Carolyn Davidson (17 page)

“Get in, Johanna.”

She shook her head. “I’ll walk, thank you.” Chin high, she stepped quickly, her feet lighter now, her gait fueled by the flame of her anger. He’d mortgaged her farm. Without one word, without the suggestion of a consultation with her, he’d put her farm in jeopardy. And he’d dared to do it without a mention of it in her presence.

The appearance of August Shrader in the general store on Monday took on new meaning now. And the way Tate had hustled him out the door to conduct his business only proved his intent to deceive her.

A mortgage. Like the sword of Damocles, the word hung over her head, and she was threatened by it. The man she had trusted with her property, her livelihood, her very self, had betrayed her. And then expected her to be overjoyed with the resulting proof of that betrayal!

Her feet stomped harder as she traveled the wooden sidewalk. Beside her, the front door of the Belle Haven Hotel was a glittering expanse of beveled glass and mahogany, but she gave it not a moment’s notice. The barbershop, marked by a peppermint-striped pole out front, barely caught her eye as she stepped firmly past its entrance. Even the newspaper office, home of the
Belle Haven Gazette,
was ignored.

Not until she reached the door of the general store did she pause, and only then, as if she’d been aware all along of the wagon keeping pace with her rapid footsteps, did she acknowledge its presence. Her gaze took in the mammoth creature standing meekly at its rear, the nose ring almost a guarantee of his compliance. And just inches from where
his lead rope was attached to the wagon were her baskets of eggs and butter.

“Will you be so good as to hand me my baskets and then unload the apples?” Though her words had resounded warm and cheery in his ears fifteen minutes ago, her request now smacked of icebergs and icicles.

Tate leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, the reins between his hands, and observed his wife glumly. “I reckon I could do that, Johanna.” Behind him, the two boys huddled together next to the apples, looking for all the world as if they needed a blanket to cover them, more than did the fruit. Their faces were pinched and wary, their eyes bleak, as if their existence hovered on the edge of disaster.

And even that terrible sight could not pierce the flaming fury that drove her. She recognized their panic-stricken mood. It was one she’d survived only minutes past. When she saw the bull and first became aware of Tate’s ownership of it.

Her gaze went beyond the two children, to where Tate was lifting the fruits of her labor from the wagon. She’d been in partnership with her chickens and cows for years, and considered their contribution to her existence to be a given. She fed the hens, and they in return gave her their eggs, albeit not with any amount of grace on some occasions. The cows were another matter. They were more than happy to rid themselves of the milk swelling their udders twice daily. In all, a most satisfactory method of earning money, to Johanna’s way of thinking.

She took her baskets from Tate’s grip, not allowing him the courtesy of carrying them into the store for her, and he gave in to her without argument. And then she stood in front of the door, both hands full, and suffered the indignity of waiting for him to turn the knob, allowing her to pass through the portals of the store.

“Mrs. Montgomery!” Joseph Turner approached from behind the counter, hands outstretched, his wary glance
bouncing from Tate, empty-handed in the doorway, to Johanna, heavily laden as she stomped across the floor in his direction. “Let me take those from you!”

It seemed his every word was emphasized this morning, Johanna thought, her smile strained as she gave over the weighty burden she bore. Not that she hadn’t carried heavier in other times, but between the thumping of her heart and the throbbing at her temples, she was becoming suddenly weary.

Tate stalked back to the wagon and, with not a backward glance, Johanna followed the storekeeper to the far counter. Mr. Turner began unloading her eggs and butter, with a considerable amount of his attention on Tate’s silent figure, transferring the crates of apples to the sidewalk. She watched stoically as Mr. Turner counted the rounds of golden butter, marking the number on a piece of brown wrapping paper. The eggs he transferred to a crock. She counted with him, noting that his larger hands each held six at a time.

His pencil stub calculated swiftly, and he drew his account book forward, thumbing through the pages until he came to the one with her name on the first line. “Adding in the apples, your credit’s good for another good bit, ma’am,” he said quickly. “What can I get you today?”

Johanna thought of the short list she’d committed to memory that morning and shook her head. “Nothing today, Mr. Turner.” Not for a moment longer than necessary would she stand here, with Tate’s brooding gaze drilling a hole in her back. Better that she survive the next few days without a supply of tea and vanilla and the rest of her needs.

Besides, the road to the farm was two long miles, and she intended to walk every step. The less she had to carry, the better-off she’d be.

Mr. Turner’s head bobbed his farewell as she turned from him and headed back to the double door, her eyes focusing
on the sidewalk beyond, hardly noting the grip her husband took on her elbow as she passed him.

“Get in the wagon, Johanna.” It was an order, delivered in a voice that brooked no argument on her part. His fingers gripped her elbow firmly, holding her through the fabric of her coat. Even in her anger, she knew a moment of pride as she looked up at the dark-haired splendor of her husband. His nostrils flaring, his lips narrowed and firm, the scar on his face white against the ruddy anger painting his cheeks, he was a magnificent specimen of manhood.

And yet she defied him. Digging in her heels, she stopped, gritting her teeth at the pain in her arm as he continued on his way, unaware in his own wrath that she had failed to keep up with his lengthy strides. And then he released her, turning on his heel as he recognized her defiance. He faced her with both hands propped on his hips, great puffs of air pushed from his lungs by the force of his breathing.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” He challenged his wife, uncaring of the townsfolk who had stopped their everyday doings to watch the small melodrama being played out before their very eyes.

She lifted her chin just the faintest bit higher, wondering if her neck would take the strain as she met his gaze. Her lips twisted in a caricature of a smile as she tilted her head to one side. “Why, I’m going to walk home, Mr. Montgomery.”

“Ma’am!” The doors of the general store opened behind her, and Mr. Turner burst through, waving Johanna’s baskets in his hands. “You forgot your butter and egg baskets, Mrs. Montgomery.” His eyes were avid as he neared. “Can I put them in the wagon for you?” For the first time, he caught sight of the enormous bull tethered to the rear of the vehicle, and his steps slowed.

“You get a new bull?” he asked Tate.

Tate’s glance was condescending. “Yeah, you might say
that,” he drawled, moving a few steps in order to relieve the shopkeeper of the baskets he was gripping.

“Sure is a big one.”

Selena Phillips’s appearance at the door of the store caught Tate’s attention, and he moved another few feet to speak to her. “Can you talk to Johanna?” A small note of desperation tinged his request

She shook her head. “I don’t think she’d listen to me right now, Tate.” Her look was pitying as she faced him, meeting his gaze head-on. “She’s quite angry, isn’t she?”

He nodded, his flush deepening. “You could say that.”

“I think you’re the one needs to talk to her.” Selena turned and went back inside the store, pulling her shawl tightly around herself, as if the chill in Tate’s eyes had totally negated the warmth of the sunshine.

Johanna was several hundred feet ahead of him by the time Tate lifted the reins and cracked them in midair over the backs of his team of horses. The wagon rolled down the street, the bull keeping pace behind, and Tate held the reins in one hand, aware of the glances he was accumulating as he followed the woman he’d married.

She moved along at a smart pace until she came to the end of the sidewalk. Then the going was a little tougher, the choice between staying in the ruts or moving to walk in the stubble beside the road. Johanna chose the easier route, her boots stomping their way over the bumpy ground, still covered with a scattering of snow. She stumbled once or twice, almost going to her knees, and Tate caught his breath when she tripped.

If the blasted woman would only watch where she was going, he wouldn’t be so worried. But her head was high and her eyes were straight ahead, never veering to check out the bumpy ground she traveled. He drove his team at a slow pace, their lumbering walk a travesty of the usual quick trot he demanded of them. But nothing would make him drive on home, leaving Johanna to follow. Only the
thought of a physical confrontation in front of his sons kept him from climbing from the seat and forcing her to ride beside him.

It was going to be a long two miles, he decided. The acquisition of the bull had seemed to be a highlight of his life, one short day ago. The thought of Johanna’s pleasure in the purchase had filled him with anticipation on the long, tiresome train ride. He’d sat up all night in the coach, striving for a few hours’ sleep amid the noise of clanking rails and the total discomfort of the seat he struggled to fit his big body into.

And then he’d found that his wife did not share his longrange view of prosperity, guaranteed by the purchase of a bull who would over the next few years fill their pastures with a finer breed of cattle than had ever graced the Patterson farm. He’d dreamed of improving her herd. He’d planned this trip, on which he’d thought to show her his blueprint for success. Damn, the farm was theirs, not hers. He’d paid the not-inconsiderable mortgage her father had taken, two years ago.

He’d brought new life to the orchard, pruning and planting. He’d mended fences, hunted down recalcitrant cattle with the aid of Sheba, gathering her herd into a manageable group for the winter. He’d repaired and mended and attended to a farm that had been well on its way to collapse.

And for what? The very first time he asserted his share of ownership, taking out a small mortgage, instead of using the dwindling capital he’d banked in a savings account, she blew sky-high. Her anger was monumental, her fit of rage far out of proportion, as far as he could tell.

Let the woman walk! Maybe she’d get shed of some of her high-handedness by the time she made it home. It would serve her right if he just drove on past with the wagon and left her follow at her own pace.

His hands lifted, his muscles poised to snap the reins
once more, touching the backs of his team to urge them to a faster pace.

“Miss Johanna sure is mad, Pa,” Pete whispered in his ear.

“Don’t she love us anymore?” Timmy wailed from his spot behind Tate.

“Of course she does,” Tate growled beneath his breath, relaxing his hold on the reins, his jaw tightening as he recognized his inability to leave her to fend for herself on the frozen ground with his sons fretting over the quarrel.

Certainly she was able to make it home by herself. She’d walked it alone before. But not lately. Not since her name was Montgomery, and he’d be jiggered if she’d ever walk it alone again. With a weary tilt to his shoulders, he drew his team to a halt, tying the reins to the post and jumping from the seat to the ground.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her stiffened spine as she stepped up her pace, tripping again over a tuft of frozen weeds. And then he walked forward, grasping the harness of his gentle mares, leading them with his hand gripping the leather.

Just ahead, Johanna moved to the road, choosing to walk the fairly even path between the ruts. Behind her, he followed, walking apace, leading his mares, the bull behind.

S
he’d planned to cook a big meal, welcoming Tate home. Instead, she’d put together a pitiful excuse for dinner that almost made her ashamed of herself. Cold leftovers from Wednesday night’s supper, along with a pot of potato soup, had made up the meal, and Tate’s look of disbelief had almost done her in. He’d managed to wrap pieces of yesterday’s pot roast in a slice of bread and eat it, along with a bowl of applesauce and one of soup, before he excused himself to head for the barn.

Probably out there building a fancy place to stick his bull, she thought angrily. And if what Timmy had to say held any water, he had been. Not satisfied with a corral built from poles, he’d reinforced it with barbed wire, then added a lean-to, protecting his purchase from the weather.

She’d cooked up another pot of oatmeal for supper, opening a can of peaches and frying a panful of apples. Tate had cheerfully explained to the boys about fruit and oatmeal, coaxing them to sample both peaches and fried apples atop their bowls of oatmeal. Timmy had complained that oatmeal was for breakfast, but subsided when his father’s glance of disapproval was aimed in his direction.

Tate had filled up on bread, once his bowl of oatmeal had disappeared, and for a moment she’d felt an over-whelming
sense of shame as she repented her foolish stubbornness. She should have made him a meal. The man had worked hard all day, and she’d offered him a kettle of porridge.

To his credit, he hadn’t made any noises she could classify as an objection. Just tucked into his supper and put away every living bite of food he could find. Her hands stilled in the dishwater. She might be mad, but she was obliged to uphold the terms of their bargain. And part of that included cooking good meals.

Tomorrow would be another story, she determined.

Her feet were heavy as she trudged up the stairs. Shod in stockings, she made no noise against the worn treads, but the weariness that had struck her following the walk home this forenoon had not left in the hours since. His disappointment in her weighed heavily on her shoulders, and only the knowledge that she had been right sustained her anger.

He’d brought that big red-and-white-spotted creature here and built him a fortress out back. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he’d decided to breed her cows this year to a highfalutin big-city bull bought on money borrowed against her farm. The insult was too great to be borne.

Her feet stomped on the top step, jarring her slender frame, but she ignored the soreness of aching muscles. He’d left her to run the place for three days—make that two, a sense of fairness amended. For this angry moment, she ignored the help he’d arranged for her. She’d cared for his boys and washed his clothes. In the washing machine he’d bought, without a murmur of reproach for the money spent, her honest heart reminded her silently.

She opened the door of her mother’s sewing room. Even in the weeks she slept there, she had not claimed it as her own. She’d spent hours, wide awake and aware of the man just across the hallway, there in that bed. She’d looked out
the window her mother had gazed from, stored her clothing in the small chest her mother had cherished.

It was still her mother’s sewing room, no matter how many nights she’d spent there. And tonight would add to that number. No more would she curl against that masculine frame and soak up the warmth of his body. No more would those long arms enclose her in their embrace, holding the darkness at bay, easing her into a dreamless sleep as his hands touched her with the knowledgeable skill she’d come to crave.

She shook her head, closing the sewing room door behind her. Such nonsense. She’d slept alone for years. In no time, she’d have forgotten those nights in his bed. Johanna jerked her nightgown from its hook inside the wardrobe and spread it on the bed. Her fingers flew as she unbuttoned and untied the fastenings on her dress and underthings. The gown enveloped her as she shed her clothing beneath its folds and kicked them to one side.

Tomorrow was soon enough to be neat. Tonight, she was cold, and the quilts beckoned. With one swoop, she threw back the covers and slid between the cold sheets. Shivering, she pulled the quilts over her, burrowing beneath their weight.

Soon she heard him coming up the stairs and toward his room, his feet sounding heavy against the hallway runner. His voice rumbled as he opened the third bedroom door and spoke his good-nights to the boys, admonishing them to go right to sleep. And then he opened the door across the hall from where she lay.

Her ears strained in the silence, her eyes closing as she sought to catch any sound he might utter, any step he might take.

The doorknob turned, and the door opened. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense the light from the big bedroom against her lids. And then she felt his hand, covering
her own where it clutched at the quilts beneath her chin.

“Johanna. I’m only going to say this once. You will sleep in my bed. You’re gonna get up and march your little butt across the hall to my room and get yourself into that bed. I don’t give a damn how mad you are or how high you tilt that sassy chin of yours, you’re still my wife, and you will not sleep anywhere else but with me.”

His fingers gripped the quilts, and he tugged them from her grasp, throwing them back, exposing her huddled form to his view. He lifted her upright in a series of movements that brought her to sit before him in a matter of seconds.

“Now get up.” It was an order from a man who would tolerate no quibbling to a woman who had found new food for her anger.

That he dared to invade her bedroom, putting his hands on her person and ordering her about as if he had a right was more than she would tolerate.

Her mouth opened to tell him so. And then closed abruptly as she thought of the two little boys, awake and probably listening, just one room removed from where she was confronting this man of huge proportions. Any dispute, verbal or physical, would be sure to be overheard, and causing those boys any more distress was the last thing Johanna wanted to do.

She struggled to rise, at a disadvantage with Tate right in front of her. He solved the problem neatly, as if he had only been waiting for her to show a semblance of obedience. His arms scooped her up, holding her to his chest, giving her no option but to cling to his greater strength as he carried her across the hallway, into his room.

There he placed her on his bed. Then he turned his back to turn out the lamp and undress. By the time he was down to his underwear, she was curled up at the very edge of the bed, covered and tucked tidily beneath the quilts.

His grunt of disapproval was accompanied by one long
arm, snagging her and dragging her across the expanse of clean sheet until she was exactly where he wanted her—her bottom nestling against his loins, her back warmed by his chest and belly, her breast cradled by the palm of his hand.

Johanna took a shuddering breath.

“Don’t say one word, Mrs. Montgomery. Just shut your mouth and close your eyes and go to sleep. I’m too tired and hungry to argue with you tonight.”

The words he muttered in her ear were strangely comforting, she decided. He’d solved the problem neatly. Tomorrow she could be angry, when she was better fortified for the battle. For tonight she’d just let him think he’d settled her hash.

The darkness was filled with familiar sounds, his breathing, his small murmurs of satisfaction as he relaxed and shifted position, readying himself for sleep. And then the soft, subtle sounds of his snoring, the warm breath he expelled against her as he slept and the gentle squeezing of his hand against her breast.

It was going to be very difficult to hold her anger, she decided. In fact, for right now, she wouldn’t even try.

Breakfast was a meal of monstrous proportions. Angry or not, she’d vowed to stick to her part of the bargain and she was determined to give him no more room to quibble over it. If Tate felt any amusement at Johanna’s display of foodstuffs on the table, he hid it well. Murmuring a brief few words of grace over the meal, he set to with a calm purpose.

He ate four eggs, half a plate of bacon and six biscuits, covering them with two ladles of pale gravy before he settled down to his meal. There was a single biscuit left in the basket, and he took it, without even offering it in her direction.

“Any jam?” They were the first words he’d spoken to
her since the night before. She jerked in her chair as he spit the question in her direction.

“Yes, of course.” She felt Tate’s eyes on her as she opened a fresh jar of raspberry preserves from the pantry shelf. Placing it before him, she backed away, conscious of his gaze resting on her. Aware that his need of her body had not been sated for several days, recognizing the flush that rode his cheekbones, the steely glint in those gray eyes that scanned her form, she trembled.

It didn’t seem to matter to him that she was angry with him. And if she knew anything at all about the matter, he was not too happy with her, either. Still he watched her, his mouth biting into the biscuit, his tongue swiping at a bit of jam on his lip, his eyes never leaving her for a moment. He made a production of eating the two halves, finally licking a red dab from his thumb, his tongue again darting out to catch the last particle of sweetness.

“I’d like chicken for dinner,” he announced, shoving back from the table.

Her mouth agape, she formed a protest. That he could think to order her to cook to his specifications was an insult not to be borne.

“Wow! Chicken? Fried chicken, Pa?” Timmy’s awed response to his father’s decree was spontaneous.

“We haven’t had fried chicken for a long time,” Pete added woefully, his eyes mournful as he aimed a look at Johanna.

“We had fried chicken for dinner on Sunday.” Gathering up the plates, she set her mouth primly, her movements crisp and a bit more forceful than was usual. The heavy china clunked noisily in her hands, the silverware clattering to the tabletop.

“We’ll have it again today,” Tate said, rising and towering over her.

Pete and Timmy slid from their chairs, aware once more
that the two adults in their lives were not behaving in their usual manner.

“Miss Johanna? Did you wash my old hat like you were gonna?” Timmy tugged at her skirt, his words quietly catching her attention.

Johanna looked down, her fit of pique set aside for the moment. “It’s behind the stove, on the rack, Timmy. I rinsed it out yesterday morning.”

He ducked his head, a gesture of thanks, and she rested her hand on him, aware of the distress she’d placed on that small, sloping shoulder. “I’ll get it for you,” she offered, lifting the plates she’d piled on the table and carrying them to the sink. Quickly she reached behind the stove, where assorted items of clothing hung across the wooden rack, and snatched up Timmy’s hat. Knit of coarse wool, it showed signs of wear, and she determined to spend the next evening or so in making him a new one. Carrying it to where he waited, she met his gaze and smiled.

“How would you like a new hat? Maybe red, so I can see you easier out in the yard?” Her fingers were gentle as she tugged the cap into place on his dark head, tucking his hair beneath the edge.

“A new hat? This one is still good, Miss Johanna.” As if the lessons of practicality had been taught him at an early age—and he barely four years old—he protested his need.

“A red one would be better,” she countered, leaning to brush a quick kiss across his forehead.

Pete watched the proceedings from across the room, shoving his arms into his coat, searching in his pocket for the cap he’d thrust there the day before. He jerked it into place atop his head and glared at Timmy. “Mine has a hole in it, and I don’t complain,” he said angrily.

“Timmy didn’t complain,” Johanna told him. “And if you want a new hat, just say so and I’ll knit one for you.”

“My aunt Bessie made this one, and it’s good enough.”
As if that were the last word on the subject, Pete turned, heading for the door.

“Don’t be rude, Pete,” his father reprimanded softly.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he muttered, his eyes averted as he obeyed Tate’s unspoken order.

“I’d really like to make you a new hat, Pete,” Johanna said quietly. “I have blue and green yarn left over. Would you like a striped one?”

The boy cast a glance at his father and pressed his lips together for a moment. “Yes, ma’am, that would be fine,” he allowed, easing his way out the door.

Tate paused, drawing on his gloves, hunching his shoulders beneath the heavy coat he’d donned. “Do. you want me to catch a chicken and kill it before I go out back?”

Her look was far from benevolent as she slanted it in his direction. The softness she’d bestowed on Timmy, the understanding she’d offered Pete, had disappeared. Left for Tate Montgomery was the scornful look of a woman thwarted in her revenge. He’d hauled her from her chosen place last night, forcing her into his bed, and she’d found the process far from punishing. There was no other method whereby she could silently state her position.

Her mouth pinched, her eyes flashing, she faced him. “I caught and killed chickens before you ever set foot on my farm, Tate Montgomery. Just go out there and take care of your bull, and I’ll tend to fixing the dinner you ordered.”

A shutter seemed to fall behind his eyes, darkening the gray to a steely black, and his jaw clenched, a visible response to her smarting reply. “You just do that very thing, Mrs. Montgomery,” he told her coldly. “I’ll be back in at noon. Have it ready.”

She closed her eyes, hearing the door shut quietly. He was too angry with her to even relieve some of the pressure by slamming the door, she thought. She’d never seen quite that degree of icy calm in Tate before. Perhaps she’d gone too far. He’d been willing to make amends of a sort, if her
instincts were to be relied upon. He’d enjoyed his breakfast. If only he hadn’t ordered up his dinner as if he were eating at the hotel dining room in town.

She dumped hot water from the stove on the dishes, adding a handful of soap from beneath the sink, sloshing it around to form suds. The silverware followed, disappearing beneath the surface. She poured the residue of coffee from her cup and then lifted Tate’s to her mouth, sipping the last of the cooled coffee into her mouth. She imagined it bore the faintest trace of the taste of his mouth—utter foolishness, she decided, plopping the empty cup into the dishpan.