Carolyn Davidson (18 page)

Snatching her hatchet from the pantry, where she kept it hung between two nails, she headed for the back door. The air was cold, but the sun was warm against her back as she stalked to the henhouse. There were two young roosters left from last spring’s hatchings, and they needed to be caught up and gotten out of the way before she readied the brooding area for spring.

Today would take care of them, and with a vengeance fired by her confrontation with Tate she headed for the two unwary creatures she’d settled upon, her hatchet at the ready.

“Did you mail the letter to Bessie?” Tate wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back. The chicken had been fried to a fare-thee-well, the potatoes creamy, the vegetables flavored with bacon grease and onions and cooked all morning on the back of the stove. He’d enjoyed every bite, savoring the crisp coating Johanna used on her chicken, relishing the pale gravy she’d placed before his plate. Now came the moment of truth. He’d told her to write the letter, given her three days to accomplish the deed.

“I took it along to town yesterday, but I forgot to mail it,” she said, only now remembering the presence of the envelope in her reticule. “We can do it Monday.”

He nodded, aware that the anger between them had no doubt chased all thought of the letter from her mind. Johanna was an honest woman. If she said she’d forgotten, then that was what had happened. Devious, she was not.

“The chicken was good, Johanna. Thank you.” His gaze traveled to the countertop. “Is that a pie?”

“Yes.” She pushed back from the table, leaving her plate half-full of food, eyeing it with distaste. That Tate had so thoroughly enjoyed her cooking, while it stuck in her craw like so many bites of dry bread, was a fact that irked her mightily. The sense of disquiet she’d lived with all day had blunted the edge of her appetite, and even the dried-apple pie she’d baked held little appeal.

Her knife was quick as she sliced it into eight equal pieces, lifting one to place on a small plate for Tate. She served it, her left hand taking his dinner plate, even as she substituted the pie for it. The apples oozed from the crust, the thick juice dripping to settle on the plate, the spicy scent of cinnamon rising to tempt her nostrils.

A spasm of nausea rose in her throat, and she swallowed against it, blinking as she recognized its recurrence. The same thing had happened yesterday, and one day last week. Sweets simply were not agreeing with her these days, and she frowned at the thought. Apple pie was her favorite, and suddenly she had no appetite for it.

“Pete? Timmy? Do you want pie, too?” Turning away from Tate, she made her offer, and the boys responded with nodding heads, Timmy still chewing on a chicken leg as he craned his neck to catch sight of the pie.

“Yes, ma’am,” Pete said quickly, as if he remembered the chastisement earlier and was intent on a polite reply before his father should take note.

Johanna brought them their dessert and then picked up the coffeepot. “Tate?”

He held his cup toward her. “Yes, please.” Then watched as she filled it. “Are you feeling all right?”

Her look in his direction was quick. “Yes, of course.” But she wasn’t, and the falsehood made her blush. She fussed at the stove, moving the coffeepot about, lifting a burner lid to check on the fire inside, her fingers testing the temperature of the water in the reservoir. Hot to the touch, it gave her an excuse, and she took it, reaching for a pan and filling it. She carried it to the sink, splashing it in the dishpan, adding soap and readying for the dishwashing.

Tate came to stand behind her, his footsteps almost silent, only the warmth of his body behind her making her aware of his nearness. “Jo?” One large hand rested on her shoulder, and he pressed his fingers against her, their movement sending a cascading shiver down her spine.

Her eyes closed and she gritted her teeth against the unwanted reaction. So easily he was able to affect her, her body so ready to lean to his bidding that she was barely able to resist turning to him.

“Jo! Look at me.” Reaching past her, he took the pan from her hand, dropping it with a clatter on the drainboard. His hands turned her to face him and she was pinned against the sink, her heart thumping in the her throat. Sliding from her shoulder to her face, his palm cupped her chin, lifting and coaxing until she bent to his will.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Like puffs of wind blown by a spring breeze, the words burst from her lips. She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting to keep from shedding the tears that had formed without her knowing. If only his hands were not so warm, his eyes not so filled with concern. If only…

Tate’s voice was low and carefully controlled. “Boys? Pete, take your brother into the parlor. Find your books and tell Timmy about the pictures, will you?”

“Yes, Pa.” His tones subdued, Pete eyed the last bite of pie on his plate and scooped it onto his fork. “Come on, Timmy.” Tugging at his young brother’s arm, he set off for the parlor.

“Tate, let me go.” Johanna lifted her hands to push against his broad chest. But he would not be moved. Blinking rapidly, she looked at his shirt, focusing on the fourth button, unwilling to meet his gaze. “Please, Tate.” She tried again, testing his strength, and finally, with a groan of despair, allowed her head to drop against his chest.

“Jo…” It was a whisper, a pleading, needful sound that was almost her undoing. “Jo? I can’t stand to see you this way. I know you’re angry with me, but I need to set things right between us.”

“You put a mortgage on my farm. It doesn’t matter what you say to me, Tate. You can’t deny what you’ve already done. Paying off my land and my house…those were the terms of our marriage. And now you’ve gone behind my back and…”

“You don’t trust me to pay it off?” His whisper was harsh, unbelieving, in her ear. “You think I’m not capable of making the payment when it’s due?” He shook her, firmly and quickly, and she looked up, startled.

“Do you have any idea what a new bull will do for your herd? Have you any idea how much that purebred shorthorn will be worth to this place?”

“No! Of course I haven’t! How could I know? You went off to Chicago…Or is that where you really went? Anyway, wherever you went, you bought a bull and brought him back and never even talked to me about it first!”

He was stunned, his eyes registering the disbelief he felt. “It was a surprise! And .beyond that, handling the stock and the buying and selling is my end of the bargain. I wouldn’t think of questioning you about your share of this deal. You do as you please about the house, the buying at the general store, the use of your butter-and-egg money. Not once have I asked you to account for anything, have I?”

She shook her head. “No, you haven’t. But then, I
haven’t taken it upon myself to borrow money at the bank to finance my plans, either.”

“Mr. Shrader wouldn’t lend it to you, anyway.” His voice was grumpy, almost sullen, as he stared at her, exasperated by her reply.

“That’s why I married you, Tate. Because a woman alone has nothing. No security, no clout in financial matters, no say-so when it comes to the bank or the mill or the stockyards.” Her frustration had reached its peak, and she jerked her arms from his grip, uncaring of the bruises she would wear tomorrow or the stunned expression on his face.

“And that’s all I mean to you? Security? Clout? A man to do your bidding and mind your orders? I’m not to make any decisions of my own?” He waited, unwilling to release her, holding her with the force of his body, his hands clenched at his sides.

She paused, absorbing the words he spoke, listening to his angry questions, realizing for the first time the unfair advantage she’d held. Her breathing was ragged, her mouth was dry, her lips were open as she caught her breath, vainly seeking release from his presence. She needed to think, she needed to consider what he had done, perhaps look at it from another point of view.

Most of all, she needed to catch a deep breath.

“Damn!” His hands slid beneath her arms, holding her erect. She’d gone all limp against him. He recognized the shuddering breaths she took, the way her head lolled to one side; Johanna was about to faint in his arms.

Quickly, he lifted her, carrying her to the table where he dropped into a chair, holding her on his lap. “Johanna!” It was a strained whisper, his mouth brushing over her forehead. She drew a shuddering breath, then another. “Here, take a swallow of my coffee,” he said, holding the cup to her mouth. She obeyed, gulping the tepid brew.

“I’m all right,” she said softly, struggling to rise from his lap.

But he held her fast. “Sit still! I mean it. You’re upset and shaky. Just stay right here for a minute.” He pressed the cup to her lips again, and she swallowed another mouthful.

“We’re not going to talk about this anymore today,” he told her firmly. “You’re going to go up and take a rest, hear me? I want you on my bed, and I want you to stay there for at least an hour.”

One arm held her, his fingers pressing against her hipbone, the other hand gripping hers, supporting and half lifting her as they climbed the stairs. In seconds, she was on his bed and he’d slid her shoes from her. Then, tossing the quilt over her, he tucked it beneath her feet. Her face was pinched, her lips colorless and her eyes wary.

“Stay here for a while, hear?” At her nod, he bent low to brush a kiss across her forehead. “I know you’re still mad at me, and that’s all right. But for now, just forget it and sleep awhile.”

“Supper…” she began, but halted as he shook his head.

“You cooked enough chicken for a small army. We’ll eat it cold, and between us we’ll find enough to make a meal.”

And if she didn’t eat any more at supper than she had at the noon meal, he didn’t think they’d have to scrape up much for her benefit. Johanna was pining, or ailing, or just off her feed for some reason. Whatever the reason, he didn’t like the looks of her, all pale and shaky as she was.

Anyone would think she was in the throes of morning sickness or something.

His mind stopped its forward progress and beat a hasty retreat. Her reaction to the pie, her easy tears—for he’d seen the struggle she’d gone through to hide the evidence of her distress. The crankiness he’d never before associated with the woman he’d married.

Tate Montgomery looked down at his wife, and his eyes were thoughtful. Could it be? Of course, his sensible self replied. He’d been making love to her with regularity for over three months. If his seed hadn’t taken root by this time, he’d have been surprised, now that he thought about it.

And yet, she didn’t seem to have considered the idea. He tried to remember the past weeks. Had she had a monthly flow? His mind searched in vain. Not for at least two months, she hadn’t. Maybe longer. And that pretty much solved the puzzle as far as he was concerned.

He looked down at her, noting the faint flush on her cheeks, her mouth, open just a little, the edges of her teeth showing, and the regular rise and fall of her breasts as she gave in to the weariness that had overtaken her. She was a sturdy little thing, his Johanna. His Johanna.

His Johanna was likely carrying his child.

It was more than he could contain, the sudden joy that swelled within his breast, and he turned from the bed, lest he allow a whoop of delight to awaken the woman sleeping on his pillow.

H
e’d been true to his word, working beside her as they put together a meal. She’d slept much longer than an hour, to find the sun fast heading for the horizon as she awoke. Tate and the boys were on their way in, hungry and ready for a meal, as she entered the kitchen and reached for the lamp.

By the time they gathered beneath the golden glow it cast, she’d gotten her wits together and tied her apron in place. A jar of green beans put on to heat and a pan of corn bread, mixed quickly and placed in the oven, were her contribution. Tate set the table and uncovered the plate of chicken left from dinner.

“I sure am glad you fried two chickens, Miss Johanna.” Pete was willing to be amiable tonight, and for that she was grateful. He waited at the table, barely able to keep his eyes from the food as she found one thing, then another, to add to the assortment.

Do we have any syrup, Jo?” Tate asked from the pantry.

“Yes, of course.” She dried her hands hurriedly and joined him in the narrow space, squinting in the dim light, seeking the metal tin. “It’s here somewhere. We had some on pancakes while you were gone.”

“Pancakes, without me?” he teased carefully, his dark gaze intent on her face.

“The boys asked for them.” Her words were a mumble as she scooped the tin from the lower shelf and backed into the kitchen.

He followed, sensing her retreat She wasn’t ready yet for a truce, and he sat down at the table, watching her as she moved around the kitchen. She was more like herself, it seemed, her color back to normal, the circles beneath her eyes gone for now. Maybe tonight…maybe they could come to an understanding.

But it was not to be, for when Tate finally left his desk and climbed the stairs to his room, it was to find Johanna sound asleep. He undressed and crawled beneath the covers in the dark, and his hands were gentle as he gathered her in his arms.

She mumbled a few words, his name interspersed among them, then settled against him with a sigh that smacked of contentment, if he was any judge. Perhaps in sleep she was able to be purged of the anger that had made her so unhappy during the past days. Maybe tomorrow would find them on better terms, with Johanna seeking him out, as was her wont. He’d missed her company all day, but at least she’d stopped glaring at him. And for that he would be grateful, he decided.

She’d been tolerant of him today. Tomorrow he’d try for friendly.

By the end of a week, he’d decided that tolerant was as good as it was going to get He was horny as hell, and even though he enjoyed her cuddling against him while she slept, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep his hands to himself.

And Johanna was giving him no encouragement.

He moved his milking stool to the next cow, the pride of Johanna’s herd, a small, gentle jersey. He’d done a powerful
lot of thinking in his day, working with animals. Today was not any different. The rustling of hay in the manger, the swishing of the Jersey’s tail and the warm scent of milk rising to his nostrils surrounded him as he worked, and he was comforted by the familiarity of the chore.

His eyes closed as he thought about Johanna. She’d kept to her part of their bargain. In fact, if anything, the meals she’d been cooking for the past days had surpassed his expectations. As if she were trying to make up for that one day of rebellion, she’d done her best to keep him well fed.

She was pleasant in front of the boys, sweet as pie to Esther Turner at the general store, and downright enthusiastic when she spoke to Selena Phillips.

She’d agreed, a bit grudgingly, to go to the social at the church hall on Saturday, and then spent the evening with the womenfolk. He’d asked her to join in a square with him when the fiddles tuned up and the caller got set up on the platform. She’d politely excused herself and helped with setting up the food tables instead.

He’d watched her for a while, then spent the rest of the time with the older ladies, dancing up a storm. Selena Phillips had accepted his invitation with good humor, and from there he’d gone on to Marjorie Jones and Esther Turner, swinging them with enthusiasm, sending their skirts flying.

Lifting his forehead from where he’d rested it against a brown flank while he milked the last cow, he drew a deep breath. They needed to talk. Not just “Pass the milk,” and “Is it warmer out today?” It was time for Johanna to have her eyes opened to a few things. She needed to know his reasons for what he had done.

He was about ready to sit his wife down and give her a quick tour through her father’s desk. He’d never seen such a mishmash of record-keeping as Fred Patterson had left behind. Tate’s evenings spent trying to make head or tails of the mess had been most frustrating. The old man had
about reached the end of his financial rope by the time he died, as far as Tate could tell.

The herd of cows had been let go almost beyond redemption, except for the new milkers Johanna had apparently insisted on, the Jersey and a spotted guernsey. There was no way to tell just how old that scrawny bull out there in the far pasture was, but it was for sure that he was past his prime. Not worth much, no matter how you sliced it. He’d decided right off that new blood was in order, and to his way of thinking, the purchase of the shorthorn was the best move he’d made yet. Within a couple of years, the calves that bull produced would bring in more money than Tate had spent on the animal. The steers he sired would be heavier, the heifers would produce more milk, and the calves would be stronger.

And that was worth a heap, Tate decided, carrying the last pails of milk across the yard toward the springhouse. The door was propped open, Sheba sitting just outside, as if she were standing guard over her mistress. Within, he caught sight of Johanna, the churn between her knees as she lifted the lid, checking out her progress. The early-morning sun was caught and reflected by her golden hair. She’d twisted it atop her head, not taking time to braid it, then haphazardly pierced the gleaming mass with large bone hairpins to keep it out of her way.

“You’re churning early. Is it done?” Pausing in the doorway, he rested for a moment.

She nodded. “Yes. I thought it felt about right.” She pushed the churn aside and rose from her chair. Reaching for an empty pail, she tilted the churn, ready to drain off the skim.

“I’ll take that out to the pigs for you,” Tate offered, depositing his burden on the low table. He bent to where she worked and took the weight of the churn from her, careful to hold the lid in place, so as not to lose any of the butter.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide at his nearness. “I can take care of it, Tate.”

He shrugged. “I know you can. I just wanted to help. I’d as soon you didn’t lift the heavy pails, anyway.”

Her laugh was strained. “I’ve been lugging heavier than this for years. Getting married didn’t take away any of my strength. I’m a strong farm woman, Tate.”

His gaze swept over her, easing its way from her face down the length of her body; his lips thin, and his nostrils flaring. Her dress was snug across her breasts, outlining them for his viewing, and he paused there in his survey. The woman did have a fine figure, and unless he missed his guess, she was filling out that dress even more than usual.

How could she not know? He swung his gaze back to her face and smiled. “Yeah, you sure do look strong and healthy to me, ma’am. Fact is, I’d say you’re a prime piece of womanhood.”

Her flush was instantaneous, sweeping up from her throat to cover her cheeks with a rosy hue. Her eyes sparkled—perhaps with aggravation, he thought, but shiny and tempting nevertheless. It was more than he could resist, the privacy gained by the small building, the look of her, dampened curls at her temples from the hard work she’d accomplished, and the neat, rounded figure so near.

He lowered the churn to the floor and wiped his palms against his pant legs, his eyes never leaving her face. And then he reached for her, his hands at her waist, lifting her against him until they were eye-to-eye.

“Tate! Put me down!” She reached to balance herself, her hands gripping his shoulders.

“I need you, Johanna.” It was a primitive response to her nearness, his body reacting quickly, his thighs taut with the tension of his arousal, his feet apart as he braced himself. The scar on his face was livid against the ruddy hue
of his cheekbones, his eyes darkening as he spoke the challenge aloud.

“Tate! Put me down!” she repeated, whispering now, as if she sensed the tension he could no longer suppress. Her eyes were frantic as she looked past him at the open doorway. “The boys will see you, Tate.”

“Kiss me, Johanna.” As if her words had gone unheard, he growled the command, his fingers tightening against her resilient flesh.

A shiver passed through her body, and she shook her head. “No, not here.”

“Just a kiss.” He nudged her, his mouth hot against her cheek as she turned her face from him.

Her breath was indrawn, a shuddering sound as she inhaled through her mouth. “Put me down first”

His muscles quivered as he lowered her to the floor, and his hands slid to cover her back. “Now.” Giving her no quarter, he bent to her, his mouth opening over hers, claiming the caress he’d demanded as his due.

She was stiff in his embrace, but only for a moment, and then she softened, leaning against him, tilting her head to better receive him. Her woman’s need rose within her, the temptation of his arms and hands, the heated, damp pressure of his mouth adding to her yearning. She’d learned well the lessons he’d taught through the long night hours, and her body responded to the familiarity of his touch.

“Johanna!” It was a soft cry of torment, and he buried his face in her throat, as if the temptation of her mouth were more than he’d bargained for. And then he released her, his fingers sliding reluctantly from her back.

He reached down for the pail of skim milk, afloat with small globules of butter. “I’ll take this out to the pigpen,” he said, his voice roughened by emotion.

“Breakfast is ready, Tate. I left it warming in the oven before I came out here.”

His nod accepted her announcement, and he turned from
her. “We need to talk, Johanna. There’s a lot you need to understand, about the farm and your father’s way of doing things.”

“After breakfast?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got too much to do this morning. Let’s make it tonight, after supper, when the boys go to bed.”

“All right. After supper.”

“We need to settle this between us.” Tate sat at the desk, Johanna beside him in a chair he’d brought from the dining room. “Have you ever gone through your father’s records? Looked through his books?”

She shook her head. “No. He took care of the money. I only knew that his bankbook was in the drawer, and when I saw how little he had in his savings account, I figured the farm hadn’t done well for a while.”

Tate nodded. “He’d run his herd into the ground, Jo. That bull out there is about petered out. He should have gotten rid of him a long time ago. The cattle he was selling to the stockyards weren’t bringing in enough to support the place. That’s why he got a mortgage a couple years back. He’d been getting along on the money ever since, and not making any headway.”

Her frown deepened. “What can we do?” The knowledge that her father had neglected the farm came as no surprise. She’d known that the fences and outbuildings had fallen into disrepair, but maintaining the house and garden had kept her busy. Besides, Fred Patterson had not welcomed anyone else’s ideas about his place, least of all those of the daughter he’d almost totally ignored over the past ten years.

“I’ve already done it, Johanna. That bull was about the best idea I could come up with. The herd needs new blood. He’ll produce bigger steers, and the new heifers will make better milkers. You need to get rid of four of your old ones,
anyway. They’d be better off producing calves after we get some new milkers out of the shorthorn.”

“So, why didn’t you talk to me about it first?” Her mouth was set in a stubborn line and she glared at him, the old argument still unsettled, as far as she was concerned.

“We’ve already had this conversation, Johanna. I did what I thought was best, and I’ll not apologize for that.”

She rose from the chair, hands rising to rest against her hips. “What conversation? The one where I ask for an answer and you give me the same old story? It’s down to what you decide, isn’t it? Like I’m not supposed to have anything to say about this place.”

He looked up at her and gave a sigh that bespoke extreme tolerance. “Look, I know you’re not feeling well, but there’s no need for you to get so unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable! You think it’s unreasonable for me to express an interest in your spendthrift ideas?”

“Now, hold on for just a minute,” he blurted out, rising to his feet as if he must be on equal ground.

She stepped back, tripping over a wrinkle in the carpet and losing her balance. His hand came out swiftly, automatically, grasping her arm, holding her until she caught her balance. And then she cast his help aside, her look scornful.

“Don’t touch me, Tate. You think you can coax me by your sweet talk and your niceties, but it isn’t going to work. I just can’t believe you’d go behind my back and put my farm in jeopardy. I lived with not knowing whether I was about to lose this place or not after my father died. The whole reason we got married was so I’d never have to worry about such a thing happening again.”

“And you don’t trust me to make the payments?”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “So what! You can’t even trust me enough to tell me about—” Her lips clamped shut, forming a mutinous line.

“Tell you about what?” he roared.

“About that scar you’ve got! About what happened with your wife!”

“You’re my wife! Belinda is in the past,” he growled, lowering his tone as he cast a glance toward the open door.

“You know what I’m talking about, Tate!” She gritted her teeth at his bullheadedness. “Then I guess there isn’t much else to say, is there?” she said quietly. “You’ve got an answer for everything. I told you all there was to know about me and…and—” Her voice broke as she groped for words, and she shook her head, unwilling to continue.