longer see, unable to bear the thought of coming in to supper and sitting at this table, watching her and remembering how he'd almost lost control today.
Hell, he'd almost touched her. Almost wrapped his fingers around Belle's wrist and pulled her back. Because he couldn't bear that damned vulnerability, the tough shell she put up around it. Because he wanted to see that shell crack, wanted to see her cry, even—hell, just wanted to see anything. She made him feel guilty and afraid, and when she'd said the words, when she'd said, "You never said you were sorry, Rand. I guess that means you never were," he had wanted to touch her so badly he couldn't stop himself, wanted to spin her around and look into her eyes and tell her it wasn't true. Tell her he'd spent every damn waking moment since she'd gone hating himself, hating her, being sorry.
But he couldn't say that, because then she might forgive him. Because then she would let him close enough to touch her again, and that was the most dangerous thing of all. Touching her meant the darkness would come to bury him again. And he couldn't let it, had to fight it before it overtook him the way it had his mother, before it controlled him for good. It almost had once— he remembered that much too well.
His hands shook when he remembered.
He gripped his cup forcefully. Lillian was looking at him, questioning him with her silent gaze, and he wished he knew what to tell her. But there was nothing to tell, nothing that didn't shame him. What should he say? "Belle said I'd never told her I was sorry—is that true? Didn't I? Couldn't she tell how sorry I was? Didn't she see? Didn't you?"
No, he couldn't say those things. He couldn't even think about that time anymore; the thought of it brought a deep, dark bleakness that filled him up inside. He remembered how it was before, how the obsession for her had started with such a little thing—nothing more than her smile of welcome, the light he saw in her eyes when he came home from Cleveland that spring. A smile that was for him alone, he knew, because even though Cort had watched over her in Rand's absence, she never smiled at his older brother that way.
Rand had been intrigued and pleased, and it had changed the way he looked at her. Suddenly he found himself watching her, wondering what it would be like to touch her, to kiss her. But that easy emotion had grown out of control so damned quickly, had grown demanding and insatiable before he knew what happened, and he could not forget how pervasive it was, how hard to fight. Jesus, he was afraid of it. So damned afraid.
He swallowed. "She came out to talk to Sarah, not me."
Lillian frowned. "Do you think that's wise?"
"No, I don't think it's wise. But you tell me how the hell to stop it. I don't know."
"Hmmm."
That was all, just "hmmm," but there was a wealth of meaning in that sound, and Rand had the sudden notion that his stepmother already knew exactly what had happened in the barnyard, knew what he and Belle had talked about, knew he'd lost control. It wouldn't matter what he said, she already knew and had already made up her mind what it all meant and what to do.
"You haven't seen Marie lately, have you?" she asked suddenly.
Rand choked on the coffee. "Marie Scholl?" he asked in surprise.
"Um-hmmm."
"God, no. Not for weeks."
"Perhaps you should." Her voice was calm, without inflection, and Rand stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out just what she meant.
"You want me to see Marie."
Lillian shrugged. "Only if you want to, Rand. I thought you liked the girl."
Rand frowned. He hadn't thought of Marie Scholl since before Belle had returned. Not since the church dance in August. There, in the balmy summer night, with lightning bugs glowing in the wheat fields, he'd thought idly that maybe Marie would be a good wife if he ever decided he needed one. She was pretty in a soft
Hell, he'd almost touched her. Almost wrapped his fingers around Belle's wrist and pulled her back. Because he couldn't bear that damned vulnerability, the tough shell she put up around it. Because he wanted to see that shell crack, wanted to see her cry, even—hell, just wanted to see anything. She made him feel guilty and afraid, and when she'd said the words, when she'd said, "You never said you were sorry, Rand. I guess that means you never were," he had wanted to touch her so badly he couldn't stop himself, wanted to spin her around and look into her eyes and tell her it wasn't true. Tell her he'd spent every damn waking moment since she'd gone hating himself, hating her, being sorry.
But he couldn't say that, because then she might forgive him. Because then she would let him close enough to touch her again, and that was the most dangerous thing of all. Touching her meant the darkness would come to bury him again. And he couldn't let it, had to fight it before it overtook him the way it had his mother, before it controlled him for good. It almost had once— he remembered that much too well.
His hands shook when he remembered.
He gripped his cup forcefully. Lillian was looking at him, questioning him with her silent gaze, and he wished he knew what to tell her. But there was nothing to tell, nothing that didn't shame him. What should he say? "Belle said I'd never told her I was sorry—is that true? Didn't I? Couldn't she tell how sorry I was? Didn't she see? Didn't you?"
No, he couldn't say those things. He couldn't even think about that time anymore; the thought of it brought a deep, dark bleakness that filled him up inside. He remembered how it was before, how the obsession for her had started with such a little thing—nothing more than her smile of welcome, the light he saw in her eyes when he came home from Cleveland that spring. A smile that was for him alone, he knew, because even though Cort had watched over her in Rand's absence, she never smiled at his older brother that way.
Rand had been intrigued and pleased, and it had changed the way he looked at her. Suddenly he found himself watching her, wondering what it would be like to touch her, to kiss her. But that easy emotion had grown out of control so damned quickly, had grown demanding and insatiable before he knew what happened, and he could not forget how pervasive it was, how hard to fight. Jesus, he was afraid of it. So damned afraid.
He swallowed. "She came out to talk to Sarah, not me."
Lillian frowned. "Do you think that's wise?"
"No, I don't think it's wise. But you tell me how the hell to stop it. I don't know."
"Hmmm."
That was all, just "hmmm," but there was a wealth of meaning in that sound, and Rand had the sudden notion that his stepmother already knew exactly what had happened in the barnyard, knew what he and Belle had talked about, knew he'd lost control. It wouldn't matter what he said, she already knew and had already made up her mind what it all meant and what to do.
"You haven't seen Marie lately, have you?" she asked suddenly.
Rand choked on the coffee. "Marie Scholl?" he asked in surprise.
"Um-hmmm."
"God, no. Not for weeks."
"Perhaps you should." Her voice was calm, without inflection, and Rand stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out just what she meant.
"You want me to see Marie."
Lillian shrugged. "Only if you want to, Rand. I thought you liked the girl."
Rand frowned. He hadn't thought of Marie Scholl since before Belle had returned. Not since the church dance in August. There, in the balmy summer night, with lightning bugs glowing in the wheat fields, he'd thought idly that maybe Marie would be a good wife if he ever decided he needed one. She was pretty in a soft
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