Читать онлайн книгу "The Forever Man"

The Forever Man
Carolyn Davidson


Tate Montgomery Needed a New Life And Johanna Patterson was the kind of woman who could make him leave the past behind.But how would he ever convince this reclusive spinster to open up her heart to him and his boys? It seemed to Johanna that she had always been alone. Until the day that Tate Montgomery turned up at her farm with a ready-made family, and an offer that would change her life forever.









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u5696aba2-88fa-55bc-ba6b-4a894df639ae)

Excerpt (#u45a5d785-5738-5e73-9b2a-b0620952e24e)

Dear Reader (#u9ad73a88-dd8f-5a00-bfaa-e62239f9721a)

Title Page (#u2a9a295d-6193-5e28-a6e8-ef2c8fc1f26e)

About the Author (#u1cd8bf51-9e46-58bd-8fec-11d9aac52ffe)

Dedication (#ub5941270-2c33-54e0-8e1a-d35c11345bb4)

Chapter One (#u96fbdb45-509e-5698-9b1a-f1c6d93bd6e7)

Chapter Two (#uc416349b-c4c2-57c0-9922-10fa32613ffc)

Chapter Three (#u9dc69deb-a4e0-54f9-b416-89ecdeaff8e8)

Chapter Four (#uf7250a6d-6f94-5605-b9bf-f3360ed0b612)

Chapter Five (#u093a518a-ccc9-5061-a1c6-328123575e4b)

Chapter Six (#u4c3e74e2-3899-5077-8897-bbce7b1468d8)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




“You shouldn’t be kissing me like that,”


Johanna said, breaking his hold as she stepped back.



“We’re married, Johanna,” Tate said. He reached to tug her shawl over her shoulders.



“Not really.” Her gaze fell from his, intent on the third button of his jacket.



“According to the law, we are.”



“You know what I mean, Tate. We have a bargain.”



He could barely stop his hands from fastening on her and hauling her into his arms. “I’m willing to make some changes in the deal we made.”



She turned from him and ducked her head. “I’m not, Tate.”



From the barn the noisy trumpet of the stallion sounded once more and Johanna’s shoulders stiffened at the sound. “You’d best find a secure place to hold that animal for the next two weeks, Mr. Montgomery. One male creature on the loose around here is about all we need…!”


Dear Reader,



Carolyn Davidson, author of Gerrity’s Bride and Loving Katherine, returns this month with a terrific new book, The Forever Man. This emotional story is about a reclusive spinster who, because of her past, has given up on love-until a marriage of convenience to a widower in search of a new life for himself and his two sons heals her broken heart and teaches her to trust in love again. Don’t miss this exciting new tale from one of our up-and-coming authors.

Sharon Schulze, one of the authors in this year’s March Madness Promotion, also returns this month with To Tame a Warrior’s Heart, a stirring medieval tale about a former mercenary and a betrayed noblewoman who overcome their shadowed pasts with an unexpected love. And in The Lieutenant’s Lady, her fourth book for Harlequin Historicals, author Rae Muir begins an exciting new Western series called THE WEDDING TRAIL. This month’s story is about a hard-luck soldier who returns home determined to marry the town “princess,” a woman who sees him as little more than a way out of an unwanted marriage.

USA Today bestselling author Ruth Langan is also out this month with Ruby, the next book in her ongoing series THE JEWELS OF TEXAS. Ruby is the delightful tale of a flirtatious young woman and the formidable town marshal who falls under her spell.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books, available wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.



Sincerely,



Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3




The Forever Man

Carolyn Davidson



















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CAROLYN DAVIDSON


lives in South Carolina, on the outskirts of Charleston, with her husband, her number-one fan. Working in a new/used bookstore is an ideal job for her, allowing her access to her favorite things: books and people. Readers’ comments are more than welcome in her mailbox, P.O. Box 60626, North Charleston, SC 29419-0626.


To my sisters, Marion, Norma and Nancy.

They knew me “when”…and love me still!

And to my sister-in-law, Thelma, who is an unpaid but much appreciated fount of information. What I don’t already know about horses, she does, not to mention apple orchards and some other good stuff. Best of all, she never laughs at my dumb questions!

But most of all, to my own “Forever Man,”

Mr. Ed, who loves me!




Chapter One (#ulink_8e61f387-a6b5-5921-a16c-40f29b109597)


“I believe I have a solution to your problem, Miss Johanna.” The Reverend Hughes folded his hands precisely and rubbed one thumb the length of the other, his eyes never leaving the young woman seated across the table from him.

Johanna nodded politely. Entertaining well-meaning townfolk had become a way of life over the past months. Seemingly, setting her life in order was the goal of every person who’d known Fred and Mary Patterson.

“When your daddy died, I knew it would seem like the end of the world to you, Johanna. That’s why we’ve all been putting our heads together, trying to help you get settled.”

She was about as settled as any old maid ever was, Johanna figured, but perhaps the preacher had a trick or two up his sleeve. If he could come up with a way to clean up the last of the garden, milk six cows and tend to a yardful of laying hens, besides lugging six bushels of apples into the fruit cellar during the next twelve hours, it would be a miracle fit for a sermon come Sunday morning.

“Are you listening to me, Miss Johanna?” Theodore Hughes leaned over the table, his eyes filled with concern as he sought to meet her gaze. “I feel the events of the past months have sent you into a true decline. You almost appear to be in the depths of despair this morning.”

It was more she’d like to be in the depths of her feather tick this morning, Johanna thought. Her every muscle aching, her eyes burning from lack of sleep and her empty stomach growling were surely enough reason to feel despair. If she was the sort to fall into that trap.

“Perhaps I came too early in the day, my dear. However, I felt it could never be too early to bring good tidings your way.” Leaning over the table in her direction, the preacher smiled with kindly humor.

“Good tidings?” She’d heard nothing but foolishness and claptrap from the steady stream of townspeople heading her way lately. Good tidings might be a relief.

“Your daddy left you a fine place, Miss Johanna. But if you can’t tend it properly, you won’t be able to hold on to it, what with the mortgage at the bank and your stock to care for and the rest of the apple crop to get in.”

She knew all that, Johanna thought glumly. She’d had four solid offers from neighboring farmers wanting to buy her place, one offer to teach school in the next county, and a proposal from Neville Olson. Whether he wanted to marry her or her farm, she hadn’t quite determined before she escorted him off the porch.

“You’re a woman of means, Miss Johanna,” the preacher told her quietly. “I’ve been concerned that you not be taken in by any scalawags or given poor advice, even by well-meaning folks hereabouts. And late last night, the good Lord sent the answer to your problem right to my door.”

Johanna resisted the urge to place her head on the table and close her eyes. Whatever the man was nattering about, she was too tired to care. Moving the big ladder from tree to tree, then climbing it, to pick apples all day yesterday had about done her in. As a matter of fact, if she didn’t get moving, chances were she just might not be able to resist taking a nap on the kitchen table, preacher or no.

“…one boy is about seven, the other just a little fella. Mr. Montgomery—Tate is his given name—is willing to come out here right away, this forenoon in fact, and talk it over with you.” Face beaming, the preacher paused for breath. “I’m just delighted with this turn of events, Miss Johanna. I feel it’s a real answer to your problem, one your daddy would have approved.”

Johanna blinked. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost track of this conversation. Who in the dickens was this Mr. Montgomery? And what did two little boys have to do with her?

“I’m aware you must be awestruck by the providential aspects of such a happening,” the preacher continued. “I felt the very same way when everything began to dovetail together last evening. Why, I almost drove right out here then, but it was almost sundown, and I knew you’d be ready to retire for the night.”

Fat chance, thought Johanna. At sundown, she’d been separating the milk and getting ready to churn the butter for delivery to the general store in town today. A two-mile walk, one way. She lifted her hand to press against her middle. No wonder her stomach was grinding away beneath her palm. She’d gone without supper last night, and now the preacher had dragged her in from the barn before she had a chance to eat breakfast this morning.

“I’m sure you’re at a loss for words, Miss Johanna. I understand that sometimes a heart is too full of thanksgiving to utter a sound.” Rising from his chair, the young parson offered Johanna his hand. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, by noon at the latest, with Mr. Montgomery, my dear. God will surely bless this endeavor. You’ll see.”



The chicken feed sailed through the air with a swish, scattering over the hen yard. Clucking and pecking, the pullets moved about, sidestepping and nudging each other as they attended to their breakfast.

Johanna watched with pride as her white leghorns preened in the morning sun. She’d raised this year’s batch from her own eggs, culling off the old hens and canning them up for the winter. Three young roosters still awaited the chopping block, the rest having become food for her table throughout the summer. Now her chicken coop held over thirty laying hens, their eggs providing her with a tidy sum every week at the general store, when she carried them in to Joseph Turner. That, with the butter she churned twice weekly, she was managing to keep her cupboards decently filled.

“Now to tend to filling my stomach,” she told the hens clucking around her feet. “As if you care, so long as you get your breakfast.” Edging them aside, she made her way to the gate of the chicken yard. One of the broody hens had escaped again, and was claiming a place for herself beneath the lilac bushes near the corncrib.

“You’ll end up in the stew pot if you’re not careful,” she called to the clucking hen. “I don’t have time to hunt down your eggs every day, and it’s too late in the year to be sittin’ on a clutch of eggs.

“I’m not up to chasing her today,” she muttered to herself, scraping her soles on the metal bar she’d placed just outside the gate. After removing the layer of chicken droppings she’d managed to gather on her shoes, Johanna headed for the house.

A bowl of oatmeal was about as nourishing as you could get, she figured, watching the water as it came to a boil in her smallest kettle. She scattered a handful of oats from the box over the water and added a pinch of salt. In moments she’d sliced a thick slab of bread from the loaf on the tabletop and spread it with fresh butter. The oatmeal bubbled as she worked, and she stirred it, testing the thickness. Pa had always said she made oatmeal just right.

The spoon held in midair, Johanna considered the thought. In retrospect, it had been about the only thing she’d ever done that pleased him. Mama’s bread had been lighter, her pie crust more tender. Even her chicken and dumplings had been ambrosia for the gods, if her father’s memory was to be believed.

Johanna, on the other hand, had spent the past ten years being judged as somewhat imperfect by the father she’d tried so hard to please. “I picked six bushels of apples yesterday, Pa,” she said into the silence of her kitchen. “If you hadn’t sold the horse, I could haul them to the fruit cellar on the wagon. Now Mr. Turner will have to make a trip out if he wants them for the store.”

Pa had done all sorts of strange things those last few months, as if his mind had slipped into another world. And perhaps it had. Selling the horse had been the final straw, to Johanna’s way of thinking. Then staying in town to play poker with the hired hands from around the county on Friday night…something he’d never done before. He’d lost every penny in his pockets before he headed home. Johanna shook her head at the memory. Pa had never been much of a hand at cards of any kind. He’d walked home at midnight, two miles down the road from town, and stretched out on the porch to sleep.

She’d found him the next morning, all the life sucked out of him, like the west wind had taken what little zest for living he had left once Mama died. Three months he’d been gone, and she could still see him there, a faint, rare smile curling his lips, as if he saw something beautiful afar off.

The oatmeal was tasty, sweet as two spoonfuls of brown sugar could make it. The cream was rich, yellow and thick, and she poured it with a generous hand. Her jersey heifer was worth every red cent she’d paid for her, and more maybe, from the color of that cream. Pretty little thing, too, with those big eyes.



* * *



The sun was hot, shimmering on the hay field east of the house. Another week or so would make it ready for cutting, Johanna figured. Hardy Jones at the mill in town had made arrangements to come in and take care of it. Shares were better than nothing, and close to nothing was what she’d have if she did the arranging herself. Menfolk were afforded more respect than women, no matter how you sliced it. At least she’d have hay for the cows, enough to last till spring, after this last cutting.

She counted the wooden crates of apples as she neared the orchard, knowing the number even as she sounded them out aloud. Pure foolishness, Pa would say. Prideful behavior, thinking well of herself for such a simple task. She flexed the muscles in her calves as she bent to pick up the first crate. The muscles had been hard to come by. Climbing a ladder, moving it from one tree to the next as she went, was a far cry from a simple task, as far as she could see. At least for a woman alone.

Her lips tightened at the thought. She’d better get used to it. Either that or cut down the apple trees. And that she could never bring herself to do. The three acres she’d devoted to her apples was her favorite place to be, even if the work did about wear her down.

A “Hallo” from the house caught her ear as she straightened, crate held before her. Lowering it to the ground, she lifted one hand to her brow, shading from the sun’s glare as she tried to make out the visitors waiting at her back door. She saw a wagon, filled to the brim, canvas stretched tight over the whole of it, the three figures on the seat looking at her. From the far side, the preacher waved from horseback.

“Yoo-hoo, Miss Johanna! I’ve brought Mr. Montgomery along, like I promised.”

What the dickens had he promised? Johanna’s brow furrowed as she struggled to remember the conversation she’d had so little part of. Whatever his plan, she’d apparently agreed to listen. She set off for the house, her long-skirted strides hampered by the tall grass between the orchard and the house.

The man had shifted on his perch atop the wagon seat to face her. His enigmatic look was measuring as she headed toward him, and his mouth was drawn tight. Looked like he’d swallowed a persimmon. Not a bit of friendly to him, if she had him pegged right.

And then her breath drew in sharply as she caught sight of the ridged scar that rode his high cheekbone. He lifted one hand to tilt back the brim of his hat, exposing his face to full sunlight as she watched. He lowered that broad, long-fingered hand to rest against his thigh, and his mouth twisted at one corner, as if he were daring her to react to his imperfection.

He wore the scar almost proudly, she thought, her gaze leaving it to sweep once more over the stern visage he presented her. Except for a faint tightening of his mouth, he was unmoving beneath her scrutiny. His shoulders were broad beneath the fine fabric of his coat, his trousers clung to the strong line of his thigh as he shifted after a moment, lifting one long leg, propping it against the front of the wagon.

He was a big man, a strong man, if the size of his hands, the flexing muscles in his thigh and the width of his upper body were anything to go by. Her gaze moved to tangle with his, meeting dark eyes that were narrowed just a bit against the sun’s rays and held her own with unswerving intensity.

“What can I do for you, mister?” She drew to a halt several feet from the wagon, her irritation at the interruption vivid in her voice. The wind blew a lock of pale golden hair across her eyes, and she lifted an impatient hand to brush it back.

“From the looks of things, I’d say the question is what can I do for you?” His words were harsh against her ear, and she bristled.

“You’re the one comin’ hat in hand, mister. Looks to me like you’ve got something to say. Spit it out or leave me to my work. I haven’t time to do much entertainin’ this morning.”

“Miss Johanna! I’ve brought Mr. Montgomery here to do you a service.” Reverend Hughes slid from his mount to hurry to her side. “If you can come to a mutual agreement, it will greatly benefit you both. I urge you to give him a few minutes of your time.”

Johanna sighed. “I haven’t got much time, Reverend. If Mr. Montgomery wants to sign on as a hired hand, he’ll find the pickin’ pretty poor here. Lots of work and not much pay to be found. And it looks like I’d be feedin’ three more at my table.”

“I’ve no experience as a hired hand, Miss Patterson.” Tate Montgomery’s voice vibrated with a multitude of impatience. “I thought we might come to an understanding, perhaps an agreement, but now I’m thinking your attitude would not be beneficial to my children.” He turned in the wagon seat, speaking in a low voice to the young boys who were peering past him at Johanna.

“My attitude!” Her hands lifted to rest against her hips as she challenged his judgment. “I’ve been called from my work to speak to you, Mr. Montgomery, and you look me over like a side of beef at the general store. I’ve been judged and found lacking, and I don’t even know what you’re doin’ on my property.”

Looking down at her from his perch, he hesitated, then spoke quickly, in a voice that was pitched at a level she strained to hear. “I’ve been looking for a place to invest in, where my boys can live a peaceful life and I can build a future for them. But from the looks and sounds of things here, there wouldn’t be much peace to be found.” His eyes rested on her, darting to take in the telltale stance she’d taken, her hands propped belligerently against her hipbones.

His quiet words were chilling in their finality as he lifted the reins in one hand. “They’ve already lived through all the wrangling any soul should be obliged to contend with.” Slapping the leather straps against the broad backs of his team of horses, he averted his gaze as the wagon creaked into motion.

Johanna bit at her lip, abashed by his scathing words, aware that his conclusions were fairly reached. She watched as the big wagon lumbered in a circle, heading back to the road. The two small boys had turned, looking back over their shoulders.

Maybe it was the quiet acceptance she recognized in their gaze, or perhaps the vulnerable curve of the smaller child’s cheek as he flexed his jaw. A shadow of shame dulled the sunshine as Johanna watched. Those two young’ns looked like they could use a bite to eat and some shade to park in for a while, she thought, no matter how grim and ornery their daddy appeared to be.

“Mr. Montgomery!” Her voice was husky, but firm. “Come on back. Let those boys down to stretch their legs for a while.”

The horses pulled the wagon another twelve feet or so before he drew it to a halt. His shoulders square, his head erect, he waited. Beside him, the two children wiggled, their whispers quiet, obviously urging him to consider the woman’s offer. His glance downward encompassed both small faces, and he relented, nodding his agreement.

Needing no further permission, the boys edged to the wagon’s side, the elder sliding to the ground and turning to help his young brother down. Tate Montgomery grasped the child beneath the arms and lifted him, lowering him to his brother’s side. Then he turned the wagon once more, following the two boys back toward the house and the woman waiting there.




Chapter Two (#ulink_01625a35-a33f-5c6c-86b5-918acbf11a5c)


Pete was the oldest boy’s name. Seven years old, he’d said proudly—much older than his small brother, his uptilted chin had proclaimed. Timothy was four, Tate Montgomery had volunteered gruffly, even as four chubby fingers rose in silent affirmation of his father’s words. Still carrying a vestige of baby roundness about his features, he’d smiled at her with innocent warmth, beguiling her with his blue eyes and rosy cheeks.

She’d offered them milk in thick china cups and a small plate of sugar cookies from her crock. Then she’d ushered them to sit on the back porch, where Timothy had grasped his cup with both hands to drink deeply of the cool milk. His smile had been white-rimmed above his upper lip, and she felt a strange warmth invade her as she remembered the sight.

Across the table, Tate Montgomery had removed his hat and unbuttoned his coat, the latter a concession to the warmth of her kitchen. He’d swept the wide-brimmed hat from his head as he bent to enter the door, holding it against his leg as he took the chair she offered him. His eyes had scanned the room, pausing as they reached the cookstove, where chicken simmered within her Dutch oven. She’d set it to cook before heading to the orchard, and now its aroma filled the room, a little garlic and onion combining to coax her appetite.

She watched him, unwilling to break the silence. The man had invaded her territory, so to speak. Let him make the first move. Yet a twinge of curiosity piqued her interest as she waited. What had he said? He was looking to invest in a piece of property. Probably wanting to buy her out. But no…that hadn’t been it, either.

“Miss Johanna, would you be willing to listen to what this gentleman is here to speak of?” Theodore Hughes spoke anxiously from behind Mr. Montgomery, his own hat held before him, his fingers moving against the felt surface with barely concealed agitation.

Johanna nodded, her gaze moving from the parson to the man sitting at her kitchen table. “I can’t see that it will do any harm,” she allowed, clipping the words tightly. She felt invaded. The very moment he entered the room, she’d sensed his presence, inhaling his subtle scent, that musky, male, outdoor aroma some men carried. Unwillingly she’d been drawn by it, long-suppressed memories coming to life as she faced his imposing presence across the blue checked oilcloth.

“I’m Tate Montgomery, lately of southern Ohio. You’ve met my sons. They’re the only family I have. My wife is dead.” He paused, his gaze resting on her hands as she entwined her fingers on the table before her.

“I decided my sons needed a fresh start, away from some bad memories. We’ve been on the road for several weeks, stopping here and there, looking for the right place to settle.”

Johanna watched his mouth as he spoke, catching a glimpse of white, even teeth between full lips. A faint white line touched his top lip, an old scar. Not nearly as noticeable as the newer one he wore. The one that should have detracted from his masculine appeal. But didn’t.

“And you think this is the right place?” Spoken without inflection, her query reached his ears.

Tate sensed her reluctance, had made note of it from the first, when she trudged through tall grass from the orchard toward his wagon. Now it was in full bloom between them, that feminine need for self-preservation that kept her from accepting him at face value. He couldn’t begrudge her the feeling. But the urge to press his advantage, now that he was inside the house, was uppermost in his mind.

There had been a feeling of homecoming as he drove up the lane toward the farmhouse. The two-story dwelling, shabby around the edges, but nevertheless graceful in its design, had drawn him with an urgency he’d not felt in any other place. The tall maple trees, towering over the house in a protective fashion, their leaves turning color, had bidden him welcome. Not like the woman, who had greeted him with little patience for his coming.

She’d scanned him and his belongings with a wary eye, only warming a bit when the two boys came under her gaze. She’d been more than generous with them, offering milk and sugar cookies, the sight of which had made his own mouth water. She was sturdy but slender around the middle, her apron emphasizing the narrow lines of her waist. Full-breasted. Womanly, might be the right word to describe her form. Johanna Patterson. A sensible name. He could only hope the woman would be as reasonable as a female in her circumstances should be.

Bristly and faintly belligerent described her attitude toward him, he decided with a wry twist of his mouth. Perhaps she wouldn’t be the smallest bit receptive to his proposal. And that was the only word he could come up with for the bargain he was about to lay on the table before her.

“You grow apples, Miss Patterson,” he began, nodding toward the brimming bowl on her cupboard. The ruddy skin of the snow variety glistened in the sunlight that cascaded through the window.

“I pick them,” she corrected quietly. “They grow all by themselves, with a little help from the Lord.”

His mouth moved, one corner twisting again, in amusement. “I agree. Most farmers consider themselves to be in partnership with the Almighty, I’ve found. Although sometimes he doesn’t appear to tend to business, what with the dry spell we had this year.”

“Farming’s a gamble,” Johanna answered. “Apples are a pretty sure thing. Provide them with a beehive in the vicinity and they pretty much tend to themselves, once the blossoms fall and the fruit starts to grow.”

“You don’t do much with crops?”

She shrugged. “The hay is about ready for a last cutting. Mr. Jones at the mill made arrangements for shares for me, last time around. I’ll do the same this time, I expect. I’ve got eighty-six acres here, fifty acres of pasture for the cattle. I’ve been keeping some of them pretty close to the barn lately. My father fenced off a ten-acre piece, and I feel better having them close at hand, with winter coming on.”

“How many head are you running?” he asked.

“Not many left in the far pasture, besides the bull. I sold off the young steers last month.”

He shook his head. “‘Not many’ doesn’t tell me much.”

“I’m only milking six cows right now,” she said, exasperation apparent in her tone. “There are more of them dry, with calves due in the spring. Why do you ask?”

“I want to offer you a proposition, Miss Patterson.”

She waited, noting the faint furrow between his eyebrows, the twitch of his left eyelid as he leaned back in his chair. His arms folded across his chest in a gesture she sensed was automatic with him. As if he set up a guard around himself. She sat up straighter in her chair and nodded, unwilling to give him verbal encouragement.

“I’ve been on the lookout for a farm to invest in. It must be a special situation in order for it to work to my advantage, though. I’d thought to hire a woman to live in, tend to my boys and run the house for me.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug that spoke of his lack of success thus far.

“When your minister told me of your place, I thought it would bear investigation. Then he told me you were not willing to move from here or sell out your interest in the farm.”

Johanna nodded once. Apparently she’d finally gotten it across to folks in town that she was planning on living out her life here. At least the preacher had gotten the message, she thought A chuckle rose within her, and she ducked her head, swallowing the sound before it could be born.

Tate Montgomery rose from his chair and paced to the cookstove, lifting the lid on the covered iron pan with Johanna’s pot holder to peer within. Steam billowed up, and he inhaled quickly as the succulent scent of simmering chicken tempted his nostrils. He clapped the lid down and cast her a sidelong glance.

“You enjoy cookin’?” Not waiting for a reply, he paced to the doorway, looking out at his sons on the porch, then returned to where she sat.

His lips flattened, and he pushed the lower one forward a bit, as if he were considering what he would say next. “Have you thought of getting married, Miss Patterson?”

Her eyebrows lifted, and her eyes widened. If she’d thought herself immune to surprise, he’d just this minute effectively shot that theory all to small bits. “Not lately.” It was an understatement, to say the least. Not at all might be more to the point. At least not in the past ten years.

“What I have in mind is a business arrangement,” he said quietly, stepping back to where his chair was sitting at an angle to the table. He straightened it with one quick movement and planted himself on the seat, his hands braced against his thighs. “I would be willing to pay off your mortgage—”

“What makes you think I have one?” she asked, interrupting him.

He looked at her, noting the swift color staining her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I quizzed your minister last evening at great length. When he spoke of your place here, telling me of the situation you’re in, I asked a lot of questions. Apparently, the townspeople are aware of your circumstances, the hardship caused by the death of your father and the need for help to run this place. There was no secret made of your father’s—”

Her cheeks were bright with outrage and embarrassment, and she cut him off with a wave of her hand. “You had no right to pry into my business. You don’t even know me.” She swung to face the minister, who had taken up residence in the corner of the kitchen, near the window. “And you! You had no right to tell my problems to anyone. And especially not a total stranger! How could you be so…so…”

Her voice cracked, almost wobbling with her distress as she faced the man of the cloth who had betrayed her.

“My dear Miss Johanna! I only thought to help. Mr. Montgomery comes with letters of recommendation from bankers and ministers in his hometown. He is on a legitimate quest, and my only thought was to give aid where I could.” The Reverend Hughes was distraught at her accusation, his dismay apparent on his youthful face.

“This is my fault, ma’am,” Tate Montgomery said bluntly. “I should not have revealed my knowledge of your circumstances so quickly. I only thought to present my thoughts for your consideration. I am here to propose marriage, ma’am.”

“Marriage! To you?” Johanna was aghast. The man was a stranger who in the course of fifteen minutes’ time had suggested taking over her mortgage, and marrying her to boot.

Tate nodded. “It would be a business proposition. I need someone to tend my boys and make a home for them. This would be much better in the long run than my hiring a housekeeper.”

She snorted inelegantly. “You mean I couldn’t quit the job when I’d had a bellyful, don’t you?”

He couldn’t help the grin that escaped at her phrasing. “I guess you could put it that way, if you like,” he said agreeably.

She shook her head. “This is ridiculous. I have no intention of marrying. Ever.”

“You don’t like men?” It was a simple question, he thought. And if the answer was not to his liking, he’d be on his way.

She was taken aback, her thoughts scattered. Like men? “What’s to like about them? They’re fond of making messes and being waited on and spending time in the saloon.”

“All of them?” His brow rose quizzically. “Perhaps you’ve been around the wrong breed of men, Miss Johanna.”

She backtracked a bit, silently acknowledging her haste in the judgment she’d spouted. “My father was not himself the past few years. Perhaps I had a bad example set for me in his recent behavior,” she said grudgingly.

“There are good men to be found,” Theodore Hughes ventured to say from the corner.

Johanna nodded in his direction. “I’ve met several in my time,” she admitted. And then she looked at Tate Montgomery with a guarded glance. “I’ll take the reverend’s word as to your sterling reputation, but I’m not interested in marriage.”

He nodded politely. “Perhaps if I enlarge on my idea, you might consider it. more carefully.” He cast a look at the man who had brought him to this place. “Would you leave us for a few minutes, sir? I think this discussion merits some privacy.”

Theodore Hughes nodded agreeably, stepping to the doorway and out on the porch.

Tate leaned over the table and faced Johanna from a foot away. If she was unwilling to hear him out, he’d head on out. But it was worth giving it a shot. And the memory of his first sight of this house and the capable woman who was struggling to hold things together here provided the impetus he needed to speak his mind.

“We could have a good arrangement, Miss Johanna. I am willing to assume any financial burden you have, in return for a half ownership of the farm. You would take my boys in hand and tend to the house and whatever chores you want to assume outdoors. I’ll make the place run. I’ll make it run better than it’s ever run before, and I’ll do it well. You won’t have cause to be ashamed of me. I don’t drink and I don’t chase women. I won’t be expecting you to sleep in my bed, and I won’t lay a hand on you in anger.”

Her blue eyes blinked, widened, and blinked again. “Well!” Spoken with emphasis, the word was vibrant with meaning. Her thoughts were jumbled, stunned as she was by his list of rules and regulations regarding the marriage he proposed.

“What would you expect of a wife, Mr. Montgomery?” she asked finally. If the man didn’t want a woman to take to his bed, he must be willing to settle for little more than a housekeeper, when all was said and done.

“I have sons, ma’am. I don’t need more children. I just need these two fed and clothed and schooled properly.”

“And nothing for yourself?”

A faint ridge of color rode his cheekbones, accenting the scar on the side of his face. “I’ll need to have my meals provided and my clothes washed and ironed. I’m already well schooled.”

She ducked her head. “You don’t need a woman?”

“Not an unwilling one.”

She lifted her gaze slowly, as if it pained her to face him but she recognized that she must. “I’m not willing. I don’t think I’d ever be willing. I never intended to. marry.”

He nodded slowly. “All right. I can deal with that.”

A vision of the apples awaiting her in the orchard, crates overflowing and needing to be carried, burst into her mind. She thought of the cows, impatient to be milked, morning and night. The hay field, awaiting the mowing machine, and the assessing looks she received from the men in town, recognizing her as a woman alone.

Images of Tate Montgomery, tall and robust, working the orchard, planting and sowing and dealing with the storekeeper and the mill owner cascaded through her mind in rapid profusion. Her gaze rested on his hands—heavily veined, broad and capable, fingernails clean, fingers long and straight. She would need to check out his letters of recommendation, but instinctively she knew him to be a man of honor. Why it should be so, she couldn’t have said. But something about him, his innate dignity, his gentlemanly ways, his prideful look, his way with the small boys he’d handled with gentle touches, spoke of a man to be trusted.

“I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”

It was more than he had bargained for. He’d been warned by the preacher that she was a hardheaded woman, that she’d turned down offers aplenty for her place, that she was considered to be a spinster by the townsfolk. He’d thought to find a dried-up specimen of womanhood. He’d been prepared to look her over and leave if the years of hard living she’d endured here had made her unappealing for his purposes.

Neither of those two things had come about. Instead, he’d found a slender, stalwart female who’d been bowed low by life’s burdens and yet managed to rise above the problems she’d faced after her father’s death. He’d found a woman of strength and courage, willing to work herself to a frazzle to keep her farm running. A woman who deserved better than what she’d been handed by fate.

“Tomorrow,” he said firmly. “And in the meantime, can I make a bed for my boys and myself in your barn? It will save me taking the wagon back to town overnight.”

She considered him for a moment, taking in the dark eyes that hid his emotions, allowing only a faint approval to shine forth as he met her gaze. His chestnut-colored hair was swept back from a broad forehead bronzed by the sun. Apparently the man didn’t wear his hat all the time. His jaw was square and firm, his nose a bit crooked and prominent, but no larger than it should be, for such a big man. He could be considered handsome. Or at least appealing, she decided. If a woman was in the market for a husband, she supposed, he’d be a likely specimen.

“All right,” she agreed. “The barn is available for the night. I’ll tell you tomorrow what I decide.”

His breath released on a silent sigh. “Thank you for your consideration,” he said simply. “I’ll tend to my boys now.”

He rose from his chair, and she followed suit, standing across from the table from him, aware once again of his size, at least three inches over six foot, she’d venture to say. “I don’t mind sharing my supper with you and your sons,” she offered. He hesitated in the doorway, then turned to face her.

“That’s kind of you, Miss Johanna. I’d be much obliged for the favor.” He clapped his hat on his head and nodded abruptly. “I’ll be in the barn.”

Johanna followed him out on the porch, her hands reaching for the china cups the two boys had used. They gave them into her keeping with bashful looks and awkward murmurings of thanks at their father’s urging, and she smiled at their childish gestures.

They romped across the yard at his side, and she leaned on the post at the corner of the porch to watch. They were like two young puppies, she thought, frisky and energetic. He spoke quietly to them as they walked and then, upon reaching the barn door, bent one knee to the ground to place an arm around each of them. His words set their heads nodding, and their faces looked earnest as he spoke. Apparently instructions for their behavior, Johanna decided as they walked with dignity through the barn doors into the shadowed interior.

If she married him…The thought spun crazily in her mind. If she married him, they would be hers, those two small boys with dark hair and straight, sturdy bodies. It would be a weighty argument in favor of his suit. The joy of caring for children had been denied her. Indeed, the thought of having a child of her own had been denied her for ten years. It would never be. But now, now she could tend these two young boys, perhaps earn their love.

A bitter wash of regret filled her to overflowing, and she stepped down from the porch. Better that she not expose herself to close scrutiny. Not now, not while old memories were bursting the seams of that hidden place where she’d long ago relegated them for eternity.

“I’ll be leaving, Miss Johanna.” The soft words of the minister broke into her thoughts, and she looked up quickly to see him astride his horse, reins in hand. “I’ll be anxious to hear your decision, ma’am,” he said. With a courtly gesture, he tipped his hat in her direction and turned his horse to leave.

Johanna watched him go, her thoughts in turmoil. Would tomorrow be time enough for her to decide her whole future? She lifted her gaze to the small rise beyond the house, where a low fence enclosed the family cemetery. Lifting her skirt a few inches, holding its hem above the grass, she made her way there, climbing the hill with ease, unlatching the wooden gate and leaving it open behind her as she knelt by the grave of her mother.

She reached out to pull a milkweed that had sprung up in the past few days. Her fingers sticky from the stem, she rubbed them distractedly against her apron as she spoke. “Mama, a man wants to marry me.” The words were soft, murmured under her breath. She’d spent a lot of time in these one-way conversations with the mother she’d helped bury over ten years ago. Sometimes she wondered if she didn’t hear a faint voice within her that repeated some of her mother’s favorite small sayings.

“He won’t ever have to know, Mama. I won’t tell him, and he says he doesn’t want a real wife, just a cook and someone to keep his children clean and well fed. I can do that, can’t I?” She rubbed her eyes, unwilling that the tears should fall, those tears she held in abeyance until the times she knelt here.

It was usually a lonely place, here where she’d buried the three humans most important to her, two of the graves tended carefully, the third marked only by a small rosebush. It was to that spot that she moved, shifting on the cool ground, mindful of grass stains marring her dress. She snapped two faded roses from the bush, the final flowers of summer, touched by an early-autumn frost during the past nights.

“Baby mine, your mama…” Her voice faltered as she spoke the words no other person had ever heard fall from her lips. And then the tears she shed only in this place fell once more, as she smoothed her palm over the grass that covered the grave where her baby lay.




Chapter Three (#ulink_66794dbd-0514-56c4-a1e7-73b29e5233d4)


By the time she’d soaked her eyes in cool water, changed her dress and scooped up her hair into a respectable knot on the back of her head, Johanna had run out of time. Sure enough, she’d managed to get grass stains on her work dress, and she’d scrubbed at them, then left the dress to soak in a bucket.

Supper would have to be quick. Those two little boys were guaranteed to be hungry before long, with only sugar cookies and milk in their bellies since noontime. The image of Tate Montgomery popped unbidden into her mind, and she found herself imagining his big hands holding a knife and fork, eating at her table. She closed her eyes, nurturing the vision, leaning against the pantry door.

So real was the mental picture, she could almost catch his scent, that musky outdoor aroma she’d drawn into her lungs earlier. She inhaled deeply, and opened her eyes.

“Ma’am? I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Tate Montgomery stood at her back door, one hand lifted to rest against the frame, the other plunged deep in his pocket. Less than four feet away from the pantry door, he stood watching her, that intent, dark gaze focused on her face.

“Ma’am?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his gaze drifted from her face to slide in a slow, lazy fashion over her person. Not in a threatening manner, but as if he needed to see that all the parts were in place, almost as if he were assessing her womanly form.

She felt the flush rise from her breasts, up the length of her long neck, to settle deeply beneath the flesh covering her cheeks. “Do I suit you, Mr. Montgomery?” she asked tartly. “Do I look sturdy enough to be a housekeeper and cook and child-tender?”

His eyes focused once more on her face, the face she’d spent fifteen minutes bathing in order to hide the signs of her bout of tears earlier. She raised her left hand, brushing at a tendril of pale hair that had escaped her severe hairdo, allowing the pad of her index finger to sweep beneath her eye. There was no telltale swelling to be felt there, no evidence of her brief but shattering lapse. The relief inherent in that discovery put a measure of starch into her backbone, and she turned from his presence.

Her largest bowl in hand, she opened the pantry door and stepped within. On three sides, the shelves surrounded her, with their burden of food close at hand. The large bags of flour, sugar, coffee and salt were at waist level, easily reached for daily use. Above, where she must stretch a bit for a good handhold, were the glass quart jars she’d filled with the harvest from her kitchen garden during the past weeks. And to her right she’d arranged more canning jars, these filled with the boiled-up stewing hens she’d culled from the chicken yard once the young pullets began laying, come summer.

She grasped the bag of flour, bringing it to the edge of the shelf, where she opened it, tipping a good measure into the bowl she held. A scoop of lard came next, the dollop landing in a cloud of flour. Chicken potpie would be quick, once she rolled out a crust and put some vegetables on to parboil. She turned to leave the pantry, the familiar sense of satisfaction she found within its confines uplifting her spirits. There was something about seeing the work of your hands surrounding you, knowing you’d not have to worry about setting a table through the long months of winter. It was a pleasurable thing to be a woman, she decided.

“Can I help with something?” He was there, almost blocking her exit, and she blinked rapidly as her heart missed a beat.

“I didn’t mean to insult you a few minutes ago,” he said quietly. “And to answer your question, yes, you do look more than capable of doing all I’ve asked. You’re a fine-looking woman, Miss Johanna.”

For the first time, she saw a softening of his features, an easing of his closely held emotions, as he offered his apology. She nodded in acceptance of his words and carried the bowl to the table. Her fingers left it reluctantly. He’d said she was a fine-looking woman. She knew her teeth were straight and even. She brushed them every day with tooth powder. Her hair was a good color, golden from the summer sun, and thick, and her eyes were far apart, blue, like her mother’s. If all that added up to fine-looking, then she could accept the small compliment as her due.

“Do you need the fire built up in the stove?” He’d stayed near the door, and she saw his glance out into the yard when a childish shriek sounded from near the barn. “Is the dog good with children?” he asked, his gaze leveled beyond her field of vision.

She turned quickly. “Sheba won’t put up with any foolishness, but she doesn’t bite. She’s a herd dog, Mr. Montgomery, not a pet.”

His smile was unexpected, and she savored its warmth for a moment. “Apparently she doesn’t know that, ma’am. She’s chasing a stick for Timmy.”

Her lips tightened. They’d better get things squared away right off. “Animals are only as useful as you make them. I can’t afford to feed a dog that doesn’t serve a purpose. Sheba’s no good to me if she attaches to the boys and forgets her duties.”

His smile faded, and his eyes became guarded, the momentary pleasure she’d seen there replaced by a forbidding darkness. “I’ll see to it.” Abruptly the man who’d been at ease in her kitchen was transformed into the chilly stranger she’d first met earlier in the day.

“I’ll tend the stove, Mr. Montgomery. If it’s not too much trouble, you can open the back door of the barn. The cows will be wanting to come in to be milked before long.” When she turned once more he was gone, and she watched surreptitiously from one side of the kitchen door as he made his way across her yard.

A pang of regret touched her, and not for the first time she rued her quick tongue. The boys weren’t hurting anything, playing with Sheba. The dog was old enough to know her job, and even a dumb animal deserved a little attention once in a while. Almost, she called out to rescind her harsh words, hesitating but a few seconds. No, she might as well start out as she meant to continue.

And then she drew in a deep breath as she recognized that her decision had already been made. She would marry Tate Montgomery. She would take on his children as her own. She would be Mrs. Montgomery, a wife in name, at least. If he asked no more from her than that, she would never have to own up to the shame she carried as a great weight on her conscience. The shame of a fallen woman. A Jezebel, Pa had said.



“I’d see the letters you brought with you, Mr. Montgomery,” she said, scooping a generous helping of chicken and vegetables onto his plate. She ladled a spoonful of steaming gravy over it all, then carefully placed the next piece of crusty topping over it and handed him his plate. She’d taken the first spoonful for herself, then served him, so that his crust would be unbroken and appetizing. It was a small gesture, one she’d seen her mother repeat often.

A man was the head of the house, given the best piece of meat, the freshest bread. His coffee was poured first, his shirts ironed when the sadirons were cooled just enough not to scorch. Pa had expected it, the honor accorded him as a man.

Tate Montgomery, on the other hand, looked a bit amazed at the attention he’d been given by his hostess. She’d placed the fresh round of butter in front of his place, piled newly sliced bread on a plate and edged it with a jar of strawberry jam and a comb of honey. His cup was brimming with hot coffee as he sat and nodded his thanks with a raised eyebrow and a half smile signifying his surprise.

Timothy and Pete sat at the sides of the table, the three forming a setting she could not help but appreciate. They looked like a family, the four of them around the table, the kerosene lamp above, its glow circling them with a suggestion of warmth. The boys stretched their plates toward her, and she helped them to the food before taking up her napkin to spread across her lap.

Timothy watched her carefully, then removed his own napkin to follow her example. She caught his eye as he glanced at her again, and smiled her approval. His small, perfect teeth flashed for a moment between his lips as he allowed a crooked grin to touch his mouth. Then he ducked his head and tended to the business at hand.

“I’ll bring you the letters after supper,” Tate Montgomery offered as he swallowed his first bite of potpie. “You cook a fine meal, Miss Johanna,” he said, as if compliments came easily to his lips. It was the second one he’d given her, and both in the space of a day. He was a gentleman, she decided. The fine woolen trousers had given way to farmer’s overalls, and the coat he’d worn earlier had been replaced by a heavy flannel shirt, but he ate with clean hands and good table manners.

“Can I have jam on my bread, Pa?” Pete had made away with over half his dinner already. She’d been right. The boys had been more than hungry. She’d have to be sure to offer them apples in the afternoon from now on. Or maybe…Her mind swirled with thoughts of tending to three male creatures, the work implicit in their well-being, the extra washing to do, the meals to cook.

And where would they sleep? Once she married their father, the boys would move into the house, perhaps share her old bedroom with its big double bed and hand-hewn dresser.

Where would she sleep then? In the attic? In her mother’s sewing room? Surely not in the big bedroom at the top of the stairs, where her parents had conducted a marriage for almost twenty years. That would be Tate Montgomery’s room. He deserved it, as the head of the family.

“I said, I wouldn’t mind another helping of that chicken pie, if you don’t mind, Miss Johanna.” His voice was quiet, sounding amused at her expense, as if he knew he’d caught her daydreaming. If such a thing could be, with night coming on. She’d done her share during daylight hours, that was for sure. But usually by this time of the day she was too tired to think of much else than setting the kitchen to rights and heading for her bed.

She spooned up another portion on his plate, and he murmured his thanks. His hands were deft as he spread jam on another slice of bread and handed it to Pete, then did the same for Timothy. He was used to looking out for them, she thought idly. It showed in his manner, in the way he watched them, unobtrusively but with vigilance, noting their behavior, nodding his head with approval or shaking it slightly as Timothy stuffed his mouth in his eagerness to eat the jam-laden bread.

“I’m glad your boys are good eaters,” she said. “Will they like oatmeal for breakfast? Or would sausage and eggs be better?” Folding her napkin beside her plate, she lifted her glass to drink from its foaming depths. The milk was cool, fresh from this morning’s milking. “Would you like more milk, Pete?” she asked, setting her glass on the table.

A glance at his father gained him permission, and Pete nodded his answer. He swallowed quickly and supported his unspoken request with a “Yes, ma’am.”

Johanna rose from the table and lifted the pitcher from the cupboard, filling both boys’ glasses, Timothy’s not quite to the brim, in deference to his youth and his smaller hands.

“I’d take a small tumbler of that milk, if you don’t mind,” their father said as she straightened from her task.

“Would you rather not have coffee? I assumed…My father always liked coffee with his supper.” She reached for another heavy glass from the shelf behind her and poured it full, placing it next to his plate as she spoke.

“I enjoy both sometimes. Coffee always, especially at breakfast. As for early morning, we take whatever’s available. Oatmeal and the rest will do fine.” he assured her. His gaze followed her as she moved across the kitchen. “Sit down, Miss Johanna. We need to speak for a few minutes.”

She complied, bringing with her a bowl of cookies she’d taken from the crock where she kept them for freshness’ sake. The boy’s eyes brightened as they tilted their chins to better see within the dish, and Timothy was hasty in his movements as he finished up the last of his supper. He licked a stray crumb of crust from his upper lip and edged his hand across the table to where the bowl sat.

“Ask first, son.” Though quietly spoken, it was a rebuke nonetheless, and the child nodded.

“Please, ma’am, may I?” he whispered, his dark gaze fixed on her face.

“You may have one of each, if your father says so,” she offered, sensing his indecision.

His smile flashing, the child accepted her offer.

“Ma’am?” the older boy asked, his question implicit

She tipped the bowl in the other direction, and the boy reached in.

Tate shoved his chair back from the table and stood. “I believe I’ll make a trip to the barn, Miss Johanna. You boys can eat your cookies and then get on outside. Stay away from the back of the barn, like I told you.”

They nodded simultaneously, their mouths full, Timmy’s feet swinging beneath the table. Johanna felt the brush of his small boots against her skirt as he kept time to an unheard beat. It was a foolishly comforting touch, and she sat unmoving until he’d eaten every last crumb of his cookies and drunk the last drop of milk.

“Go along now, boys,” she told them, gathering the plates and flatware. Intuitively she left the cup in front of Tate Montgomery’s place. He’d not had any dessert yet. He might want more coffee to go with it.

Her hands were plunged in the dishwater when she heard him come back in the door. A quick glance over her shoulder proved her right. He’d taken the coffeepot to the table and filled his cup. At his right hand was an envelope, fat with folded papers. He gestured at it as she watched.

“Here are the letters of recommendation I spoke of. You’ll find two from ministers in the town we lived in, and one from my banker, the owner of the general store, and my doctor.”

She flushed, embarrassed for a moment as she anticipated reading personal things about this man. Surely she had the right to know all she could about him, but the thought of learning it in this way was almost like…maybe windowpeeping, or reading another person’s mail.

Drying her hands on the towel, she walked back to the table and sat across from him once more, then reached for the envelope.

“Go ahead,” he told her. “It won’t take you long. It’s just information you’d expect to get from a doctor or banker. You’ll find that I’m healthy and fit, I’ve got a decent bank account, and I paid my debts at the general store on time and in full. My minister even noted the amount I gave toward the building fund for the new church last year.” His mouth was twisted wryly as he watched her, and she recognized his own slight embarrassment as he made light of the letters written in his behalf.

She held the envelope in her hand, squeezing the bulk of it and watching him closely. His eyes were dark, but not brown, as she’d thought at first. They were a deep, deep gray, with just a few blue flecks around the edges of the pupils. Sometimes they were flat, hard-looking, like when he’d gone to talk to the boys about the dog, earlier today. Now they were softer, more vulnerable, as if he were hesitant to lay his life out before her, all stuffed in a envelope and waiting for her perusal.

“I’d like to know a couple of things, Mr. Montgomery.” She squeezed the papers, hearing the faint crackling of the crisp envelope.

“Do you think you could call me Tate after we’re married?” he asked quietly. “In fact, maybe you could start now.”

She bit against her top lip. “It’s unseemly for me to use your given name.”

“Try.” His eyes entreated her, and she looked away, settling her gaze on his folded hands instead. They were good hands. Strong and well formed, clean, with a tracing of soft curls across the back. She’d warrant his forearms were covered with the same brown hair. Her eyes closed as she recognized the drift of her thoughts. What was covered by his shirtsleeves was none of her business.

“Try, Miss Johanna,” he repeated, and she sighed, aware that he wasn’t about to give in on this matter.

“All right. I want to know how long your wife’s been dead, Tate.”

“A year and a half. She drowned in a spring flood.”

It was more than she’d asked, and somehow the thought of the unknown woman being swept away by rushing waters made her want to cry. She gritted her teeth against the feeling and looked up at him. “It must have hard on your boys, losing their mother that way.”

“They’d been staying with her sister for a few days when it happened. Didn’t seem to cause much of a fuss over it, to tell the truth. But then, they were close to Bessie. That was her sister’s name, and she kept them for another week after it happened.”

Johanna felt a hollow spot in her middle expand and grow chill with his words. “Why were they with their aunt? Didn’t their mother want them home with her?”

He unfolded his hands, and her eyes were drawn to the movement. He’d formed them into two fists, and his knuckles were whitened, so hard had he curled his fingers into his palms. “My wife hadn’t been herself, hadn’t been feeling well.”

“She was sickly?”

He shook his head, and his gaze bored into her, impelling her eyes to sweep up the length of his chest, up his throat and chin, over his flared nostrils, and jam smack against the hard, cold look he offered her. “She had problems. She was unhappy with her life, and sometimes the boys bore the brunt of it Her sister…well, her sister understood, and when things got touchy, she’d come and get Pete and Timmy and take them home with her.”

“Was she mental?”

His mouth thinned, his teeth gritting together, and he moved his hands to the edge of the table, shoving his chair back and rising swiftly to his feet. “Do we need to discuss this now? I’d think it was sufficient for you to know that she wasn’t herself sometimes.”

Johanna shook her head. “No, I guess we don’t have to talk about it any more. I just wondered…”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just not my favorite memory. It happened, and it changed our lives. My boys need a mother. To tell the truth, I decided when I first laid eyes on you that you were strong and had a clear mind and your eyes were honest and kind. And that’s what I was looking for for my boys.”

“You knew all that by seeing me out there by your wagon?”

He nodded. “I knew all that when I saw you come hotfootin’ it across the field between here and your orchard. Any woman who planned on hauling all those apples to the house had to be strong. A woman who’s been able to keep this place going obviously has a clear mind. And you’ve got the bluest, sharpest eyes I’ve ever seen on a person in my life. When you looked at my boys, the kindness just sort of shone through over your mad. Then, when you called me back, I knew it was because you’d seen how tired and antsy they were, riding on the wagon.”

“I like your children, Tate.” It had come easier this time, saying his name.

“You’re a born mother, unless I miss my guess. You should have been married with a bunch of young ones of your own before now.”

She stiffened, feeling the rigid length of her backbone as if it had been turned into ice within her. “I told you, I never planned on being married.”

“I won’t make you sorry you changed your mind, Miss Johanna.”

The words were spoken like a promise. Almost as if they might be a preface to the wedding vows they’d be taking before long. “I’ll not make you wait till tomorrow for my answer, Tate,” she said, her voice coming out strained and harsh-sounding, as if it belonged to somebody else.

He stilled, reminding her of a deer at the edge of the woods. She heard his indrawn breath, and then he let it out in a silent sigh. “You haven’t read the letters, Miss Johanna.”

Her movements were abrupt as she handed the envelope back across the table. “I don’t need to read them. Theodore Hughes read them and passed his approval. That’s good enough for me. If we don’t start this out with a measure of trust between us, we’ll have a hard time later on. Maybe someday I’ll want to read them, but I think the fact that you offered without holding back is good enough for me.”

“You’ll marry me?”

“You’ve got a strong body and clean hands, Tate. You treat your boys well, and you come highly recommended, if my minister is to be believed. You told me I’d have my own room to sleep in, and I’m not afraid of you.” She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, eyeing him squarely. “I’m not afraid of hard work, either, but I’m mighty sick of it. I’ll tell you right now, I’ve toted the last crate of apples I’m going to. You can unload that wagon of yours tomorrow and go out to the orchard and do the honors. It’ll be fine to have a horse and wagon on the place again.”

“When can we marry, Miss Johanna?” His words were harsh, as if he were holding back a measure of emotion he wasn’t comfortable with.

“Sunday morning, after service, if that suits you.” She bit at her lip, suddenly aware of the step she was taking.

His hand snaked across the table and grasped hers, enveloping it within his. It was warm and a bit rough, callused across the palm. She was still, her fingers touching his warm flesh, unmoving, as if she were fearful of brushing his skin with her own. It was the first time she’d touched a man’s flesh in years. Except for when she’d helped to lay her Pa out in his Sunday suit for burying.

She felt the squeeze of his hand as he brushed his thumb over her knuckles, and she closed her eyes at the sensation of prickling heat the touch aroused within her.

“Miss Johanna, I’d ask that you treat me nicely when we’re around other folks. You know, like we’re really married. And if I touch you, or act friendly, you could…” He faltered as he searched for words.

“Act like this is a real love match? You don’t want people to think we’re not married in…in fact? Is that what you mean?” Her cheeks bore a faint flush as she provided the words he’d sought. “That’s fine with me, Tate. I don’t think it’s anyone’s business what we arrange between us. I’ll take your arm when we go into church.”

He nodded. “I won’t ask for more than I told you this afternoon.” He released her hand and stood. “This is Friday night, Johanna. I’ll ride to town in the morning and tell your preacher he’ll be having a wedding in his church come day after tomorrow.”

“Good. You can take the eggs and butter into the general store for me while you’re at it, if you don’t mind. It’d save Mr. Turner a trip out if you’d take a couple crates of apples along for him to sell over the counter, too.”

He nodded his assent and turned to the doorway. “I’ll go settle down in the barn, then. It’s getting late enough for those boys to be in bed. We’ll wash up out back.”

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard a muted shout of childish laughter. She’d crossed her bedroom to the window when the sound reached her ears again. The two boys were in front of the barn, Timothy on the ground with the dog. Sheba’s tail was wagging to beat the band, and the boy’s hands were buried deeply in her ruff.

Johanna’s heart lurched in her chest as she watched, and the doubts she’d entertained throughout the evening vanished with the setting sun. It would be worth it to move to the sewing room, or even up to the attic. More than worth it to scrub a man’s work-soiled clothes again and cook three full meals a day for his consumption. She’d have children; finally, she’d know the feel of a soft, warm body and small arms around her neck. Timothy was young enough to need hugs.

Her gaze swung to the man who stepped through the barn door. And for a moment, she wondered what it would feel like to have that tall, muscular body close to hers, those strong male arms holding her.

Her mouth tightened, and she turned from the window abruptly. “You’ve been that route, Johanna Patterson,” she said aloud to herself, “and what did it get you but a lot of heartache? Settle for what the man offered, and count yourself lucky.”




Chapter Four (#ulink_a6c4d15b-4527-5501-bb51-80ef0a784633)


“I surely didn’t expect you’d be making your bedroom in the attic.”

Johanna’s breath caught in her throat as the deep voice cut into her thoughts. Her skirts swirling around her legs, she did an abrupt about-face, turning to seek out the man who was watching her. He was head and shoulders above floor level, his feet planted firmly on the attic stairs, one arm resting on the wide planking of the attic floor.

“Don’t creep up on me that way!” Johanna’s hand was at her throat, and her words were breathless, almost a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” Tate said softly. “I thought you’d have heard me calling you from the back door.”

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she answered, her hands sliding with measured nonchalance into her pockets.

His eyes slid from her to sweep the perimeters of the large, cluttered room, resting finally on the bedroom furniture that occupied one wall.

“What are you doing up here, Johanna?” he prodded, his forehead creasing into a frown.

“Moving things,” she said abruptly.

She’d begun by shifting an old dresser, and then, snagged by bittersweet memories, she’d opened one of the drawers. The clothing inside was neatly folded, just as she’d left it ten years ago, still smelling faintly of her mother’s scented sachets. She’d lifted a soft, worn petticoat to her face and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as they filled with unbidden tears, allowing the wistful thoughts to flood her being for just a moment.

Reluctantly she’d placed the garment back inside the drawer, her fingers lingering on the worn fabric as she set aside the remnants of her mother’s clothing. Wiping her eyes and blowing her nose ferociously, she’d gently closed the drawer.

And then Tate had interrupted her pondering with his blunt query, startling her into a rude reply. It was time to backtrack.

“I’m deciding about this bed.” She folded her arms about her waist, nodding toward the headboard she’d leaned against the dresser.

His eyes followed her direction. “What’s the problem? It looks to me like it’ll fit down that stairway just fine.”

A spark of defiance lit her eyes. “You don’t think the attic would be a proper bedroom for me?”

“I think I’d feel better about it if you slept downstairs with the rest of us.” His frown had somehow vanished as he spoke, a glimmer of amusement taking its place, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes.

“It’s just that it’s my mother’s sewing room I was thinking of using,” she answered obliquely, her hackles rising to meet his arbitrary reasoning.

He tilted his head, his smile gentle. “Your mother’s been gone a long time, Johanna. I doubt she’d want you to make a shrine out of her workroom.” He climbed the remaining stairs and walked toward her. “I’ll help you carry the headboard down if you’d like me to.”

“I know exactly how long my mother’s been dead, Mr. Montgomery. And if I want the bed taken down, I’ll do it myself, the same way I got it up here.” She’d stiffened at his approach, and now her head tilted back, allowing her gaze to clash with his.

He was stooped just a bit beneath the lowering eaves, a tall man, used to allowing for his height. Now he reached out to lay a warm hand on her shoulder, bending even closer, until she could see the shadows beneath his eyes. “You don’t have to move furniture while I’m here, Johanna. If I’m to be the man of the house, I’ll do the heavy work.”

She held her ground, aware of his bulk, the masculine weight of his hand against her more fragile bones. Flexing the muscles beneath that pressure, she shrugged, as if to rid herself of his touch. It wasn’t worth the fuss.

“Suit yourself,” she said, dropping her gaze from his, her mind retaining the memory of his eyes and the shadows they contained. Perhaps he hadn’t slept well out there in her barn. Maybe his nights, like hers, were occasionally prey to demons that stole sleep.

“Will you need help making room for us in the house today?” he asked, releasing her and reaching for the heavy wooden headboard. “The boys are anxious to see where they’ll be sleeping. I think they’ve lost their appetite for roughing it.”

“They’ll be usin’ my old bedroom. It has a big bed in it. I suppose they can bring in their belongings as soon as I empty my things from the dresser and the wardrobe.”

“They’re pretty easy young’ns,” he said with a trace of pride. “They’ll be happy most anywhere, long as there’s something softer than the ground to sleep on.”

Johanna stepped aside, watching him lift the headboard with ease, carrying it down the stairs as if it were no heavier than a length of two-by-four. She followed him, her steps light, her house shoes silent against the uncarpeted stairs.

“Which room am I headed for?” he asked over his shoulder, shifting his burden to accommodate the corner at the foot of the attic stairs.

“The end of the hallway, on the right,” she told him, closing the attic door behind herself as she followed him down the wide corridor. She scurried past him quickly, opening the door to her mother’s sewing room, making way for him to follow.

He halted in the doorway and whistled softly. “Not a whole lot of space, is there?”

A paisley shawl caught his eye, its folds draped gracefully over a sewing machine in one corner. The black iron treadle below was angled, as if a feminine foot had left it only moments ago.

A wardrobe filled another corner, its doors closed snugly. A small dresser was tight against the wall near the door, a daintily crocheted scarf centered on its surface. Beneath the window, a worktable lay empty, not so much as a pincushion remaining in view. Obviously Johanna had not made regular use of her mother’s room. Either that or she was the neatest woman he’d ever met.

A faint scent, perhaps that of rose petals, caught his attention, and for a moment he felt another presence, as if the woman who had been the possessor of this space lingered still. And then the notion vanished as Johanna moved across the floor, her gaze measuring the walls and floor space.

“I think there will be room enough once the worktable and sewing machine are taken upstairs.” She turned to him expectantly, as if she awaited his opinion.

“Whatever you think, Johanna.” He’d already decided to be as obliging as he could. The house was her domain. The lines would be drawn soon enough when it came to the running of the farm.

“I’ll move most everything upstairs.” She spoke softly, one hand brushing at a speck of dust on the dresser. “This chest will be large enough for my things.”

“I’ll take care of the heavy stuff. Where do you want the bed to go?”

She started abruptly. “Oh! Here, put it against the wall. We’ll have to move the sewing machine and the worktable out first, won’t we?” Her fingers lingered on the surface of the dresser as she spoke. “I’ll empty out these drawers after a while.”

Tate leaned the heavy headboard against the wall and straightened. “Tell me how this table comes apart. I’ll carry it upstairs and bring down the rest of the bed.”

Johanna watched as he put one knee to the floor, leaning to peer beneath the table where long bolts held the legs in place. “My father built it for her,” she told him, moving to his side and crouching next to him. “He made it just like the one her mother had, back in the city. Shall I get the tools from the kitchen for you to use?”

He’d shifted to both knees, his hands already busy with the heavy nuts holding the bolts in place. “Your pa did a good job, I’d say. These things are tighter than an old-”

Johanna’s eyebrows lifted as he paused. “An old maid’s pucker?” she asked.

He ducked his head, backing out from beneath the table, a grin twisting his mouth. “Yeah, that’s what I was about to say. Then thought better of it.”

“I am an old maid, Mr. Montgomery. And not ashamed of it.”

“But not for long, Miss Patterson,” he reminded her, his grin fading as he took note of her somber expression. His jaw tightened as he recognized the faint uneasiness she sought to hide. Her hands were buried in the folds of her apron, her fingers no doubt clenched tight. Johanna Patterson was taking a big chance marrying a stranger, and it would behoove him to treat her with kid gloves, at least till the deed was done.

“If you’ll collect those tools for me, this won’t take long,” he said quietly. “I’ll be taking that ride into town as soon as I move these things for you. I’m sure the preacher’s looking for me to stop in to let him know what we’ve decided to do. It wouldn’t look right for me to be staying here without making our arrangement legal.” Rising, he reached one hand to where she crouched beside him, silently offering his assistance.

Deliberately, carefully, she placed her fingers across his, watching as he enclosed them in the warmth of his wide palm, then tugged her with gentle strength to stand before him.

“You haven’t had second thoughts, have you?” His grasp on her fingers had not lessened, and now he raised them to rest against his chest.

Her eyes widened at the gesture, her heartbeat quickening just a bit. Tate Montgomery was a tall man, a big man, standing head and shoulders over her. He could have been intimidating, had he chosen to do so, but the hand that held her own was gentle.

She shook her head. “No, no second thoughts. And yes, if we expect him to marry us tomorrow, I agree that you need to deliver a message to Reverend Hughes right away.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “I don’t want to have the town talking. Heaven knows we’ll be giving them enough to gossip about tomorrow as it is. I’m not sure they’d even approve wholeheartedly of your staying here last night.”

“Well, I don’t think my spending one more night in your barn will ruin you beyond redemption, ma’am. I suspect everyone in town knows I’m here, anyway.”

She winced. “Yes, you’re probably right. They’ll be looking you over in grand style come tomorrow morning, Mr. Montgomery. Not to mention whispering behind their hymnals when we march down the aisle before morning service.”

His hand exerted just the smallest amount of pressure on hers, his eyes assessing her quickly. Fine wisps of golden hair curled at her temple, a smudge of dust provided mute evidence of her foray into the attic, and her cheeks were brushed with a delicate rosy hue that gave away the conflicting emotions she was struggling with. “I’ll be with you, Johanna. The boys and I will march down that aisle with you, just like a real family.”

“I’m counting on that, Mr. Montgomery.” Her fingers wiggled a bit, and he freed them readily from their captivity.

“Last night I was Tate,” he reminded her. “What happened to turn me back into Mr. Montgomery?”

She turned to the door, resting her hand on the knob, hesitating at his query. “Nothing, I suppose. Tate it is. I’ll go and get the wrench from the kitchen for you.”

“I want to be in town by noon, Johanna. I’ll take the sewing machine upstairs now, and you can decide what else you want moved after you find the tools. If you call out for the boys, they’ll help you get the eggs and butter ready for me to take.”

“Yes, all right.” Her voice floated back to him from the wide stairway as she hurried down to the first floor, and he smiled at her words. He had a notion that Johanna Patterson wouldn’t always be so agreeable. In fact, if he had her pegged right, she’d be a worthy opponent for any man. No matter—he’d never backed off from a battle before. Settling down to a marriage with Johanna might very well be a real struggle, but it was one he was more than willing to wage. She’d make a good mother for Pete and Timmy. As for himself, he’d have the farm to run, and hot meals on the table and clean clothes to wear every day.

He turned to where the sewing machine stood. It would be awkward carrying it, but not more than he could handle. Kind of like the agreement he’d made with Johanna Patterson, he thought with amusement. He might find things a little awkward at times, but he’d warrant he could handle her. Matter of fact, sorting out Johanna Patterson might prove to be the most interesting part of the bargain.



* * *



“Blest be the tie that binds…” Voices soared around her as Johanna mouthed the words, her throat too dry to add sound. The hymnal she shared with the man next to her would have been impossible to read from, had she held it alone. Her hands were cold, her fingers trembling, and only Tate’s sure strength kept the book from tumbling to the floor.

“…our hearts in Christian love…” he sang, his voice a pleasant rumble in her ear. At least he could carry a tune, she thought. That was one thing she knew about him now. No, she knew he liked cream in his coffee and he had a heavy hand with the sugar spoon, if this morning’s meal was anything to go by. He’d eaten two bowls of oatmeal, laden with brown sugar and half a dozen biscuits, fresh from the oven, then been generous with his praise for her cooking.

His hand slid the songbook from her grasp, and she glanced up at him in surprise. The closing hymn was over, and he placed the book on the pew, then stepped a few inches closer to her. His pant leg brushed her skirt and his palm cupped her elbow as his head bent, the better for him to speak privately.

“You weren’t singing.”

Her breath caught, shivering in her chest, and she wished fervently—just for a moment—that she was at home, feeding the chickens or milking the cows or even carrying those dratted apples to the fruit cellar.

“Are you all right, Johanna?” The teasing note was gone, a worried tone taking its place.

She nodded, clearing her throat. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just wondering what we do next.”

He glanced over his shoulder to where the townsfolk were streaming down the aisle and out the door of the small church. Curious glances had warmed his back all through the service. Whispers of conjecture had accompanied the sound of the piano playing, and even now half a dozen women were gathering at the back door, their heads together. If he was half as smart as he’d always thought, he’d have arranged for himself and Johanna to show up at the parsonage after church.

“Pa? Are we goin’ now?” Pete’s loud whisper was impatient.

Tate bent past Johanna and spoke to the boy. “In a few minutes, Pete. Remember what I told you? Miss Johanna and I need to talk to the parson for a few minutes first.”

The boy sat down on the wooden pew again, his hands hanging between his knees, his face dark with displeasure. Beside him, Timmy yawned widely and swatted at a lazy fly that had settled to rest on the pew in front of him. He waved his cap at it as the insect circled once over his head, and then cast his attention at the dust motes that floated in the brilliant sunlight from a nearby window.

“Have you told them?” Johanna asked quietly, shifting from one foot to the other as she waited for the church to empty.

Tate’s nod was quick, his look a warning as three women made their way back up the aisle to where his family waited.

“Why, Johanna Patterson, it’s sure good to see you here this morning,” Esther Turner sang out loudly. “Thought you’d forgotten the way to church.”

Selena Phillips turned an exasperated glare on the woman. “You know Johanna hasn’t got a horse and wagon these days, Esther. It’s bad enough she walks to town and back all week.” She turned wise blue eyes on Johanna, and said quietly, “I’m so glad to see you today, Johanna. You’ve been a stranger lately.”

Marjorie Jones adjusted her feathered hat, settling it a bit forward on her head and touched her top lip with the tip of her tongue. “I hear tell there’s gonna be a wedding today. Anybody you folks know?” The look she threw at her friends was all but triumphant. That she’d stolen a march on them was obvious from the surprise they didn’t even attempt to conceal.

“You’re gettin’ married?” Esther squeaked. “You and this gentleman here, Johanna?”

“Well, land sakes alive,” Selena said breathlessly. “As I live and breathe, you couldn’t have surprised me any more if you’d tried, child.”

“We only just decided yesterday,” Johanna said, aware of the warmth of Tate’s hand on her elbow. And then that hand slid around her back and rested on the far side of her waist, allowing the whole length of his arm to press against her shoulder blades and ribs. She caught a quick breath and glanced at him. He was beaming at her, almost as if he were a genuine groom, anxious for his wedding to begin.

“Miss Johanna and I are just waiting our turn,” he explained to the three ladies. “Soon as the preacher gets finished with his goodbyes out front, he’s going to come back in here and marry me to this lady. Me and my two boys, that is. She’s agreed to take on the three of us, and try to get us straightened out a bit.” His smile was wide and his eyes were warm with humor as he offered his explanation.

“Well, I never…” Esther spouted. “You’re going to marry up without any fuss at all, Johanna?”

Marjorie set her jaw. “Don’t know why your friends can’t be here, too.”

Selena Phillips bent closer to where Johanna stood. “Perhaps you’d rather do this privately, Johanna. You’ve always been a quiet girl.”

Johanna shook her head. “Yes…I mean, no, I don’t mind if you want to be here for the wedding, Miss Marjorie. You too, Miss Esther. And you,” she said finally, reaching to touch Selena’s arm.

“Kinda sudden, isn’t it?” Marjorie asked, her eyes narrowing as she turned to the man who’d set tongues wagging’ for the past hour or so.

“I’m Tate Montgomery, ma’am. And I’ve been known to make quick decisions in my life. This one promises to be the best idea I’ve ever had. Miss Johanna has agreed to be my wife, and I’d like to invite you and your friends here to watch us do the deed.”

“You new in town, Mr. Montgomery?” Esther Turner chirped.

“Pretty much so, ma’am. But I’m well established already. The bank has my money, so I guess I’m on my way to being a solid citizen. I’ve got an account started at your husband’s store, Mrs. Turner. And here I am in church. What more could you ask of a man?”

Behind them, boots clumped up the aisle, and an impatient voice heralded a new arrival to the group. “Mrs. Jones, I’ve got your boys in the wagon. If you don’t want to walk home, you’d better be on your way.”

Marjorie turned to face her husband. “There’s to be a wedding, Hardy. Bring the boys back on in and wait, why don’t you?”

His keen eyes scanned the small group. “You the groom?” he asked sharply, pinning Tate with his stare. “You marrying up with Fred Patterson’s girl?”

At Tate’s smile, he nodded vigorously. “About time she found herself a man. She’s too young to be wearin’ herself to a frazzle out there.”

Tate swallowed a chuckle. If nothing else, Hardy Jones was blunt. “I’m honored to be marrying the lady. She’s agreed to be a mother to my boys.”

From her other side, Johanna heard a hushed sound that sounded dreadfully like words she’d never dared to allow past her lips. She darted a glance at Timmy and Pete. Timmy’s head was nodding, and his one foot swinging several inches above the floor. Pete was glaring at the floor, his lower lip stuck out, his face flushed and darkened with anger.

“Pete?” she whispered. Surely Tate had told him the wedding would be today, hadn’t he?

Dark eyes met hers and Pete’s mouth twisted into a pout. “I don’t need a mother,” he whispered. “I got my pa.”

“Oh, Pete!” She bit her lip. Whatever Tate had told him, it hadn’t prepared him for this. “Can we talk about this after a while?” she asked softly, leaving the security of Tate’s arm to bend closer to the boy.

“Won’t do any good.”

Johanna’s heart beat faster as she lowered herself to the pew. Careful not to touch the child, she blocked him from view of the others. “Maybe we can be friends, Pete.”

“I don’t need any friends.”

“I do.” The words were faint, spoken on an indrawn breath. Johanna had let them slip from her mouth without thinking, and only after they had been uttered did she realize the truth they held. She didn’t have a close friend to her name. Selena Phillips had always been kind to her. The other ladies in town had greeted her nicely and spoken to her politely. But never had she had a real friend.

From the far side of Pete’s sturdy body, a small, warm hand crept to touch her palm as it rested on her lap. Timmy leaned forward, in peril of falling to the floor, balancing himself oh the very edge of the seat, and smiled at her sleepily. “I’ll be your friend, Miss Johanna.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Her throat ached with unshed tears, and she blinked her eyes vigorously, lest she allow even one teardrop to fall. “I’d like that,” she whispered.

Pete roughly pushed his brother’s arm aside. “I’m your friend, Timmy.”

Johanna smiled at the younger boy, and then the smile faded as she looked up at the children’s father. His brow pulling into a frown, he bent to view the three of them.

“Everything all right, Johanna? The preacher’s coming back in. Are you about ready?”

Was she ready? Heaven knew she needed a boost of strength from somewhere. She’d just been rejected by Tate’s eldest boy, and that on top of the nervous stomach she’d been struggling with all morning. And now it didn’t feel as if her legs were going to hold her upright.

Her lips curved into a shaky smile. “I’m fine, Tate.” Liar, her heart cried.

His hand enclosed hers, and he tugged her gently to her feet, then led her to the altar where the minister waited.

“Last chance to back out, Johanna,” he said so that no one else could hear.

Johanna thought of the cows he’d milked this morning, the hay he’d forked into the mangers. She remembered the easy way he’d carried furniture yesterday, his words of thanks as she served his supper. She envisioned the task of climbing a ladder to pick apples, imagined trying to tend to the herd of cattle all winter, when the west wind blew snow from the big lake. And then she swallowed her doubts as she accepted the hand he offered her.

His arm slid from around her waist, and he clasped her fingers within his own. It would be all right, she decided. It was a good bargain, this marriage she’d agreed to. Taking a deep breath, she fixed her gaze on Theodore Hughes, watching him open the small book he’d drawn from his pocket. His smile was encouraging as he lifted the cover and turned carefully to a page he’d marked beforehand. With one more long look at the couple facing him, he took a breath and began.

“Dearly beloved…”




Chapter Five (#ulink_064050d3-201c-54b6-9c61-186046ab51a5)


“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.




Chapter Six (#ulink_7fb68a76-1eff-56d1-ac9f-bd54e6561c40)


She’d survived two weeks of marriage. Johanna mentally marked the date on the calendar, and a sense of satisfaction curved her lips in a smile. It had been a busy two weeks, too, what with making several trips to town, facing the glances of the curious the first time out. After that, it had been easier.

Even in church on Sunday, they’d been greeted by one and all, with hardly a raised eyebrow to be seen among the congregation at Johanna Patterson’s quick trip to the altar.

Tate was ambitious, she’d give him that, working from early till late. Today was no exception, breakfast barely swallowed before he hustled out the door. He’d lingered only long enough to place a warm hand on her shoulder, reminding her of a button he’d managed to lose from his shirt last evening. She’d agreed to replace it, her mind taken up with the touch of his hand, flustered by his nearness.

And then he’d been gone, leaving her to consider the strange awareness he aroused within her. He was a toucher; she’d noticed that with the boys, and he was given more and more to gaining her attention with a passing brush of those long fingers and broad palms against her arm or waist when the mood struck him.

From outdoors, a squeal of laughter and a shout from Timmy commanding his brother to “Watch me now!” caught her attention, bringing a smile to Johanna’s lips. Whatever the little scamps were up to, it sounded as if they were enjoying it mightily. Another whoop of glee caught her attention, and she left the sink, wiping her hands on the front of her apron.

From the doorway, she watched as Pete scampered from beyond the side of the barn. He carried handfuls of straw, tossing it in the air, blowing it vigorously, trying without much success to keep one piece afloat on the updraft his small lungs provided.

Johanna laughed, pleased at his carefree expression, relieved that the frown he’d worn like a favorite garment over the past weeks seemed to have disappeared.

“Watch me slide!” Timmy’s high voice demanded attention once more, and Johanna halted midway to the stove.

Slide? What on earth could the child be doing? Where was he playing? The only thing around the corner of the barn was the big strawstack.

And in that moment, she knew.

Spinning on her heels, one hand outstretched to open the screen door, she ran. From the corner of the barn, Pete caught sight of her flying footsteps, dropping the remnants of straw he held, his eyes darkening as he watched her advance.

“Pete, have you been playing on the strawstack?” Her hands held the. front of her dress from the ground as she hurried past him, not awaiting his reply, already certain of what she would see as she rounded the corner.

“Pete? Are you watchin’ me?” Feet poking holes kneedeep as he climbed, Timmy was tackling the far side of the stack, gleefully chuckling as he plunged into the smoothly layered straw.

Johanna’s hand lifted to cover her mouth as she watched, her aggravation at the ruin of the stack diluted by the child’s pleasure. Once more down the slope wouldn’t cause any more damage than he’d already done, she decided with a grimace.

Finally reaching the top, Timmy levered himself into place, and with a final whoop sailed down the smooth slope, landing in a pile of yellow straw. He lifted both hands to his face, brushing the floating wisps of straw from his eyes, catching sight of Johanna as he blinked.

“Did you see me, Miss Johanna?” Pride and laughter fought for supremacy in his chortled query as he knelt at the foot of her ruined strawstack.

“Yes, I saw you, Timmy.” Her voice was a dead giveaway, she knew, all harsh and breathless from her hurried trip across the yard. “You boys had no business climbing the strawstack. You’ve managed to make holes all over it for the rain to get in. It’ll be ruined if we don’t get it under cover before a shower comes up. Your pa has enough to do, without this kind of a mess to take care of.”

Behind her, a snort of impatience announced Pete. “You just don’t want us to have any fun. You think we should just work all the time on your old farm.”

Johanna spun to face him. His jaw jutted forward as he completed his accusations, and his eyes squinted at her in the bright sunlight. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he stood spraddle-legged at the corner of the barn, defiance alive in his glare.

“Don’t you know better than to play in the straw, Pete?” Living on a farm all his life as he had, surely his father had warned him about ruining a stack of straw. Canvas was hard to come by, but once the pile was disturbed, the rain would not slide from its surface, and only the heavy fabric would keep the stack dry and usable.

“My pa always let us have fun back home,” the boy answered, his mouth drawn into a pout.

“I want you to have fun here,” Johanna said quickly. “But not at the expense—” She drew a deep breath. It was no use scolding any longer. She’d only succeeded in making the child angry as it was, and poor Timmy was crouched in a pile of straw, looking as if he were about to be scalped.

“I’m sorry to have shouted at you. What’s done is done.” Johanna reached one hand to Timmy, taking several steps to where he squatted, almost in the cave where she’d pitched out straw from the side of the stack. “It’s time for dinner. Come up to the house and get washed up,” she told him, waiting for him to take her hand.

With a quick look at his brother, Timmy nodded, standing and accepting the hand she offered. “We was just climbing the mountain,” he explained, his brow furrowing, his nose wrinkling as he sought to move a straw resting there.

Johanna swept her free hand through his dark hair, her fingers fluffing the stray yellow wisps from its silken length. Her heart went out to the child, his innocence shining from eyes so blue they reminded her of summer skies.

“We were just playin’, and my pa won’t like it that you yelled at us,” Pete announced stoutly.

“Your pa will have to find a piece of canvas and top off this stack before the afternoon’s over, and you’d better plan on helping him with the chore,” Johanna told him quietly, her aggravation under control.

From the orchard, a shrill whistle caught her ear, and she spun to face the direction where her apple trees stood in neat rows. The tall figure of Tate Montgomery strode through the section where she’d planted several lateripening northern spy trees, his head covered by a wide-brimmed hat. He lifted one arm in a wave, the other hand clasping a bucket laden with apples.

Her heartbeat quickened as she watched him stride through the tall grass, down the slope past the pasture fence and toward the house. His long legs carried him at a rapid pace, and a grin of satisfaction curled his mouth as he neared. So quickly he had found a place here on her farm. Just as rapidly, he’d managed to plant himself right smack in the middle of her every waking thought.

She shook her head, willing the small trickle of pleasure she felt to be subdued. The man was a sight to behold, but she hadn’t the right to…to what? Surely it did no harm to please herself by admiring his broad shoulders and longlegged stride.

That she’d ever considered the young Joseph Brittles to be a likely candidate for her husband those ten long years ago was more than she could fathom now. Now that she’d met Tate Montgomery. Her eyes were fixed upon him as he brushed a path through the near meadow toward her, like a colossus making his way across a field of battle.

“Brought you a bucket of the first Baldwins, Johanna. Thought you could bake some for dinner. Sure would taste good with some brown sugar and cinnamon sprinkled over the top.” He swung the heavy pail easily, as if the half bushel or so of apples weighed but a few ounces, instead of the twenty-five pounds she was certain it contained.

Tilting her head to one side as she considered his request, she nodded. “I can do that. Anybody who picks apples half the morning ought to get a little of the fruit of his labor, I always figure.”

His laugh was boyish in its cheerful exultation, as if he had not a care in the world. The bucket swung, the apples it held brimming over the top, and Johanna was struck by the masculine beauty of the man she’d married. His hair was blown by the breeze, probably tangled by apple branches while he’d poked amid them on the ladder. Sweat staining his shirt in a half circle beneath each arm and his hands soiled by the honest labor he’d done thus far today, he presented a picture she could only admire.

“I’ll carry these to the kitchen for you, Mrs. Montgomery,” he told her, a grin wreathing his face.

The somber man she first saw two weeks ago atop his wagon had been a far cry from the male specimen facing her now, she thought. Tate Montgomery thrived on hard work. Sunrise found him in the barn, milking and feeding the cows. Contrary to his joking appraisal of his skills, he was an accomplished farmer, she’d found. Whistling softly, cajoling the cows with gentle, coaxing praises, he made short work of the chores.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/carolyn-davidson/the-forever-man/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.



Если текст книги отсутствует, перейдите по ссылке

Возможные причины отсутствия книги:
1. Книга снята с продаж по просьбе правообладателя
2. Книга ещё не поступила в продажу и пока недоступна для чтения