Carolyn Davidson (13 page)

With a sigh of contentment, she slid her arm around his neck, biting back the urge to make her own way to the house. She was perfectly capable of walking, but the sense of security she was reveling in at this moment precluded her need for independence.

Tomorrow she could walk. Tomorrow she could tend to herself. In the morning she would arise, clothed once more in the skin she had worn for so long, that of a strong, able female, capable of tackling any chore that crossed her horizon.

For now, for the few blessed minutes left of this night, she would be only what Tate Montgomery asked her to be. And if part of that was his urging her to be compliant, to rest in his embrace as he carried her to his bed, she would be the most willing of women.

The burden of grief she had carried with her to the hillside earlier was gone, vanquished by the storm of his loving. She’d left it amid the fallen leaves of autumn, beneath the scattering of winter snow that covered three graves. She’d buried it beneath the frozen ground that held prisoner the body of the baby boy she’d borne and buried by herself. And in the shedding of that terrible cloak of sorrow, she’d donned a new garment, woven of love, knit with the care and concern of a generous soul, stitched and fitted to her precise measurements by the fervent embrace of the man she had married.

As he carried her up the stairs, she clung unashamedly to his greater strength. As he pulled her worn boots from
her feet and placed them by the bedside, she bent to kiss the crown of his head. And as he drew her into his embrace, she gifted him with the secrets of her heart.

“I had to let him go, Tate.” It was an offering she was willing to give, this admission of hers. “I’d held his memory in my heart for so long, I feared there would never be room for anyone else.”

“You’ve grieved over that baby long enough, Johanna. It was time.” His hand rubbed slow circles against her back as she nestled against him.

She nodded. “There wasn’t room for all that sorrow anymore. Not since you came. But I had to tell him goodbye. I had to go up there and explain that I couldn’t let him hold me back from loving your boys. Or you.”

His arms tightened, and his breath caught in his throat “Me?”

“I love you, Tate. I’ve needed to tell you.” Her confession muffled against his chest, she sighed, as if relieved to be rid of its weight. “I thought you must know, but I want to say the words.”

He brushed his mouth against her forehead. And she waited as his warm breath bathed her flesh. Until she could wait no longer.

“Tate?” It was a small sound in the darkness.

“I care about you, honey. You must know that.” Evenly spaced, soft as the whisper of a dove in the springtime, his words spread comfort throughout her being.

“Yes, I know that. I know you wanted to…” She hesitated, brave in the darkness, but unwilling to put words to the moments of loving.

“I want you more than I can tell you, honey.” The sound of his laugh was strained, and there was a reserve in the words he spoke. “I still do. I need you for my wife, I need the comfort you give me.” His kiss against her brow emphasized the admission. “You ease my pain, Johanna. Your body takes my manhood, and somehow, you heal me. You
draw all the bad memories and leave me clean and fresh and feeling like a man who could conquer the world.” His laugh was short, tinged with embarrassment, as if he rued the poetry of the words he spoke.

“You’ll think I’ve gone soft in the head, Jo.” He rocked her in his embrace, dropping kisses against the pure line of her forehead as he spoke.

“No.” It was a softly uttered denial of his fear. “No, I wouldn’t think that. I guess I just don’t understand why you can’t bring yourself to speak about your life with Belinda. Maybe I need to know what happened then, so I can understand what you feel.”

“I feel…mixed up sometimes.” He shook his head, as if he were struggling to express himself for her benefit. “I need you, Jo…but I don’t know if I have any love left to give you. I’ve had to put everything I have and all I am as a man into those boys of mine for a long time. I was mother and father both a good share of the time-all the time, lately. Until we came here. There just doesn’t seem to be much love left in me for anyone else, once I’ve poured it out on them.”

Her throat was dry at his denial of the emotion she craved. Her hands closed into fists, mute evidence of the tensing that surged throughout her slender body.

“But what happened back then, Tate?” She touched the scar on his upper lip, her fingers gentle against his mouth. “Were you hurt in an accident?” Her hand moved upward, resting against his cheek, her fingertips marking the ridged scar he bore, and she hesitated at the indrawn breath he could not hide from her hearing.

“What happened here?” she persisted, once more caressing the ragged reminder of injury. She rose on one elbow and leaned closer, her mouth against his cheek, as if she would place a kiss of healing upon the blemish he wore.

“Stop it, Johanna. I don’t want to discuss this right now.” Gruff and terse, his words halted her, and she lifted
her head, her eyes seeking his in the darkness. But it was no use. They were closed against her, effectively barring her from his thoughts.

So she turned, sensing the ruin of the unity they’d shared during those minutes in the stall, unable to look any longer into the stern visage he presented. Easing her way, she turned to lie with her back to him, allowing only the firm line of her spine to touch the front of his body.

“I need to sleep, Tate,” she whispered. “Morning’s almost here.”

If he sensed her withdrawal, he hid it well. His arm encircled her waist, his big hand sliding up to capture the full measure of her breast, enclosing it in the embrace of his hand, plumping it to fit the palm, his fingers spread to contain the whole of it. It was as if her turning away had erased his mood, as though he would mend the distance he’d brought about between them. And then his head dipped, allowing his mouth to touch the side of her throat, leaving a last kiss there before he curled his big body around her.

Yet even as he slept, his soft snoring a hum in her ear, she lay unmoving, her eyes wide in the darkness, her yearning heart hungry for the words he was unable to speak.

In the light of day, Johanna recalled the almost-quarrel they’d conducted in their bed, remembering the words she’d fretted over through the hours of the night, and decided she’d best leave well enough alone. She hadn’t bargained for the man’s love when she married him. That she’d fallen into that trap was her problem, and she’d manage to live with it. She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of resolve.

Whether or not Tate Montgomery had any love to spend on her, he was generous, more than willing to give her full advantage of his bank account, and that was a bonus she could not help but appreciate.

Turning the crank that operated her new Fulton #1
washing machine, Johanna listened to the sound of a load of undergarments and shirts being agitated. It was like music to her ears. The water splashed and sloshed in a most satisfying manner, and she couldn’t help the small smile of satisfaction that would not be denied.

The scrub board hung on the wall, dry as a bone, unused for well over a month, ever since the day Tate had brought the new washer home on the wagon. Some washdays it made her feel downright lazy, Johanna thought with just a flicker of guilt—guilt she suppressed with hardly a twinge of effort. Yet the new machine still required a considerable amount of muscle to run, given the instructions that came with it.

She must turn the crank ten or twelve minutes for each load, which was a deterrent to doing the breakfast dishes or gathering the eggs. But she’d found a woman could do a powerful lot of thinking during a ten minute period.

Like wondering how she’d come to be so attached to a man in such a short time.

That Tate was a good husband could not be denied. That she was fast becoming addicted to his brand of loving was also true, and her mouth curled at the thought. He’d managed to coax her and beguile her in ways she’d never imagined in her wildest dreams. That those dreams had been limited by her lack of knowledge was a fact. But that was no longer the case, she admitted to herself, aware of the warmth she’d generated by her industrious cranking, not to mention the memories stirred by her thoughts of Tate.

Rising from the low stool he’d made for her to use, she opened the washing machine and viewed her load of laundry. Suds rode the top of the water like a flotilla of sailing ships, and she burst a series of bubbles as she reached beneath the surface for the clean clothes. The Seroco ball bearing wringer Tate had clamped on the rim of the washer accepted a small pair of drawers, nudged by her gradual turn of the handle, and she watched with satisfaction as the
soapy water was wrung from the cotton fabric, running back into the machine.

She’d filled her washtub with cold water and within minutes it contained the contents of the new washing machine. Johanna loaded the new appliance with Tate’s shirts and her own dresses and turned the crank several times to churn them into the depths of the soapy water. She’d let them soak for a few minutes, while she rinsed and readied the underwear for the clothes rack.

On a graduated series of wooden rungs, it held a considerable amount of washing, one layer hung only inches from the next. The heat from the stove dried it readily, a vast improvement over the lines Johanna had strung in the washroom and across the kitchen in other years.

“You’ve left your mark on my house, Tate Montgomery,” she whispered, spreading the small pieces across the wooden dowel rods.
And in my heart,
she added silently. In a matter of a few months, he’d taken over the Patterson farm and turned it into the Montgomery place.

The banker in Belle Haven, August Shrader, even tipped his hat in a most gratifying manner when he caught sight of Johanna on the street these days. Always polite, he had become almost friendly since Tate Montgomery placed his affairs in the hands of the Belle Haven Bank.

That she had no notion of the state of Tate’s bank account was immaterial to Johanna. He had paid off the mortgage and given her free rein at the general store, not to mention a generous hand when it came to the Sears catalog.

She headed back to the washing machine with a light step, pausing only a moment to stir the thick soup she was cooking for the noon meal.

“Miss Johanna?” Timmy’s call from the porch nudged her from her daydreams, and she hastened her pace.

“What is it, Timmy?” The chill air had her reaching for her shawl as she opened the door.

“We’re leavin’ for town. Pa wants to know if you need
anything at the store.” Shifting from one foot to another, the child cast a worried glance at the wagon in the yard, where his father and brother waited.

“They won’t leave without you, Timmy,” she assured him, reaching to tug his cap over his ears for greater warmth.

His earnest look accompanied by a quick nod, he agreed. “I know. Pa said he’d wait while you make up a list.”

Atop the wagon, Tate’s steady gaze lured her, and she stepped onto the porch, disregarding the cold wind whipping around the corner of the house.

Half running, she headed in his direction, Timmy scampering ahead. “Maybe my order from the catalog is in, Tate,” she said breathlessly, her eyes seeking his, her hair a glittering golden circlet atop her head in the wintry sunshine. And once more, she met his eyes, caught in the dark, silent seduction of his allure.

“You’ll take a chill, Jo.” His frown encompassed her, and she grinned, willing its disappearance.

“I come from sturdy stock.” But her shiver denied the claim, and he swung down from the wagon.

“Hold the reins, Pete. I’ll be right back.” Reaching her side in several long strides, Tate turned her around, leading her back to the shelter of the house. One long arm around her shoulder, he hustled her along, her feet fairly flying over the frozen ground.

On the porch, he opened the back door, stepping inside, pushing her ahead of himself. There he halted, only to tug her nearer, lifting her chin with his gloved finger.

“I ought to give you a good talkin’-to, Johanna Montgomery,” he growled, his eyes narrowed to steely gray slits as they slid from her face to the rounded lines of her bosom. “You’re some fine example to those young’ns out there, running around without your coat on, getting chilled to the bone. Look how cold you are!” His hand moved to cup
and lift one breast, emphasizing the effect that lured his gaze.

She laughed—a low, seductive sound—and his eyes made a slow journey to her mouth. Even as he watched, it formed a pouting moue, and then his head dipped, his cold lips taking abrupt possession. “You are the most distracting female I’ve ever encountered.”

“Complaining?” she asked, her eyes opening slowly as she caught her breath.

He shook his head. “After last night? Hardly, sweetheart.”

Her blush was immediate, and he grinned his delight. “I can’t believe you still get all hot and bothered when I…”

“Tate!” she wailed, punching at his chest with her fists. “Go on now. Get those eggs to town before they freeze. Did you get the last of the spies out of the fruit cellar for Mr. Turner? They’re pretty well wrinkled, but he said he wanted them anyway. People are still asking for apples.”

“I’ve got everything under control, Mrs. Montgomery. Except my wife, it appears.”

Johanna laughed aloud. “Her, most of all, it seems to me. Up to her elbows in wash water, while you go gallivanting off to town.”

“I asked you at the breakfast table if you wanted to go,” he reminded her, “and you said you had too much to do.”

She nodded. “Just check the catalog order, and don’t forget the coffee and lard. That’s all I need.”

His hands releasing her reluctantly, he nodded. “We won’t be long, Jo. That soup smells good. We’ll be hungry when we get back.”

She watched as he crossed the yard. He climbed to his seat, lifted the reins from Pete’s hands and slapped them against the backs of his team of mares. They were gone quickly, as if the promise of dinner urged their pace.

She closed the door, returning her shawl to the peg in the washroom before she settled down on her stool once
more. Her hand clutching the handle, she resumed the steady motion required by her new washing machine. Still aware of the damp remnants of Tate’s kiss, she touched her tongue to her lip, as if she could taste his coffee-scented breath.