Carolyn Davidson (7 page)

She evaded his gaze. “I’ll handle it. The boys played in the strawstack this morning. I think I can take care of it, if Pete will help me.”

“Pete?”

His father’s look was stern, and Pete hunched his small shoulders, his fork held midair, laden with potatoes.

“We climbed the mountain, Pa,” Timmy said brightly.

“And made holes in the straw?”

Pete nodded. “Yessir.”

Tate took another bite of meat, chewing it forcefully. He swallowed and reached for his coffee. “I’ll take care of it, Johanna. The boys know better than to play in the barnyard.”

“Let me tend to it,” she said quietly, aware that his temper had been riled.

“My boys made the problem. I’ll clean it up.”

Johanna folded her hands in her lap. Somehow she’d gone from being the bearer of bad news to the defender of the culprits. “I should have been watching them, Tate. They’re my responsibility.”

Pete shrank against the back of the chair, his dinner halfeaten, his eyes fearful as he listened to the two grown-ups.

“Is there canvas in the barn?” Tate speared the last piece of liver from the platter, carrying it to his plate.

“I’ll have to look. Pa used to have some out there. Things got a bit unsettled over the past year or so. I may have to dig around for it.”

“Unsettled?” Tate’s eyebrows lifted, as if he disputed the word she had chosen to describe the state of her father’s storage areas.

Johanna rose from the table, casting one glance at Pete, nodding at his plate in silent admonition.

Obediently he bent forward, fork in hand, and delivered a bite of food to his mouth.

“You’ll help with the work, Pete. You too, Timmy,” Tate announced. “I think we’d all better put our hand to it, in fact It looked like a pile of clouds coming in from the west earlier. We can’t afford to lose that straw.”

“I thought we were going to have a real storm.” Johanna looked toward the barn, across the yard where the thirsty ground was soaking up the showers as they fell to earth.

Tate nodded. “Look’s like it’s blowing over. Just as well, really. That hay we cut the other day is gonna need an extra day to dry before we bring it in.”

“At least the straw…” She halted, aware that she’d managed to bring to his mind the very subject she’d been trying to avoid.

“I don’t want you to pamper the boys.”

“That sounds like an order.” It was the first they’d spoken of the issue since the afternoon. Better to have it over with, let him have his say, she thought with a sigh of resignation.

He turned to look at her. “You’d have taken on the chore of cleaning up their mess this afternoon if I hadn’t stepped in.”

She nodded. “Probably. I’d already spouted off at them, Tate. I hurt Pete’s feelings.”

“They have to learn. Life isn’t easy, and Pete tends to do as he pleases sometimes.” He stepped back from the edge of the porch as a gust of wind blew the mist under the roof, dampening his shirt and pants. Leaning against the side of the house, he looked at her, barely able to make out her features in the light cast from the kitchen window.

“He misses his mother,” Johanna said, uneasily awaiting his reaction.

Tate nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe he misses the idea of having a mother. Belinda wasn’t one to cater to the boys. She left the mothering of them up to her sister, Bessie. Matter of fact, Belinda didn’t enjoy much of anything about her life with me.”

“She didn’t like living on a farm?”

“No.” He drew in a deep breath and rested his head against the bare siding of the house. “She was a city girl. Somehow I had the notion of making a farmer’s wife out of her. Should have known better, I suppose. Her sister lived in town, and Belinda never got over resenting the fact that Bessie had neighbors around her and a store right down the road.”

“Did you ever consider moving to town with her?” Johanna asked. She watched as Tate shoved his hands deep in his pockets, slouching a bit against the cool air, his shoulders lifting in a silent reply.

“Not really. I was born and raised on the place. It’s all I knew.” He looked at her in the dim light. “After we were married, I thought she’d come to like our life there. We had things pretty nice. I bought her a new stove and kitchen cabinets and had the water piped into the house.”

“Do you miss her?” It was a brazen query, and she spoke it firmly, as if the issue were important to her. And she knew suddenly that it was. She couldn’t bear it if Tate Montgomery was yearning for his first wife while he lived with the second one. If he thought of Belinda while he looked at Johanna…If he remembered his times with Belinda when he went to bed across the hall at night…

“Do I miss her?” He shook his head. “It was pretty bad between us, especially at the end.” His hand slid from his pocket, rising to rest against the side of his face, his fingers tracing the scar on his cheekbone. As if it ached, he rubbed the raised tissue, his eyes narrowed, his lips tightly closed.

“What happened, Tate? How did you get the scar?”

His fingers left the ridged blemish, almost reluctantly,
his hand clenching as it hung at his side. “An accident with a knife.”

Johanna’s foot stopped its movement, and the rocker stood still. “You cut yourself?” She squinted up at him.

He shook his head, then, glancing down, took in her hunched shoulders and the fingers clutching her shawl. “You’re cold, Johanna. We need to go in the house.” He held out his hand to her and waited.

Her eyes lingered on his face, then moved to where his outstretched palm offered her his warmth. “Yes, I’m chilled from the wind,” she agreed, allowing him to tug her from the chair. Beneath her fingers, the calluses he bore brushed against her skin, setting up a fine, tingling heat that invaded her flesh. She arose, aware of him as never before, and searched the shadows that hid his eyes.

His grip was firm, drawing her to where he stood. Turning, he sheltered her with his body against the wind as he opened the kitchen door. Then, inside the house, he kept her close, reaching behind himself to draw the latch.

“I think I need to go up to bed,” Johanna said, her voice a whisper in the silence of the room. She tugged to free her hand, caught in the embrace of his fingers, but he would not allow her to escape so easily.

“Tate?” Risking a glance at his face once more, she was captured by the sober look of him, the straight line of his mouth, the taut clenching of his jaw, the piercing regard of his gaze.

For a moment, he watched her, as if he were weighing his words. And when they came, it was as if they were torn from him, raw and rasping in the silence of the room. “I don’t miss Belinda, Johanna. I didn’t love her for a long time before she died.” His fingers squeezed hers in a painful grip. “I haven’t made love to a woman in years.” Tate’s voice was low, and his words were harsh in their honesty, as he lifted her hand to rest against his chest

She tugged at his grip, her heart beating rapidly, her
breathing audible as she drew in air with a shuddering gasp. “I don’t want to hear this,” she whispered harshly. “I don’t want to know about the women in your life, Tate Montgomery!”

“You asked if I miss her, and I told you.”

“You told me more than I wanted to know,” she said, her eyes flashing her distress as she stepped back from him.

“Are you afraid of me, Johanna?” His words were soft, taunting, and as inflexible as his stance.

Once more she tried to free her hand, wincing at the careful pressure he exerted. It was no use, she decided, relaxing her grip, aware that she would not be released until he allowed her her freedom.

She closed her eyes. “Afraid? Until this moment, no, I’ve not feared you. Now…” She shook her head.

His lips twisted in a smile that held no trace of humor. “And now? I can’t believe I frighten you. Have there been no other men in your life, Johanna Montgomery?” he asked, in a parody of her own words.

She felt the blood leave her cheeks, sensed a surging of shame through her flesh. Her eyes opened, and she shook her head. “Please, let me go, Tate. You’ve no right.”

His grip softened, and then his hands moved, sliding behind her back and drawing her against him. “Oh, but I have, Mrs. Montgomery. I have every right. You’re my wife, remember?”

He caught her close, her palms lifting to press against his chest, her lower body forming to his with only a few layers of fabric between them. Taking the weight of her easily, he held her, until the heat of his body reached her, permeating her very flesh.

It was an embrace she had not expected. But the warmth of him was tempting, and she leaned against him, her eyes closing.

She’d lied. Her fingers clutched his shirt as she admitted
the truth to herself. There was no fear in her heart for this man. Only a yearning to know his touch, his warmth.

“I won’t hurt you, Johanna.” His words were solemn, a vow, breathed against her forehead.

And then, as if in a dream, Johanna heard those same words repeated, in another voice, guttural, almost forgotten.

Thus Joseph Brittles had pleaded with her that night ten years ago, begged and coaxed her with his promises, until she gave in to his soft entreaties.

“Johanna?” Tate’s mouth was pressed against her flesh, moving to her cheek, his lips open, his breath warm and coffee-scented.

With a shuddering breath, she turned her face from his seeking, and his mouth touched her ear. A shiver she could not suppress traveled from her body to his, and Tate laughed, a low chuckle that vibrated against her breasts. One hand rose to clasp her chin, and he turned her to face him once more.

She caught only a glimpse of his face, the ragged scar no longer a forbidding sight, as she sensed his gentleness.

And then his mouth touched hers, covering and warming her with soft, murmuring kisses. He spoke words against her flesh—broken, breathless sounds she could not comprehend. Johanna knew only a sense of wondering pleasure at the careful tasting of her, the gentle pressure of his lips against hers, the bold edge of his tongue that teased one side of her mouth and swept carefully across the surface of her lower lip to seek the other corner.

“Are you still frightened of me?” Tate asked, his mouth brushing hers as he spoke.

“No.” The whispering admission was uttered on a shuddering breath, and he smiled at her honesty. Once more his mouth sought her smooth flesh, his lips opening against her cheek. He inhaled her scent, his groan of pleasure a low, urgent sound against her skin. Murmuring her name, he tasted her, the tip of his tongue brushing her silken flesh.

“Tate?” The whispered entreaty reached his ears, and he nuzzled her throat. Her head turned to one side, her neck seemingly unable to hold it erect. He grunted his satisfaction, and his lips moved to the curve of her jaw, then to where her pulse beat beneath the soft flesh of her throat.

“Johanna? Now do I frighten you?” As though he knew better, his words were laced with satisfaction.

“Yesss…” Once more, she lied, and fought the tears that surged within her, struggling with the untruth she uttered.

It was not what he had expected to hear. His arms loosened from their hold about her body, his head lifting, his mouth releasing the faint suction he’d held.

Johanna forced strength into her neck muscles, mourning the loss of his warmth, the comforting touch of his arms and hands, the muscular length of his body pressed against her softer parts. And in the mourning admitted to herself that she could never have what Tate Montgomery was offering her.

That he would be kind, she did not doubt. That his hands would woo her tenderly, she was most assured. That he would be expecting a virgin in his bed, she was certain.

And Johanna was not a virgin. Not even close. The thought of Tate Montgomery’s scorn was more than she could face, and she held her eyes tightly closed against the brimming tears.

She had sealed her own fate on that night ten years ago. Jezebel, her father had called her. Perhaps that was the least of what Tate would label her if he knew the truth.

“Go, Johanna. Go to bed.” His arms fell from around her, and she stepped back, blinking furiously, unwilling to meet his gaze.

Silently she turned from him. Aware of what might have been, woefully admitting to herself that it could never be, she climbed the stairs to her lonely bed.

“W
ill you drive the wagon for me this morning?” Tate stood in the kitchen doorway, his booted feet bearing traces of mud. “That sprinkle last night was just a teaser. We’ve got a storm coming, and that hay has to be under cover or we’re going to lose it.”

Johanna turned, wiping her hands hastily on the front of her apron. “Just let me change my shoes and get my shawl.”

“Better wear your heavy coat, Johanna. The wind’s pretty chilly this morning. Once the sun’s out full, it won’t be so bad.” He watched as she bent to retrieve her outdoor boots from near the door, his gaze lingering on the lush curve of her hips. She’d whack him a good one if she knew he was taking advantage of the view she presented.

It was the first moment of humor he’d enjoyed since the failure of their encounter last evening. He’d spent a miserable night, aware that he’d overstepped his self-imposed boundaries, knowing full well the havoc he’d wreaked.

The kiss had been an impulse on his part. And once his hands contained her warmth, he’d been on a landslide to discovery. Only the knowledge of her innocence had kept him from carrying her to his room. She deserved better than an impromptu bedding, this prickly virgin he’d married.
And as wary as she was of him this morning, he’d probably best figure on months of solitude in that big bedroom.

He’d told her to start with that he wouldn’t expect her to come to his bed, but that had been before he was exposed to her on a daily basis. Now he’d like to draw up a new bargain. Hell, he’d like to go back and redo the whole thing, from the word go.

Johanna Montgomery was a woman any man would desire, once he’d taken more than a cursory glance. Once he’d looked beyond the sharp tongue, to the quick wit that fed it. Once he’d grown to recognize the lonely woman, who was about as needy as any female he’d ever known. And needy didn’t even begin describing his situation after last night. That Johanna hadn’t brought it up this morning was a wonder.

She was ready. While he stood there gaping, she’d tied her boots and gathered up her heavy coat. Tate stepped back, holding the screen door open for her, then pulled the inside door shut behind them.

From her pockets, Johanna drew woolen mittens and tugged them on, tucking them inside her coat sleeves. She lifted her head, inhaling the morning air. “It’s going to warm up before long,” she predicted. “Where’d you get the mud, Tate? The yard’s pretty well dried up.”

He glanced down at his boots. “The wagon was in that low spot behind the barn. I had to hitch the horses up back there to haul it out. The field’s pretty near dry, though. It shouldn’t take us too long.”

Rounding the corner of the barn, he turned to grin at her. “We’ll put Pete on top to stomp down the pile as we go. He gets a big kick out of helping.”

To Johanna’s way of thinking, Pete hadn’t gotten a big kick out of anything lately. He’d been subdued since yesterday afternoon, after the incident with the straw, and his smiles were few and far between anyway, as far as she could tell. Timmy, on the other hand, had behaved as usual,
warming up to her without hesitation, even allowing her to help with tying his shoes and buttoning his coat.

“Where is Timmy?” Lifting her hand to shade her eyes, Johanna looked across the small meadow toward the orchard, then to the pasture behind the barn. “I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

“He was playing in the haymow while I cleaned the stalls. I had him toss hay down to me for the cows a while ago. I suspect he’s still up there.”

“Will he ride on the wagon with me?” she asked. The thought of that small body pressed next to hers as they made the rounds of the hay field was an appealing one.

“Sure. It’ll be a good place for him. Keep him out of the way.”

Tate whistled a warbling three-note call and smiled once more at her. The second time he’d allowed that slow grin to slide into place in the past five minutes, she noted. The same grin he’d delivered last night, before he kissed her. She ducked her head at the remembrance.

“You callin’ me, Pa?” From overhead, the small, shrill voice answered, and Johanna blinked, looking up quickly to where Timmy’s head peeked over the edge of the window in the haymow.

“Hey, Miss Johanna, guess what?” he called, spying the woman below. “I found that old barn cat back in the corner, and he’s got babies back there. Three of ’em.”

“He has, has he?” Her laughter was spontaneous, Tate’s own following as they digested the child’s announcement. “They must be brand-new, Timmy,” she said, tilting her head back to see him. “Tabby was still pretty round last night.”

“You wanta come up and see, Miss Johanna?” Precariously, he leaned farther out the square hole in the side of the barn, and she drew in a quick breath.

“Tate?”

“Yeah, he’ll be all right, Jo.” Raising one hand, Tate
motioned the child away from the opening. “Back off, Timmy. You’ll break your neck if you fall from there, and I’m too busy today to take you to town to the doctor.”

“Oh, Pa! You’re foolin’ me,” the boy chortled, scooting back readily at his father’s bidding.

“Come on down, now,” Tate told him firmly. “You can ride the wagon and help Johanna drive the team.”

“Why can’t I drive?” From behind them, Pete’s voice was querulous.

His father turned and motioned to the boy. “Come here, Pete.” One hand rubbed at the youngster’s hair, smoothing it down where the wind had ruffled it. “I need you to keep the load even while I pitch the hay up to you. Can you do that?”

“I seen you doing it last summer,” the boy said. “I’m big enough this year.”

“You’re growin’ like a bad weed, son,” Tate told him, his arm sliding down to grip the narrow shoulders. “It won’t be long before you’ll be able to pitch hay like a man.”

The boy’s eyes glowed at the words, and he sidled closer to his father. “Timmy’s too little to help, isn’t he?”

“No, I’m not,” the smaller boy spouted, rounding the corner full tilt. “Pa said I can help drive the team.” Attempting to clamber up the side of the wagon, he glanced back over his shoulder at Johanna. “Just wait till you see those babies. They’re all squinty-eyed and runty-lookin’.”

Tate reached to hoist his youngest son onto the wagon seat. “What color are they, son?”

“One’s all different colors. The other two are black, mostly.” Timmy bounced on the seat, his feet dangling. “Are we gonna keep ’em all? Aunt Bessie says one cat’s enough to have around, doesn’t she, Pa? But I’ll bet we got enough room for more than one in the barn. It’s a lot bigger than Aunt Bessie’s shed.”

“Yeah, but Aunt Bessie has a dog, too,” Pete volunteered.

Johanna thought of the pleasure the two children had gained from Sheba over the past weeks. “You have a dog,” she offered.

“She’s yours, Miss Johanna. Pa said so.” Pete’s words were as sour as his expression.

Johanna shrugged. “She still manages to do her job, doesn’t she, Tate?”

His grin when he heard the softening her words implied was welcome. “She’s still a good herd dog, Jo, even though the boys have spoiled her a little.” Tate tossed the pitchfork on the bed of the wagon and offered Johanna his hand as he helped her climb to the seat.

The wagon jostled over the ruts, the horses straining to pull it from the wet ground behind the barn. Soon it was free. Settling into a trot, the matched pair followed the lead of the woman holding the reins and the wagon turned toward the hayfield.

“It’s going to be a late dinner, I’m afraid,” Johanna said, slicing side pork with swift slashes of her butcher knife.

“That’s all right We’ll all pitch in and help, seeing as how you spent your morning out in the field with us. What do you say, boys?” Tate’s color was high, ruddy from the wind and the sun combined. He walked silently across the kitchen floor, his boots left outside the door. From behind her, Johanna felt his presence, even as he spoke in her ear.

“Can we have some eggs with that pork, ma’am? The ones from this morning are all wiped clean.”

“I ought to use the older ones first,” Johanna said, casting him a look over her shoulder.

“Let’s have the fresh ones, Jo. I’ll take the others to town to Mr. Turner. He won’t know the difference, and wouldn’t care if he did. He’ll be tickled just to get your
eggs. He told me he never gets an old egg from your basket. They’re guaranteed fresh every time.”

Subduing the flush of pride she felt at his words of praise, she stepped away from him, reaching to take down the smaller skillet from its hook. She’d not been able to think of much else since last night, other than the man behind her, no matter how hard she tried to erase him from her thoughts. He just kept creeping back, insinuating himself into her every breathing moment. She clamped her lips together, shaking her head against the memory.

“You going to use that skillet, or bash me in the head with it?”

Startled, she whirled and caught a glimpse of him ducking the pan she held. It fell from her nerveless fingers, and she covered her mouth with the other hand. “Oh, my word! Tate Montgomery! You almost made me—” She halted abruptly as he swooped to pick up the skillet, his laughter in her ears.

“You need to keep your mind on your business, ma’am. We almost had eggs all over the floor.”

She’d come within inches of catching the blue speckled bowl with the edge of her skillet. The knowledge that he’d so easily managed to upset her concentration set her teeth on edge.

“Just move out of my way while I’m cooking.” Her command was firm, and he bowed to her authority.

“You’re the boss here, Johanna. I’ll just sit myself down over here and keep an eye on things while you get my dinner on the table.”

She watched as he made his way on stocking feet to the chair at the head of her table. The place he deserved as head of the house. She thought how different he was from the man who’d last held that title.

Never could she remember her father passing out compliments or taking hold of things the way Tate Montgomery
was doing. Or making cheerful small talk at meals. Or treating his child as a person worthy of love.

The eggs fried up quickly as soon as the side pork was finished. The pan of biscuits came out brown and broke apart fluffy, just the way her mother had taught her to make them. A bowl of fresh applesauce appeared from the pantry, and dinner was ready.

Timmy was glowing as he reported on the new kittens. Pete almost failed to hide his smile of satisfaction as Johanna complimented him on his work on the hay wagon. And Tate Montgomery sounded truly appreciative as he thanked his Maker for holding off on the storm until the hay was in the barn. In fact, so earnest was his gratitude, he almost forgot to mention the food he was supposed to be praying over, which resulted in a storm of laughter from the members of his family.

Deep inside, Tate Montgomery felt an explosion of warmth, spreading to encompass his whole being. Life was good indeed. No wonder he felt as if the sun were shining, even though the sound of rain was even now to be heard on the tin roof over the porch. His heart lifted as he caught Johanna’s eye, again seeking the approval she had given him more often of late with her sidelong glances.

Yessir, things were looking up.

A shiny black buggy parked next to the house was her first warning of company as Johanna left the springhouse a few days later, carrying her basket of butter. On the buggy’s seat, Marjorie Jones perched, one foot over the side as she reached for the step.

“Yoo-hoo, Johanna!” she warbled, attending to her footing.

“I’m out here,” Johanna called, stepping briskly toward the buggy. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Jones?”

Marjorie’s laughter was hearty. “My word, no,” she said
brightly. “Can’t a body come calling without a reason, Johanna? I just thought it was time to visit.”

Since the lady had not done so in more years than Johanna could count, the theory had some holes in it, but she shrugged off that thought as she climbed the steps to the porch. “Come on in, won’t you? I’ll fix a cup of tea for us.”

The kitchen was warm, the scent of dinner on the stove an inviting one. Marjorie settled on a kitchen chair, having refused the parlor in favor of the warmth to be found here.

“I declare, Johanna. It’s been hard to imagine you as having a ready-made family these days,” Marjorie warbled. “I was just saying the other day to Esther how glad I was for you, after you were so brokenhearted over that Brittles boy. Land sakes, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

Johanna brought the teapot to the table, placing it on the hot pad. “Ages ago. I’d almost forgotten him.”

Marjorie darted a disbelieving look in her direction. “Really? I’d thought you were quite taken with him. Planning a wedding, weren’t you?”

Johanna shrugged, her eyes intent on the spoon she held. Measuring a scant teaspoon of sugar, she stirred it into her tea. “We’d talked of it, but I was awfully young. Besides, my father needed me here.”

“Well, it’s just as well, I suppose, what with that nice Mr. Montgomery coming along and snatching you up. We’ve noticed he brings you to town with him right regularly. A lot of men wouldn’t think of taking their woman along.”

Johanna nodded agreeably. “He’s a gentleman, all right. I’m very fortunate, I suppose.”

Marjorie rambled on, her thoughts switching from one place to another, touching on the price of clothing and the hardship of being dependent on the farmers dealing at the mill.

Johanna hid her humor, knowing full well that Hardy
Jones was not stingy with his wife and that he had a captive clientele, being the only miller in this part of the county.

“Mr. Montgomery out in the barn?” Marjorie asked as she readied herself to leave, once the tea was gone and she’d managed to put away half a dozen of Johanna’s cookies.

Johanna shook her head. “No, he’s gone to town to see the blacksmith about something.”

“I didn’t see him on my way out,” Marjorie offered, stuffing herself into the coat she’d worn as insurance against the cold weather.

Johanna opened the door and walked out on the porch, snatching up her shawl as she passed the coat hooks. She was working at being patient with the garrulous woman, anxious to get back to her chores. “He’s due home soon,” she said, hugging herself against the gust of wind blowing around the corner of the house.