After the Frost Read Free Page A

in his mind, challenging, wary. She'd lowered her voice to say his name, had almost whispered it, and it felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach—as if, for some strange reason, he hadn't expected her to remember it. And with her voice had come his guilt, barreling back as if it had never truly gone.
    What the hell was he going to do now?
    "Papa?" Sarah's voice came through the corn, cutting through his thoughts. "Papa?"
    Rand shoved a hand through his hair. Sarah. The thought of his daughter brought instant, blessed relief. If anything good had come from that brief, turbulent madness six years ago, Sarah was it. She had kept him sane the last two years—since the detective he'd hired had found her in a boardinghouse in Cincinnati, abandoned by her mother at birth. If Belle thought she was going to take his daughter from him again . . .
    She wouldn't, he told himself fiercely. She would have to kill him first.
    "Papa!"
    Rand took a deep breath. "Stay where you are, Sarah. I'll be right there." He knew exactly where she'd be— perched on a weed-covered stump at the edge of the field, hugging her knees tightly to her chest, waiting for him the way she waited for him every night.
    He made his way back through the corn. She was there. Her golden hair shone in the sunlight, and the smile she gave him through the dirt on her face was brighter than any summer day.
    "Papa," she said, climbing to her feet and flinging herself into his arms, "you ain't goin' to work no more today, are you?"
    He buried his nose in her hair. It smelled of dust and sun and little girl. "No, Little Bit, I'm done."
    "Good." She leaned back to look at him, her eyes serious. "Who was that lady who was here?"
    He hesitated, not knowing what to tell her. Neither he nor Lillian had ever told Sarah about her mother, and to his knowledge she'd never asked a single question. It had seemed best, when they'd first brought her back—a wary and frightened three-year-old—to wait until she was older, and now he supposed they'd just fallen into the habit. God knew he and Lillian never discussed Belle, at least they hadn't for a very long time.
    There might be no need to tell her now. The thought jabbed into his brain, hopefully, fleetingly. It was possible that Belle would just go away. Not likely, but certainly possible. His lips tightened. God knew he'd do everything in his power to make sure she did. "Who is she?" he repeated. "She's Grandma's daughter. Your . . . aunt. Belle."
          "You didn't seem very happy to see her."
          He smiled grimly. "No, I guess not. I was surprised, that's all."
          "Oh." Sarah looked pensive, and Rand realized with a pang that the expression was a copy of Belle's.
          He tightened his arms around her. "How's Grandma doing, anyway? Is she finished with the pears?"
          Sarah leaned her head back, ignoring his question, staring up at the sky. "Belle could play with me since Janey's dead."
          He closed his eyes. "I thought you told me Janey might be better tomorrow," he said wearily.
          "Well, I lost her head, Papa. She won't get better."
          "Maybe you can find it and Grandma can sew it back on."
          "Maybe." She stared at him thoughtfully, her large brown eyes focused on his. "Belle's comin' back, ain't she, Papa?" Then, when he was silent: "Ain't she?"
          He wanted to say no, she wasn't. But the words wouldn't come, not to his mind or to his throat, and Rand just stared helplessly at his daughter, unable to think of a single thing to say.
          She watched him for a moment, waiting, and then she nodded and squeezed his neck with her plump little arms. "Grandma's makin' pancakes for supper," she said. "With jam. I like that best."
          Rand felt the desperation inside him unwind, drifting away, and he gave Sarah a squeeze of relief and joy and fear. "Me, too, Little Bit," he said softly, walking back to the house. "Me