Читать книгу The Forever Man - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 12

“I thought you’d told Pete we were going to be married today.” She hadn’t been able to look Tate fully in the face since the ceremony, and now she spoke with her back to him, her hands busy with stirring the gravy and tending the simmering kettle of beans. The vision of the small boy’s sullen face had been in the forefront of her mind, a surprise she hadn’t planned on.

“Pete’s kinda hard to sort out sometimes,” Tate said quietly. “He listened while I told him you and I were to be married, but it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, and I suspect he just pretended to himself it wasn’t going to happen.”

“Did he think you were just going to stay here?”

Tate shook his head. “Who knows what a child thinks? He seemed happy enough with being here, I agree. I doubt he’d thought about my marrying again. We’d talked before about finding someone to watch after both boys.” His voice softened. “To tell the truth, Johanna, till I caught sight of you, I hadn’t worried too much about remarriage. I was willing to settle for a housekeeper.”

“Until you saw me, or my farm?”

“Both, maybe. I just knew this was the place I was willing to put down roots. Don’t ask me how I knew. I couldn’t tell you. Any more than I could say why I knew you’d be a woman I could marry. I gave you a whole string of reasons why you appealed to me as a mother for my boys.” He tilted his head and eyed her knowingly. “Maybe I just wanted to make it permanent, like you said, so you couldn’t change your mind and skin out if the going got tough.”

Johanna’s spoon circled the skillet slowly, swirling the thickening gravy in a methodical fashion, a task she could manage without a whole lot of concentration. It was a good thing, too, because her thoughts had been in a swivet since the moment Tate Montgomery planted his mouth against hers, sealing their bargain before God and man.

She’d expected him to graze her cheek, or maybe the corner of her mouth. Just to make things look right. What she hadn’t expected was the warmth of his lips, or the soft brush of them against her own before he found the spot he wanted to land on, or the impact of the male scent of him in her nostrils. She’d inhaled sharply when his mouth touched hers, thereby stamping the smell of his shaving soap and the aroma of freshly washed hair and skin on her mind.

It had only lasted a second or two, that kiss he’d given her with such ease and assurance, but the memory of it was still causing her to doubt her sanity.

She’d been kissed before, more thoroughly and at greater length. She’d been seduced by a man who was fairly knowledgable at the game. Her body had known the possession of that man, had shrunk from his greater strength at the end, had endured the rending of her flesh as her innocence surrendered to his taking.

Yet none of that had touched her inner heart as had the warm caress of Tate Montgomery’s kiss. It had spoken to her of commitment, as if in that one gesture he’d taken on her problems, her debts, her worries and her woes. She’d felt, for that moment, safe and secure, with his hands clasping her forearms, his head bent low to salute her with the wedding kiss. She’d felt like a bride, almost.

Tate had held her arm in his grasp, guiding her past the women who would have gushed their well-wishes and words of advice in her ear, had he given them more of a chance. As it was, the two of them had made their way down the aisle and out the door within minutes of the short ceremony. Tate had gathered up his boys on the way and piled them into the back of the wagon with an economy of motion Johanna could not help but admire. The man knew how to make an exit, she’d give him that. As if he recognized her unwillingness to make small talk, he’d taken charge in grand style. They’d been on their way home before the preacher cleared the doorway, ushering the remnants of his flock before him.

“You going to stir that gravy all day, or are we going to get to put it on our potatoes?” Tate had left his seat at the table and walked up behind her.

“It’s done.” Her voice was downright normal, she was pleased to note. Her hands made all the right movements, picking up the pot holders, serving up the vegetables, pouring the perfectly smooth gravy into her mother’s china gravy boat and then placing everything on the table. All without looking once at the man who watched her every movement as if he were trying to see beneath her skin.

“You’re all upset about this, aren’t you, Johanna? We need to be comfortable with each other. We can’t live in this house like two strangers.”

“I don’t see how it can be any different, for now at least,” she answered, pulling the oven door open, rescuing the biscuits in the nick of time. “We are strangers.”

The woman who’d been dancing around in his mind for two days had taken to ignoring him ever since they repeated their vows, two hours ago. He’d thought to hear her making small talk while she cooked, maybe tell him about the people who’d hung around to watch the impromptu wedding. She could even have told him about the farm. Hell, he hadn’t even known how many head of cattle she had till he went looking for himself. Her “not many” had led him to think there were no more than a half-dozen young steers and milk cows in the pastures. The herd he’d tracked down in the far pasture last night numbered at least thirty or so. Accompanied by the rangiest, most worn-out bull he’d seen in a month of Sundays.

“We may be strangers, Johanna, but we’re married. We need to talk about a few things.” Beneath the genial words lay a tone of voice that had caused people to sit up and take notice over the years. He wasn’t surprised to see her shoulders straighten and her spine stiffen. She’d gotten the message. Tate Montgomery was ready to set this marriage in motion. He would not suffer her silence any longer.

Johanna placed the pork roast on the table, careful to put it squarely on the hot pad that would protect her wooden tabletop. He watched as her gaze flicked over each bowl and plate, aware that she was assuring herself that her meal was ready for consumption and that each plate and fork and napkin was squarely in place.

And still that pair of blue eyes avoided his. Staring at the second button of his white shirt, she told him dinner was ready, her voice low and controlled, her unease apparent only in the pulse that fluttered in her throat.

He took pity on her. Johanna Patterson was having second thoughts, and his masculine presence in her kitchen had not helped matters any. His flat demand for a conversation had not set too well with her, either, if he was any judge. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, she was about to bolt And that he couldn’t allow.

“Jo.”

Her eyes widened, sweeping from the middle of his chest to his face, as if the diminutive of her given name had shocked her. She blinked, her attention on him fully for the first time since they’d left the church.

“I’m not pushing for any intimacies between us. I just want us to talk and act like families act within the walls of their home. Can’t you just pretend I’m your brother or your uncle for the next hour or so? Talk to me like you would a man you’ve known for years, like you and your pa used to talk at mealtimes.” He watched her closely, noting the faint flush that rose from her high-collared neckline.

“Pa and I didn’t talk much, Tate. We didn’t have a whole lot to say. Pa wasn’t the same after my mother died.” She spoke slowly, the words halting, as if she hesitated to admit the lack of closeness she’d felt with her father.

“You don’t have any relations hereabouts? You didn’t have folks in for Sunday dinner?”

She shook her head. “I fed the thrashers. Out in the yard, under the trees. Once Selena Phillips came out to see me, right after my mother died. Pa told her we didn’t take to having folks hanging around. She didn’t come back.”

A wave of sympathy for the woman he’d married hit Tate with the force of an afternoon storm. She’d been alone here for years, living with her father, but as solitary as any human could be. Suddenly the wall of bristling, cutting words she’d thrown up between them at their first meeting made sense. Johanna Patterson was more than a lonely woman. She was hurting, and wary of any advances.

“Is it time to eat?” Timmy’s treble voice through the screen door broke the silence that had fallen in the kitchen. His nose pushing up against the wire mesh, he squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside.

“Come in, boys.” Johanna smiled at them, welcoming their presence. She could cope with them, talk with them, serve their food and get through this meal with a minimum of contact with their father. She watched as Pete pulled the door open, stretching the spring as far as he could, waiting for his brother to step inside, then allowing the door to slam behind him. His eyes lit with a degree of satisfaction as he darted a look in her direction.

“Don’t let the door slam next time, Pete,” his father said firmly.

“Yessir,” the boy replied, ducking his head deliberately as he spoke.

“Your hands clean?” Tate asked, frowning at his eldest son.

“I washed mine, Pa,” Timmy volunteered, holding up the items in question, his palms still wet and glistening.

“Pete?”

“They’re clean, Pa,” the boy mumbled. “We used the pump outside.”

Johanna pulled out the chair to the right of her own. “Sit here, won’t you, Timmy? Take the chair across from your brother, Pete.” She clasped her hands before her, watching as the boys did her bidding, aware of the man who stood across the table, his own hands clasping the back of his chair. Finally she felt herself snagged by the strange warmth of his gray eyes.

“Sit down, Johanna. Everything looks fine. We need to eat before it gets cold.” He waited for her to take her place, not allowing her to attempt retreat.

And the thought had passed fleetingly through her mind. Only the presence of the two children made it feasible for her to eat with any pretense of ease and affability. She waited while Tate bowed his head and asked a brief blessing on the food, then busied herself with fixing Timmy’s plate, cutting his meat and watching as he took the first bite. As she’d noticed yesterday, his chin came only inches above the tabletop. Now he tilted it to ease the passage of his potato-laden fork as he aimed it toward his mouth.

“Would he do better with a pillow under him?” Johanna asked.

“I thought maybe a chunk or two of firewood would work,” Tate said with a grin.

“I can kneel, Pa,” Timmy volunteered cheerfully. Depositing his fork on the table, he scrambled to his knees and leaned back on his heels. “This will work good,” he announced, setting to with renewed energy, now that he could reach his food more readily. “I was hungry, Miss Johanna.”

For the first time in days, Johanna’s mouth curled in genuine humor. The child’s glee was infectious. “I’m glad you’re hungry, Timmy. I like to cook for hungry men.”

Across the table, Pete ate slowly, as if he begrudged every bite passing his lips. His eyes were downcast, his fork held in his fist like a weapon, his whole demeanor morose.

Johanna watched the older boy from beneath her lashes as she ate, wanting desperately to speak his name, to have him look up at her with open, cheerful good humor, yet knowing she must not infringe on his mood. His was about as far from a good mood as east was from west, and she wasn’t about to get him in trouble with his father.

“Did you bring in everything from the barn, Pete?” Tate’s query was pleasant, as if his son’s ill will were not apparent.

“Yessir, it’s on the porch like you told me.” Green beans disappeared between his teeth, and he chewed diligently.

“Me too, Pa. I brung my stuff, my pillow and everything.” Timmy’s grin encompassed the table and all three of his companions. “When can we bring in the beds and stuff we brought?”

Johanna’s head lifted, her gaze meeting Tate’s abruptly. “You brought furniture with you?”

He nodded. “Some. I wasn’t sure what we’d need. I didn’t even know where we were going. I brought a supply of tools, too, some I didn’t figure I’d want to have to replace. The boys wanted their beds and the feather ticks their aunt Bessie made for them, and some trunks I made them.”

“You didn’t tell me,” she said, thinking of the big double bed she’d outfitted with clean sheets in her old bedroom. “We could have brought their things in last night.”

“We had enough to do last night, what with getting your mother’s room all fixed up for you.”

“Well, I’m sure we can get the boys’ things into the house after dinner and get them settled in. They’ll want to put their clothes away in the wardrobe and dresser.”

“Most of my stuff is dirty. Pa has to wash it,” Pete said gruffly. “We didn’t stop to do the washing for a long time.”

Tate’s smile was teasing. “I wasn’t going to tell Miss Johanna about that till tomorrow, son. There wasn’t any sense in scaring her off the first day. It’ll take half the morning to scrub out the pile of things we’ve managed to accumulate.”

“I’m used to laundry. My scrub board works real well,” Johanna said obligingly. “Bring your things on in and put them in the washroom.”

“You wash indoors year-round?” Tate asked.

“Pretty much. It gets cold here early on. We’re not far from the big lake, and when that west wind blows, I don’t enjoy being out in it, up to my elbows in wash water. My father built a washroom for Mama when he built this house. It’s bad enough I have to hang things outside in the winter. Mama used to carry them up to the attic sometimes, when the weather got real bad, and string a line to put them on.”

“What’s wrong with a rack behind the stove?” Tate eyed the space between the cookstove and the wall, measuring it in his mind.

“I never thought of that. I didn’t know they made such things,” Johanna said.

“I can put one together for you. It won’t hold everything at once, but things dry pretty good. Beats standing out in a cold wind, with a wet sheet flappin’ in your face.”

“Pa! Can we have pie now?” Timmy was plainly tired of the talk of laundry day, and his voice was querulous as he attempted to change the subject. His plate was empty of food, his fork still held upright in his hand, and his eyes were glued to the apple pie sitting on Johanna’s kitchen cupboard.

She scooted her chair back from the table. “Let me clear these things off first. Hold your fork tight, Timmy. You’ll need it for the pie.”

“I like mine in a bowl with cream over it,” Tate said with a grin. “So does Pete.”

“My aunt Bessie makes good pie,” Pete offered stoutly.

Johanna’s gaze met Tate’s. It was easier this time. “Did you have apple trees on your place?”

He shook his head. “No, Bessie got them in town at the general store. She used to dry them to use in the winter. The boys spent some time with her…. She liked to fuss over them.”

“We could have stayed there, Pa. Aunt Bessie said we could, remember?” Pete reminded him.

“It wasn’t a good idea, son.” Tate’s firm words dismissed the idea, and the boy sighed loudly, eliciting another stern look from his father.

The wedding had changed him, Johanna thought sadly. The cheerful child of the night before had vanished, and she mourned his departure. It would take some doing to bring him back, she feared. Rising from the table, she quickly took up the plates, bringing the pie back with her. The pitcher of cream she’d poured for their coffee was still over half-full—probably enough for Tate’s pie, too, she thought She watched as he poured it over the slice she cut for him, watched as he lifted the first bite to his mouth, watched as his lips closed over the forkful of crust and filling. And felt a small bubble of rejoicing within her as his smile pronounced it good.

“It’s as good as your aunt Bessie’s, isn’t it, Pete?”

The boy was silent, eating slowly, as if unwilling to allow any enthusiasm to creep forth.

Timmy had no qualms about expressing his approval. “You’re a good cooker, Miss Johanna.” It was high praise indeed, delivered with a flourish of his fork, crumbs surrounding his mouth, his eyes shining with glee.

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” his father agreed.

Johanna felt a blush paint her cheeks. She’d had more compliments during the past two days than she’d had in years. Tate Montgomery would fix himself a place in her life with his courtly manners and his gentle smiles, if nothing else.

The sun had gone down in a burst of splendor, leaving an autumn chill. Johanna had brought her shawl from the parlor, where it was usually draped over her mother’s overstuffed chair, awaiting her use on cool evenings. Now she stood on the porch, watching warily as Tate carried another load of his things from the barn. He was truly moving into her house, and she felt a moment of apprehension as she considered that thought.

“This is the last of it,” he said, resting one foot on the bottom step. He looked up at her, his eyes measuring. “What is it, Johanna? Are you fearful that I’ll forget my bargain with you? That I’ll forget which parts of the house I’m welcome in and which part is off-limits to me?”

She hadn’t expected it, his ability to know her mind, and she clutched the shawl closer, as if the wind had sent a chill through her. “No, I’m not afraid of you, Tate. I told you that already. I’ve seen that you’re a gentleman. I’m sure you’ll hold up your end of the bargain.”

He climbed the three steps to the porch. “Open the door for me, will you? I really loaded myself down this trip. I wanted to get all of it.”

Johanna eyed the three boxes he carried. “Those look heavy. Can I help?”

“No.” He shook his head. “They’re mostly books. Some papers, too, and the contents of my desk. It’s a big thing—probably foolish of me to pack it on the wagon, but I hated to leave it behind. I kept my records in it, and all the paperwork it takes to run a farm and family in one place, back in Ohio.”

“There’s a small room off the dining room you can have if you like,” Johanna offered. Her face grew pensive as she thought of the evenings she’d spent by herself over the past ten years, wondering what her father did in that small room, while she sat by herself in the kitchen or in the parlor.

“Is it furnished?”

“Somewhat. You may as well bring those things on in here,” Johanna said, leading the way. She went through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, which had been used so seldom that she kept the table and buffet covered with sheets. Across from the three wide windows was a door, and it was there that she headed. Turning the knob, she stepped within.

“It’s dark in here,” she called over her shoulder. “But there’s not much to trip over. My father only kept a chair and ottoman by the window, and a table for his lamp and account books.”

Tate looked around in the shadowed interior of the small room. An air of musty disuse assailed him, and he wrinkled his nose. “We need to open the windows in the morning and let in some fresh air and sunshine,” he told her, bending to deposit his boxes on the floor against one wall.

“I haven’t been in here since he died,” Johanna admitted quietly. “It was his room. I guess I didn’t feel welcome, even after he was gone.”

“You’ll be welcome, once it’s mine.” As a statement of fact, it couldn’t have been any plainer. Tate would harbor no secrets from his wife. She doubted he would leave his bedroom door ajar for her to peek inside, but this room would be a part of the house once more.

Maybe she’d even remove the coverings from the dining room furniture and use the room for Sunday dining, as they had when her mother was alive. The thought cheered her.

“This is still your home, Johanna. When I pay off your mortgage this next week, it will be in my name along with yours, but the house is still whatever you want it to be.”

She looked up at him, peering to make out his features in the dim light. “That all sounds well and good, Tate, but as a man, you have more rights than I’ll ever have. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I wasn’t pretty sure of you. As far as I know, a woman only has the rights her husband allows her, no matter what the deed says.”

“It’s a matter of trust, isn’t it? When it comes to the bottom line, Johanna, you have to trust me. Can you do that?”

“Can I trust you? To keep up the place? I suppose so. Just don’t expect more than that of me. I’ve learned to take care of myself over the years. I don’t need anyone to do for me. I’ll let you tend to the heavy work, gladly. But I’ll not come to depend on you, Tate. I’ve learned that lesson well. I’ve allowed myself to…care about people. It won’t happen again.”

“You care already for my sons.”

Spoken as a statement of fact, the words drew no argument from her. “Yes, you’re right there. They’re young and helpless. They need someone to tend them.”

“And you don’t?”

“Need someone? No, I’ve learned better.” She folded her arms around her waist, a shiver passing through her slim shoulders beneath the warmth of the shawl.

His eyes caught the movement, even in the shadowed room. “You’re cold, Johanna. Leave this for tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough to set things to rights in here.”

She walked out the door before him, her steps taking her into the hallway and toward the staircase. “I don’t hear the boys. They must have gone to sleep.” She looked up the stairway, then back at the man who watched her in the lamplight. “Good night, Tate. Will you turn out the lamp when you come up?”

He nodded, handing her the candlestick that waited on the hall table, lighting a match from the box she kept there. “Will you want the lamp lit in your room? Or will this be enough light for tonight?”

“This is fine. I only need to get ready for bed. I can do that in the dark,” she said briskly, suddenly unwilling to feel his eyes on her any longer. “I get up early, Tate. Breakfast will be ready as soon as the cows get milked.”

“I’ll be milking them from now on,” he reminded her. “I may not be as quick as you are at the job.” His grin teased her. “I may need a refresher course.”

She picked up her skirt to take the first step. “You’ll do just fine, I think. No matter, we’ll wait for you. And if you take too long, I’m still able to give you a hand.”

“I’m teasing you, Johanna. I’ve done my share of milking. I won’t make you wait meals for me. Just cook plenty. I plan on working up a good appetite in the barn.”

“I’ve fed you the past two mornings. I have a good idea about your appetite, Mr. Montgomery,” she said smartly.

He watched her climb the stairs, noting the slight sway of her hips beneath the muslin gown she wore. His eyes caught sight of her slim ankles above the low shoes she’d slipped into after church this morning. Limned in the candleglow, her form drew his gaze, her hair a fine halo in the gentle light, giving her an ethereal elegance.

“No, ma’am,” he murmured beneath his breath. “You have no idea at all about my appetite. Matter of fact, till just this minute, I wasn’t sure I had much left to speak of.” And that was the truth, he thought, his grin rueful.

“Good night, Mrs. Montgomery,” he said quietly, even as he heard the latch of her bedroom door shut.