After the Frost by Megan Chance

work, you know," he said quietly.
          Belle turned to look at him. He had released Bertha, and now he stood, hands on hips, a resigned look on his square, handsome features. Belle feigned confusion. "What won't work?"
          "Trying to be her friend. Making me think you care about her."
          "Maybe it's not you I'm tryin' to convince."
          "No?" He raised a heavy brow. "Who, then?"
          "Sarah."
          "Ah. Sarah." He looked away for a moment. "Do me a favor, Belle. Leave her out of your little games. She's just a child."
          It was amazing how he knew just what to say. She tried not to wince. "It's not a game, Rand."
          "Oh?" His eyes searched her face, darkened when he met her gaze. "Tell me something, Belle. Did you think of her at all when you were in New York?"
    The accusation floated between them, condemning, wounding. The implication in his words infuriated her. As if he expected she wouldn't think of Sarah, as if the decisions she'd made had been impulsive and selfish.
    As if he expected nothing else from her.
    Anger rushed through her, hot and uncontrollable. Belle jumped from the fence, yanking the brown wool of her skirt back when it grabbed onto a rough board. She glared at him. "You'd like it if I said no, wouldn't you?" she asked hotly. "It would make it all so easy, wouldn't it? Then you could go ahead and believe what you did was right. That it was all my fault and you weren't to blame for any of it."
    He flinched. "That's not what I meant."
    "Isn't it?" Belle laughed shortly, disbelievingly. "I don't think I've ever even heard you say you were sorry, Rand. So I guess that means you never were." She picked up her skirts, half turned, meaning to walk away, feeling the burn of his words in the sudden ache behind her eyes. Damn, this was stupid. Stupid that he could still affect her at all after all this time. . . .
    "Belle. Dammit, don't—" Rand lunged forward, reached to grab her arm through the fence.
    Belle's breath caught in her throat. Fear, so potent she felt paralyzed, rushed through her. She jerked back at the same moment he stopped short, his hand outstretched, inches from her. For a second she saw that hand in all its intimate detail, creases and dirt, rough fingernails, calluses, and then slowly he curled his fingers into his palm, dropped his hand back to his side.
    She looked up at him. He was white beneath his tanned skin. His breath shuddered from his chest. She heard it as loudly as her own, and it sounded just the same—harsh and rattling, sharp with fear.
    Carefully she took a step backward. She wondered what to do, whether to run away or stand there and pretend it hadn't happened. He had almost touched her. Had almost laid his hand on her and yanked her back, and the realization brought with it flashes of memory. Almost as strongly as if he had touched her, she felt his hand. Flesh on flesh. Dry and warm—almost hot. At her throat, at her waist, at her breasts . . .
    Belle swallowed, fought the urge to close her eyes. She couldn't let him know, wouldn't let him see that she remembered, that she cared at all. Much better that he should think she didn't remember anything.
    She raised her chin, even though she was shaking inside, and tried—unsuccessfully—to look him in the eye. "I'll just go on inside," she said weakly. "Mama prob'ly needs me now."
    "Yeah." He sounded as shaken as she felt. "I saw her at the door a minute ago, looking for you."
    "Oh. Then I guess I'll—"
    "Here's Sarah," he whispered.
    Belle heard it then, the pounding of footsteps on the hard ground as Sarah ran toward them, cutting off escape, relief. Belle turned slowly, watching as Sarah skidded to a stop in front of her.
    "Look! Look, here she is!" Sarah held the headless doll out to Belle solemnly, brown eyes wide. "This is Janey."
    "Janey." Belle forced a shaky smile. She was incredibly aware of Rand behind her, of the fact that he was watching them as she