don't give a damn about her or anyone else. You can't just walk in here after six years and announce you're ready to be a mother. It doesn't work like that."
"No? How does it work?" She stepped down until she was only inches away from him. Her brown gaze practically burned his skin. "Since when do you decide how the world works, Rand? Since when do you decide what's right and what's wrong?"
"Since it involves my daughter, goddammit!"
"
Your
daughter?"
She yelled the words. They fell into silence. Sudden, expectant silence where there was no sound but harsh breathing, nothing but the echo of words. The two of them stood there, glaring at each other. He felt the warmth of her breath on his face, saw the rapid rise and fall of her chest. And then from the kitchen came the sound of a chair leg scraping on the wood floor, a harsh creak that seemed abnormally loud in the stillness, and the quick, hushed chatter of voices.
Rand winced. He'd forgotten Lillian and the Alspaughs were in the kitchen. They'd no doubt heard the yelling, if not the words, and he knew Lillian would have his head for it later. But right now he didn't give a damn.
He stepped back, gripping the banister with white- knuckled tightness, struggling to gain control of himself. "Belle," he said carefully, quietly. "Listen to me for a minute, will you?"
She let out a breath and backed away, crossing her arms again over her chest. Like armor, he thought without amusement. He recognized the look. She wouldn't back down. Unfortunately this time he had no choice but to make her. The thought of her telling Sarah the truth filled him with cold terror. Belle would never know, couldn't guess how hard it had been to live that lie the last two years. But he had done it, and not just for Lillian's sake but for Sarah's. God, she was just a child. She would never understand.
He swallowed and kept his voice low, too low for the people in the kitchen to hear. "There's a reason for the lie."
She lifted a brow. "There is?"
He nodded, took a deep breath. "There was a lot of gossip when you left. Not just about you, but because of Cort too—God, it was a mess. There were already rumors about us—"
"There were rumors before I left."
"Yeah, well, they got worse." Rand looked away, trying to keep the memory of that time away from his thoughts, trying just to tell her the truth as plainly as he could. "Your mama decided—" He saw the sudden fire in her eyes, and he rushed on —"your mama thought it would be better for everyone. There was so much talk, and we wanted to protect Sarah. There was—enough to bear without adding the scandal to it."
"And you were ashamed."
There was a note in her voice that Rand didn't understand. A note that made him vaguely uneasy. Guilt swept over him again, leaving his skin hot, his throat dry, and he looked down at the floor. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I was ashamed."
"I see." She stepped back farther away from him. "Well, I guess you'd better get used to it, then, because I've changed my mind about things. I'm not leavin' and I'm not takin' Sarah away. I'm stayin' here, with her."