After the Frost Read Free Page B

too."
     
     
     
          F rom the hotel window Belle watched the street below. She saw the men striding down the planked sidewalk, rounding the corner on their way to the Black Horse Tavern, heard the sound of the Cincinnati, Wilmington, and Zanesville train moving out at the edge of town. From here she could just see the curve of the canal as it followed the bend of the Hocking River. There was a packet boat moving on it now, slowly, leisurely, the people sitting on the upper deck tiny little shadows against the sunset. For a moment she wished she were one of them, wished she had nothing to wait for, nothing to keep her from leaving this town—leaving Ohio.
    Though she'd done that already, and she knew that running away didn't change things—not really. Memories had a way of festering in a person's mind, always there, never really disappearing. Oh, there were times when they seemed to be gone, when the day stretched before her open and inviting, full of promise, without regret. But those days were few and far between.
    Belle sighed, leaning her forehead against the cool glass, closing her eyes. New York was already like that now—just a memory, a place she didn't have to go back to. She thought of her tiny room in the boardinghouse, the narrow bed and the plain, unadorned walls. Thought of the fact that when she'd left, she never intended to return, had packed everything she owned into the small carpetbag sitting on the bed.
    "And take her where? Or have you even thought that far?"
    No, she hadn't thought. Hadn't thought of anything but the need to get to Lancaster, hadn't even bothered to expect anything on her return.
    Belle squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. What an idiot she'd been. Had she really thought she could just walk into the house and demand they give Sarah back? Had she really believed it would be so easy? She should have realized the moment Bill Mason told her Rand had
    come for Sarah that Rand wasn't waiting for her to come back, didn't want her to.
    Not that she ever really believed he did. Bitterly she remembered the last day she'd seen him. It was six years ago, and there had been no fond farewell then, no gentle words. He'd avoided her the two weeks before he was to return to his uncle's in Cleveland to help with the grain shipment, and she knew by the way he averted his gaze whenever she was near that he couldn't stand to look at her. But until that last day she hadn't really believed he hated her. She didn't believe it until he'd already left, until she realized he'd waited for her to go visiting before he sneaked away to board the train.
    He'd gone without leaving a single message. Not even a good-bye.
    She'd known then that her memory of his cold gaze two weeks before was no illusion, that it had truly been loathing on his face as he watched her flee the barn that clear November night, her hands shaking as she tried frantically to straighten her skirts, still feeling the ache of his body between her legs and the roughness of his touch. He hated her—the certainty of it had stunned her, the white-hot pain of his rejection left her feeling lost and confused. She had not known where to turn or what to do.
    He'd been gone a week when she discovered she was pregnant. He was still in Cleveland when, in desperation, she finally turned to her mother for help.
    "He will not marry you, and you will not have this baby here, do you understand me? What were you thinking, Isabelle? You're a disgrace to this family, a disgrace, do you understand me?"
    "But when Rand comes back—"
    "Rand? Do you expect him to defend you after what you've done? I want you out of this house, Isabelle. My God, looking at you makes me sick. . . .
    The voice from the past came swirling back to her, even though she'd spent the last six years trying to forget it. But her mother's words didn't hurt anymore, not really. Her mother had never taken her side in anything, and the pain of that was long gone and mostly forgotten —as