Carolyn Davidson (20 page)

“Is it my turn, Pa?” Timmy clambered from his spot by the barn door. He was bouncing on his toes as he watched, and Tate took pity on his impatience.

“Now it’s your turn, Timmy. Come on over here and talk to the mare.” Tate pulled the animal’s head down, closer to the boy’s level, and the child approached.

“She likes me, doesn’t she, Pa?” he asked, his eyes round, as he reached to pat the patient creature.

“Sure she does,” Tate assured him. “Now let me lift you up on the saddle, and then I’ll get on behind you.” He unfastened the lead rope and tossed it to Johanna, then, with an easy motion, swung from the ground, mounting the mare and lifting Timmy to sit on his thighs. One arm around the boy’s waist, the other hand on the reins, he turned the mare in a tight circle and headed down the lane toward the road, his feet hanging free, the stirrups too high for him to use.

“Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Lookit me, Miss Johanna!” Timmy’s cry of triumph resounded, and Johanna laughed aloud as she shared his enjoyment.

Pete sidled up next to her. “I’ll be able to ride by myself pretty soon, won’t I?”

“I’m sure you will,” she assured him, one hand rising to rest on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if your father doesn’t put you back up on the mare when he comes back from taking Timmy for a ride. He said he was going to work with you for a while.”

“I was thinking we need to have a name for her. It’d be
easier when I’m riding her if I knew what to call her, don’t you think?” Pete’s small face was screwed up with concern as he voiced his thoughts.

“Why don’t you and Timmy talk about it after a while? I think your father would like you to name her,” Johanna said, hoping silently that Tate would agree with her.

“Yeah, we could do that!” Pete agreed, his enthusiasm doubling as he watched the mare turn around and head back in his direction. “I’ll bet it’ll be my turn again now.”

Johanna dared to squeeze her fingers gently against the boy’s shoulder, and then lifted her hand to smooth his hair, her fingers relishing the dark, silken locks that were so much like his father’s. She met Tate’s gaze as he brought the mare to a stop before her, and her eyes delivered a silent message even as she spoke.

“Pete’s probably ready for a longer lesson, if you’ve got time.”
Agree with me,
her eyes told him.

“I planned on it, as a matter of fact,” Tate said smoothly. “We’ve got all afternoon. I thought maybe I’d put a bridle on the bay later on and ride with Pete. I used to be pretty good riding bareback when I was a kid.”

The song of a robin caught her ear as Johanna headed for the house, and she lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun’s rays, searching the sky for the bird.

“Over by the house, in the maple tree,” Tate said, pointing high to where a solitary bird perched on a bare branch. “He’s calling his mate.”

“How can you tell, Pa?” Pete asked, peering to where his father pointed.

Tate shrugged. “I know the words to that song, son.” And then, with a final glance at Johanna, whose mouth was resisting the urge to curve in a smile, he lifted the boy into the saddle once more.

“It was a good day, wasn’t it, Jo?” In his usual position, Tate cradled his head on his open palms, looking up at the
bedroom ceiling as his wife undressed for bed. Had she not been behind the screen, he’d have been watching her. As it was, he was depending on his memory to provide the details his mind could only imagine.

“Yes. Pete was still working on a name when you sent him to bed.” Her voice was muffled beneath layers of fabric as she lifted her skirts over her head, and Tate grinned to himself, imagining the maneuvering she was doing behind the screen.

“I’d be glad to help you with that if you came over here,” he offered.

“I can manage, thank you. I’ve been undressing by myself for twenty-six years now.” She tossed the dress over the top of the screen, the arms dangling in his view.

“Your nightgown’s out here, Jo.” He’d filched it from the hook on the wall before he crawled into bed, concealing it beneath the covers, and now he dragged it from hiding.

She peeked around the corner of the screen, shoulders bare except for the narrow straps of her chemise. Her brow furrowed in a frown as she eyed the garment he held. “I thought I’d left it here.” And then she glanced down at herself quickly, apparently deeming her attire fit for his viewing. She stepped from the concealment of the screen and approached him, her hand outstretched.

He sat up in bed, holding the gown from her grasp, his eyes making a slow survey of her form, from the drawers that were tied below her knees to the chemise that provided a scant covering of her upper body. “You’re a fine figure of a woman, Mrs. Montgomery,” he told her with unmistakable candor.

She blushed, evading his gaze, snatching for the gown he taunted her with.

But it was not to be. His hand reached out, grasping her arm and tugging at her with a steady pull, bringing her to the side of the bed.

“Tate!” It was a warning, half in jest, half in earnest, and her head tilted to one side as she offered it.

“I don’t think you need this nightgown tonight, Mrs. Montgomery.” The object in question fell to the floor, and his free hand rose to loosen the tie at her waist, allowing the drawers to fall to her hips.

She reached to grab for them, clutching the cotton fabric in her fist, holding it against her belly. “Tate!”

“I’ll keep you warm.” His mouth whispered the words, a seductive promise she could not fail to recognize, and she shook her head.

“I can’t do this, Tate. I want my nightgown.”

“I’ll turn out the lamp, Jo,” he said, his smile willing her to comply, coaxing her gently.

She looked down at him, and her flush deepened. Her fingers twined in the material she clutched, and she bit at her lip.

Tate swung his legs over the side of the bed and settled her between his knees. He leaned forward, his face pressed against her waist, and he lifted the edge of her chemise, allowing his mouth to touch the bare skin beneath it. His breath was warm, and she shivered, shifting against his legs.

“Reach over to the table and turn out the lamp, Johanna.” He’d released her wrist, allowing both of his hands access to her body, and he held her close as he gently pushed the loosened drawers down over her hips.

Recognizing the precarious threat to her modesty, she reached quickly to twist the knob on the kerosene lamp, turning down the wick and casting the room into darkness.

“Feel better now?” His words teased her as his hands swept the white garment down her legs, his fingers agile as he loosened her stockings and pushed them to her ankles.

“Lift your foot, sweetheart,” he told her, easing the stocking from one foot as she obeyed. And then the other, as she complied with his nudging fingers.

His mouth was on her again, following the hem of her chemise as he lifted it, over the fullness of her breasts and to her armpits. “Raise your arms. Let’s get this off you.”

Obediently she did as he asked, aware only of the male strength of the man before her, her senses attuned to him, knowing he was set on a course with only one possible destination.

And she could not refuse him. It had been a day of pure happiness. From dawn till dusk, Tate had given her his attention, gifting her with smiles and sidelong glances, sharing with her the simple pleasure he found with his children. The quarrel between them held in abeyance, they had allowed the tension of their dissent to be forgotten for this moment. By mutual consent, they had put it aside from their time together as a family.

And now he asked for this, seeking her compliance. Not without recompense, though, for she knew what route this path would take. His arms would cradle her, and his hands would be gentle against her skin. The brush of his mouth against her breast was a promise of pleasures to come and his whispers were breathless vows he would fulfill, should she bend to his wooing.

Lowering her arms, she watched her chemise fall to the floor at her feet. Her hands on Tate’s shoulders, she bent her head forward, resting her cheek against his dark hair. His mouth on her skin was gentle, his lips nuzzling at her flesh, and she shivered as he suckled, paying homage to her with tender touches.

“Lie down with me, Jo, please.” He tilted his head back, his words offering her the choice, and she responded, her arms circling his neck, bending to find his mouth with her own.

T
he letter from Bessie arrived less than a week before the lady herself stepped off the train in Belle Haven. The usual cluster of townsfolk waited for the Tuesday-morning express out of Grand Rapids, among them Selena Phillips, with mailbag in hand, talking with Mr. Turner at the end of the platform.

Jacob Nelson, the barber, had been notified that his second chair would be arriving this morning, and his excitement was contagious, spreading to include Leah Ibsen and her group of schoolchildren. They were to be allowed inside the mail car for ten minutes, each of them having chosen someone far off with whom to correspond. Those who had no relatives or friends outside of Belle Haven had been given names of schoolchildren in Miss Ibsen’s hometown of Dearborn, a town near the city of Detroit Already, the youngest were estimating the time they must allow before their reply would be brought by this very train.

Jacob Nelson’s interest in Miss Ibsen was apparent this morning as he inspected himself in the streaked window of the railroad station. His collar was stiff, his tie straight and every hair on his head pomaded into place as he sidled into her group.

Johanna watched the goings-on from the surrey, feeling
detached, as if she were waiting for a fatal blow to befall her. Her mind had been filled with the advent of Bessie’s visit for seven days, and with good reason. Pete and Timmy had spoken of little else for the past week, their excitement reaching fever pitch by this morning.

Racing through their chores and breakfast, they’d been waiting on the porch an hour before Tate was ready to leave. And he was little better, Johanna thought miserably. The woman must be a saint, what with all the talk of Aunt Bessie this and Aunt Bessie that.

Johanna had decided Bessie must be the most comfortable example of womanhood on the North American continent, what with all the variety of cookies and cakes she had baked and served to Pete and Timmy. She’d imagined her as Belinda’s older sister, probably stout and graying and grandmotherly. The boys truly loved their aunt, and Johanna was trying hard to be thankful for the good woman’s concern for her nephews.

Tate had been no better. He’d hoped Bessie would be comfortable in the sewing room, since she was used to a larger bed. Johanna had set her jaw and refused to comment on that remark, which she considered a veiled criticism of her home.

Now, waiting for the woman to arrive, only the hopeful thought that she was younger and probably slimmer—in most places, anyway—than the wonderful Bessie Swenson, kept her from setting off for the farm afoot.

The train tracks ran in an absolutely straight line, and by standing on the platform and looking due south a person could see the engine and the smoke it produced from several miles away. Pete was the first to spy the cowcatcher gleaming in the distance this morning. His call to attention brought Tate from the station house door to stand near his sons on the platform.

August Shrader appeared at the far corner of the station, making a beeline for Selena, doffing his hat and standing
as close to her as etiquette would allow. Selena’s face took on a rosy hue, and even from where she sat in the surrey, Johanna could see the postmistress flutter her eyelashes at the banker. A wedding was likely in the near future, Johanna thought, chagrined as she realized she had spent little time of late with Selena.

Timmy was barely able to keep his feet on the ground by the time the train came to a screeching halt. Pete bounded back and forth, peering in the windows of the coach and almost running full tilt into the conductor as he placed a stool on the platform for his. passengers’ use. A lady took his hand as she departed the train, carefully placing her black side-buttoned shoes so as not to mar their gleaming finish.

Johanna’s heart missed a beat. Surely this was not the Aunt Bessie she’d heard about for the past seven days without ceasing. This tall, slender, dark-haired woman, fashionably garbed in a striped taffeta dress, carrying a parasol that looked to be straight from New York City. Her hair, done up in a series of ringlets and piled upon her head, was adorned with a hat consisting of feathers and veiling that had to have cost a small fortune.

Johanna’s mouth fell open in stunned surprise. Herb Swenson was dead a matter of weeks, and his widow was dressed like an illustration from a Chicago newspaper. She’d seen only a few such ads from the big-city stores, but she was certain that what Bessie wore could in no way be construed as mourning.

The woman’s smile was warm and her arms were outstretched as two small boys vaulted in her direction. She scooped them up, straightening and hugging them to her bosom, accepting their cries of welcome and adding her own soft words to their greetings. Even Tate was included in the joyous reunion, being saluted with a brush of her cheek against his as he bent to place his hand on her shoulder.

Johanna looked down at her plain everyday muslin dress. It was not only not striped taffeta, it wasn’t even flowered dimity. It was a common, ordinary farm woman’s go-totown dress, bought from the shelves of the general store three years ago come summer. Neat and tidy was about all she could offer, Johanna thought glumly, lifting one hand to smooth a wispy lock that had slipped from her carefully pinned braids. Wound in a circle atop her head, they were prim and presentable, a far cry from gleaming dark curls beneath a fancy milliner’s delight.

She slid from the seat of the surrey, recognizing her duty as Tate’s wife, and walked toward the reunion taking place in front of a good dozen of the townsfolk. Selena, obviously curious about the new arrival, cast Johanna a look of wary sympathy.

“Johanna! Come here and meet Bessie.” Beckoning her forward, Tate held out his hand to her, a welcome sight if she’d ever seen one. Having his broad palm enclose her fingers would be a comfort as she endeavored to be polite and cheerful.

“I’m so pleased to meet you Bessie,” Johanna said, looking up several inches in order to meet the other woman’s gaze. This was the woman she’d thought to comfort, perhaps, in the death of her husband. Had Tate been the one buried so recently, Johanna suspected, she would still be swathed in black linen and wailing to beat the band.

But the marvelous Bessie was not. Smiling, the visitor leaned forward, deposited the two boys on their feet and extended a hand to Johanna. “I wondered what sort of woman would take Tate Montgomery’s eye. And now I know.”

Sultry
was the word that jumped into Johanna’s mind as Bessie greeted her. Soft, drawling words, accompanied by an all-encompassing glance, made her feel that she had surely left a button undone or split a seam on her bodice. Never in her life had Johanna felt so inadequate.

How could Tate have chosen to marry her, when this beautiful creature was living at the other end of the train tracks, in southern Ohio? But Bessie hadn’t been available then. When Tate set out to find a place to settle, Bessie had been the wife of Herb Swenson.

Now Herb Swenson was dead and buried.

Tate was shepherding his group into the surrey, having picked up Bessie’s tapestry satchel from the platform. He gave Johanna his hand and helped her into the front seat. Bessie was prevailed upon to sit between the boys on the back seat, and her satchel was deposited in the rear.

Thankfully, Johanna wasn’t required to add much to the conversation as the surrey rolled toward the farm. Tate kept his team at a fast clip, and as if they, too, must make an impression, the sturdy mares swished their tails, tossing their manes in great style.

Bessie
oohed
and
aahed
over the cows pastured next to the road they traveled, and was properly impressed when she caught sight of the new shorthorn bull at a distance. Tate had set him loose in the near pasture, where the bull had immediately taken stock of his new harem and staked his territory.

“I’m planning on at least three dozen calves from him next spring,” Tate said over his shoulder to Bessie, who appeared awed by the huge creature.

“Pa? What’s that big black cow doing out there?” Pete asked, pointing into the area where the red-and-whitespotted shorthorn had set up court.

Tate squinted, following the direction Pete indicated, finally raising his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. “Looks like the old bull to me. What do you think, Johanna?”

“I haven’t seen him in years. Pa always kept him out closer to the swamp.” Sensing Tate’s apprehension, she looked up at him. “Shouldn’t he be there, Tate?”

Tate shook his head. “I didn’t want the two of them
having a tussle for the herd. Bulls don’t do well in the same pasture.” He lifted the reins and snapped them over the backs of his team. “I think I’d better hustle on home and get things sorted out.”

Johanna was left to escort Bessie into her home and up the stairs, Tate making hasty excuses as he headed for the barn. In minutes, he’d saddled the chestnut mare and set off for the pasture at a gallop, his rifle in one hand as he rode.

“We’ll have dinner in an hour or so, Bessie,” Johanna said, opening the door to the sewing room and showing her guest in. Small and compact at best, the room seemed cramped today, Johanna thought, settling Bessie’s bag next to the small chest.

Bessie looked around quickly. “What a charming room. I’m so glad you were able to find a place for me to stay. I hope I haven’t put you out too much, Johanna.”

Lack of mourning clothes notwithstanding, she couldn’t fault the woman’s manners, Johanna thought, nodding and smiling her best. But it was for sure that Bessie was as far from what she’d expected as any creature could be. Comfortable and stout, indeed!

Dinner was ready and being held on the back of the stove when Tate came back, stomping his boots noisily on the porch. “Johanna! Can you come out here?” Tate’s voice was harsh, and Johanna hurried to open the door, drying her hands on her apron.

“What’s wrong, Tate?” she asked, stepping onto the porch. From the barn, the boys ran toward the house, Timmy clutching a half-grown kitten in his arms.

“Damn bull! Those animals never do what you expect them to. The old one got into the near pasture and challenged my shorthorn and got himself gored for his trouble. I had to put him down.”

“Is your new bull all right?” Johanna’s heart trembled within her chest as she thought of the money invested in
the red-and-white creature who had caused such an uproar already.

“He’s dug up a little. Nothing I can’t take care of with some salve. I need your long butcher knife now, Johanna. I’ll have to gut that miserable animal right away, so the meat will be good. Not that it’ll be anything but tough, anyway.” He gestured to his rifle, on the porch. “Put that gun away, will you?”

She picked up the gun and held it uneasily, her mind still on the slaughtered bull. “What will we do with him?” The thought of having the meat to tend to, with all the other distractions she faced right now, held little appeal.

“I’ll think of something.” Tate was glowering darkly, in no mood to answer questions from the looks and sounds of him, and Johanna stepped back in the kitchen to find her knife, leaving the rifle in the pantry until later.

“Make me a sandwich out of that meat loaf, will you? I won’t have time for dinner,” Tate said from the other side of the screen door. “I’ll take it with me.”

“I’ll do it, Tate.” From behind her, Bessie’s melodious voice offered help, and Johanna swallowed her thoughts.

“Thanks, Bessie.” Tate grinned at his sister-in-law and then peered through the screen. “Johanna, where are you with that knife?”

“I’m sharpening it!” Using the edge of her egg crock, Johanna honed the blade, careful to mind the edge as she swept it over the stone. Bessie got the smile and she got the sharp side of Tate’s tongue, Johanna thought acidly, swiping the blade once more to ensure the edge.

Tate stuck his head in the door. “I’m goin’ out to the barn to get a rope to haul the carcass back to the house. I’ll be right back. That sandwich about ready, Bessie?”

Bessie slapped the two slices of bread around a generous helping of meatloaf and, reaching for a clean dishtowel from the cupboard, wrapped it securely. “It’s ready when you are, Tate.”

“Can I go, Pa?” Pete watched, wide-eyed, as his father strode toward the barn, keeping pace, skipping to match Tate’s longer steps.

“You go on back to the house and have dinner with your Aunt Bessie, son.” Tate’s mind was filled with the job ahead, and his answer was short, and Pete turned away, starting back to the porch, kicking at a clod of dirt.

Timmy was on the porch, the young cat beside him, telling Bessie about the litter, now down to the last two, since a family in town had taken one. Going down the steps, Johanna eyed them darkly, butcher knife in hand.

“Wash up for dinner, Timmy. You too, Pete,” she added as the older boy scuffled his way toward her.

“My hands aren’t dirty,” he argued, scowling at his father’s reproof.

“Don’t argue, Pete!” Johanna was in no mood for a sulky child, and she sailed past him as she spoke.

Tate came from the barn, rolling up a length of rope and slinging it over his shoulder. He paused for only a moment, taking the knife from Johanna, and then went onto the porch, leaving her to follow.

Bessie waited near the steps, handing him the wrapped sandwich and speaking in a low voice, just beyond Johanna’s hearing. Slowing her steps, unwilling to seem nosy, Johanna watched as Tate nodded, then turned to where his horse waited at the hitching post. Without a backward glance, he mounted and pulled the chestnut mare around, heading at a quick trot toward the pasture beyond the barn.

It had been a miserable day all around, Johanna decided. Tate had gone to the Cooney place to offer Jonas the dead bull and, accompanied by Jonas, had hoisted the creature onto the Cooneys’ buckboard. By the time she’d heard gruesome details from both boys about the bull’s bloody remains, she felt she’d never want to cook another meal of beef in her life.

Supper was late, Tate having had to do chores in the twilight, and if it hadn’t been for Bessie being so cheerful, the meal would probably have been silent. What with Pete still upset at his father and Johanna’s stomach in an uproar and Tate in a foul mood after killing the bull, things had gone rapidly downhill all day.