Carolyn Davidson (10 page)

Her shawl seemed warm enough, she decided, for a quick check on Timmy in the barn. He’d even slept away part of the day yesterday curled in the hay, watching over his kittens. Johanna walked slowly, soaking up the wintry sunlight.

From the other side of the barn, she heard Sheba’s sharp warning bark, and her step quickened. Then Timmy’s voice, high and shrill. Johanna’s groan was heartfelt. Surely he wouldn’t be fooling with the stallion.

Suddenly the child ran pell-mell around the corner, his eyes wide, his mouth open to yell her name. “Miss Johanna!” Skidding to a halt, he waved his hands in a frantic gesture. “Come quick! Pete’s gonna—Come stop Pete.” In garbled sentences, he sought her aid, and Johanna ran to him, crouching before him, holding his small hands within her own.

“Tell me, Timmy. What is it?”

He tore his hands from her grasp and clutched at her skirt. “He’s gonna ride the cows! Pete’s gonna practice.”

“Oh, dear Lord, no!” Johanna’s heart sank. Wandering the edge of the pasture was one thing. The steers Tate had put there were pretty placid animals. But the boys had been told to stay clear of them, and with good reason. Should Pete attempt to climb up on one of them, he could be terribly hurt.

She ran, aware as she did that the boy was indeed circling a wary steer, an animal who’d been roaming the woods and swamp for over a year. At the fence line, Sheba
paced back and forth, barking her warning, dashing in to nip at the heels of the steer to send it from Pete’s path.

“Pete! Stop it!” She bent as she neared the barbed.wire fence to slip between the strands, dropping her shawl to the ground. Holding one strand as high as she could pull it, she hunched her shoulders, careful to evade the sharp barbs.

With a resounding snap the wire gave, pulling from its fasteners on the next post, coiling in a movement so rapid she could only catch a breath as it wound around her body. Stinging, fiery darts of pain surrounded her, and she jerked, knowing as she did that it was foolish. Yards of wire encircled her, the spaced barbs digging through her clothing, gouging and scratching her flesh as she drew away from them in automatic movements.

“Pete, come help!”

Timmy’s shriek echoing in her ears, Johanna teetered, falling to the ground. She screamed-a high-pitched, painful cry that ended on a mournful note as she hugged her arms tightly against her body, seeking only to evade the piercing thrust of the barbed wire.

“Pa! Pa!” The boys’ voices echoed in the clear air as they ran the length of the pasture fencing, one within the wire, the other outside. At the far corner, Pete slipped between the wires and raced full tilt, Timmy sobbing as he watched his brother go. Frightened, he retraced his steps, panting as he ran, murmuring beneath his breath.

“Pete went to get Pa!” he cried, his voice breaking as he knelt beside Johanna’s still form. Tears ran in rivulets down his cheeks, and he rubbed at his eyes with chubby fingers. “I don’t know what to do!” His words were anguished, his small face drawn into a mask of helplessness.

“Don’t touch me.” It was a gasping plea. She’d found that if she held her breath, forcing only shallow, small pants between her lips, she could bear the pain inflicted by the dozens of small wounds. The thought of being moved, of the wire pressing new lacerations into her tender flesh,
made her physically ill, and she swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

The sun was mercifully warm, and in the outer reaches of her mind she was thankful. Beneath her, the ground was cold, and she cursed herself silently for not wearing her heavy coat. The cuts would have been less severe, she would not be as chilled, and she wouldn’t have totally ruined her good house dress. That such a mundane thought could occupy her mind in the midst of such pain brought a grunt of aggravation to her lips, and Timmy bent over her, brushing her cheek with his mouth.

“I wish I could kiss it and make it better, Miss Johanna. You’re bleedin’ real bad on your arm. It’s makin’ your dress all wet. And on your front, too.”

She held her breath against the pain once more, and squinted her eyes. The sun was dimmer, fading almost. Surely it wasn’t growing dark, not in the middle of the afternoon. And then her eyes closed, and consciousness slipped away.

“Get the wire nippers from the barn, Pete. Timmy, you run to the house and get a dish towel and run some water on it. Wring it out if you can and bring it here.” Kneeling beside Johanna’s still figure, Tate called out orders, his voice harsh. His hands clenching into fists, he forced himself to wait.

The wire had circled her several times, pressing its barbs into her arms and body. Drops of blood stained her dress in numerous places—one spot looked as though she’d jerked against the wire, scratching a deep area on the fleshy part of her upper arm. By some miracle, her face and head had remained free of the lashing wire. He whispered his gratitude, even as he sent forth a prayer in her behalf.

Surely the God she worshiped would be merciful. That this good woman should be so badly wounded was unfair. Though she was not in danger of bleeding to death, the
numerous wounds had brought her to a blessed state of unconsciousness. Her dried tearstains, silent evidence of despair, made him wince as he watched her. He longed to hold her close, knowing he could not touch her until the wire was cut and her body set free from its dreadful embrace.

“I got the nippers, Pa!” Pete was running wildly, his feet tripping over small hillocks as he plunged across the barnyard. Skidding to a stop, he handed the tool to his father, falling to his knees to watch the proceedings.

Fast on his heels, Timmy arrived, the dripping-wet towel in his outstretched hands. Tate took it and squeezed it quickly, then placed it on Johanna’s forehead. Her lashes fluttered, and he gritted his teeth.

“Hold still, honey.” His whisper was strained, and she shivered at the sound. .

Transferring the nippers to his right hand, Tate slid the bottom pincer beneath the topmost wire and squeezed the handles. A soft moan of pain tore at him, and he clenched his jaw against the sound.

“Don’t move, Johanna. Can you hear me? I’m cutting the wire.” Again he manipulated the tool, careful lest he impress the barbs against her flesh. “Lay still, sweetheart. I’m going to have you free in just a minute.”

His eyes narrowed as he shifted, loosening another loop, this one pressing across the fullness of her breasts. At the sound of her sob, he gritted his teeth, moving down another few inches.

“Just a few minutes more, Jo. Don’t move, honey.”

“Uhhh…Oh, God!” It was a beseeching whimper, spoken so low he scarcely could hear it, yet the sound of her fervent plea tore at his composure.

“Ah, damn it all, honey. Don’t move, sweetheart! I’m tryin’ so hard not to hurt you, baby.”

As if he must bathe the wounds with tenderness, his words poured over her in a fervent litany. And she responded.
Her breathing quieted, and only a small shiver each time he cut a wire revealed her awareness of his task.

Finally the wire lay spread on either side of Johanna, and Tate considered the problem of moving her from the grasping barbs that were still embedded in her clothing from beneath. Sliding his arms under her shoulders and knees, he half knelt beside her, ready to lift his burden.

“Now, when I pick her up Pete, very carefully pull down the wire that’s caught in her clothes. Can you do that?” he asked, his eyes sending a message of strength to his young son.

“Yes, Pa.” As if he knew his folly had brought them to this place, Pete bent low, his brow furrowing, his small hands ready to do the task his father had assigned. He bit at his lip, squinting through the tears that slid down his cheeks, and his hands grasped the wire, tugging it away as his father lifted Johanna from the ground.

Tate watched her face as he rose to his feet, his strong arms supporting her. Finally, as the last strand fell away, he held her close to his chest, his mouth open and warm against her forehead.

“Johanna, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have had that fence in better shape. This is my fault. I’m so sorry.” In a chorus of penitence, he moaned his regret, carrying her to the house.

Behind him, Pete dragged his feet. Timmy raced ahead, opening the kitchen door, holding it wide, allowing Tate to carry his wife into the house.

“Pete, find Johanna’s scissors. They’re somewhere in the kitchen, I think.” Tate’s voice floated back down the stairs as he climbed. “Timmy, fill the washpan full of warm water from the stove and have Pete carry it up here. Bring up a couple of towels with you.”

Without hesitation, he pushed open his bedroom door and strode across the room. And for the first time, he placed his wife in the center of his bed. His mouth twisted as he
absorbed the irony of it all and sat beside her, his fingers already busy with the buttons of her dress.

“I…hurt…so…bad.” Her words were spaced, each one borne by a separate breath, and he bent to drop a quick kiss against her cheek.

“I know you do, honey. I know you do.” The buttons were undone, and he drew back to consider the problem. “I think I’m going to have to cut your dress off, Jo. I hate to ruin it, but I don’t want to move you until I find out how bad you’re cut up.”

“Bad.” The one word, spoken in such a grumpy, sullen tone of voice, almost made him laugh. That she could be sassy was a good sign, he decided.

Through the doorway Pete appeared, carrying the pan of water, Timmy behind him, bearing the scissors. “Here, Pa. Where do you want this?” Towels were draped over his shoulder, and Tate took them from him, motioning to the bedside table. Depositing his responsibility there, Pete backed from the room. Timmy stepped closer to the bed, his gaze clinging to Johanna.

“Is she all right, Pa?” His words exposed the anxiety he felt, and Tate reached a hand to brush back the boy’s hair.

“She will be, Timmy. Why don’t you go on downstairs with your brother? Close the door behind you.” Tate took the scissors and sent the child on his way, waiting only till the latch caught before he turned to the task at hand.

The scissor blade slit first one sleeve, then the other, slicing its way across the bodice of her dress to the front opening on either side. With a grim look at her closed eyes, he continued, opening the front of her clothing from top to bottom, splitting her petticoat and chemise, cutting through her underpants as he went.

Carefully, gently, he turned back the layers of fabric, exposing the pale flesh they covered, until only her stockings,
held above her knees with store-bought garters, remained to cover her from his sight.

She was fair-skinned, this wife of his. Only her hands and lower arms were tanned from the summer sun, probably when she’d worked in her garden. Her breasts were full, rosy-tipped and firm. Across her left one, a long gouge angled from side to side, barely missing the puckered crest. His breath was a sigh of relief. How much worse that could have been, he thought. Her arms were riddled with numerous small punctures, the blood oozing anew from the removal of her dress tugging at the wounds.

He rolled her away from himself, noting each scratch, each small piercing of her flesh, down to where her hips rounded in a graceful curve and her buttocks showed evidence of more gouging. None of them looked to be serious, the long jagged cut on her arm the deepest

Once more he brought her to lie on her back, and her sigh of relief was a shudder that swept over her small body. She’d looked so sturdy, so neatly put together, in her clothing. How could he have guessed the fragility beneath those cotton dresses, the slim length of her arms and legs that she’d hidden from his view?

Greedy for the sight of her, yet ashamed of his carnal desire for the woman he tended, he wrung out a towel in the water, careful in his ministrations as he bathed her cuts. Gently he cleaned the scratch across her breast, noting the automatic flinch of her flesh as he pressed his fingers against the plush surface.

“I’m sorry, Jo. I don’t mean to hurt you.” And he didn’t. With all his heart, he wished he could take the pain he was inflicting on her and make it his own.

“It’s all right.” Finally, her words were clear, and his gaze swept to hers. Open and lucid, the blue eyes that looked at him were filled with pleading. “I don’t want you to look at me, Tate.”

He shook his head. “I know, but I have to, honey. I’m
just going to wash you off and then turn you over and do your back.”

“I can do it,” she argued, her voice stronger now.

“No.” It was a firm refusal, with no hint of compromise to be heard in its depths. “Just don’t move now. We’ll be done in no time, and then I’ll put salve on your cuts.”

The towel rinsed once more, he began at her waist, moving to the softly rounded flesh of her belly. And there his fingers slowed their movements, the towel hesitating in mid air as he lifted it from one spot to move to another.

Across the rounding of her hips, across the tender flesh above the thatch of pale, curling hair, were faint lines of white scarring.

“Jo?” His gaze flew to hers, even as the towel lowered to cover the evidence he’d discovered. “Jo?” How could it be? He shook his head, unbelieving, yet aware of the unmistakable signs he’d uncovered. His wife had borne two sons, had carried the same silvery scars across her belly and hips, mute evidence of her motherhood.

“Please, let me do this.” Her whisper was a plea, and her gaze was fearful as her hands lifted to clutch at the towel he’d spread across her belly.

“It’s all right. Hush, now,” he said quietly, forcing the knowledge he’d gained in the past few moments to the back of his mind. Aware only that her need for his care must supersede all else, he continued with the bathing he’d begun. Her hands dropped to lie by her sides and her eyes closed as tears of mute misery spilled down her temples and into her hair.

And while he worked, bathing and applying salve, learning the curves of her body as he went, his mind dwelled on the silvered scars that betrayed her secret.

Johanna had had a child.

“I
rescued the bread, Jo. And the pot roast is almost ready. I just cut up some vegetables and put them in with the meat. We’ll have stew.” As if he were reciting the letters of the alphabet, Tate listed his recent accomplishments.

He’d made matter-of-fact conversation. He’d cleaned up the mess of towels and the wash basin, disposed of her cutup clothing and managed to find a nightgown to slip over her head. He’d lifted her, supporting her back against his broad chest, as he lowered the white cotton into place. His big fingers had buttoned up the bodice and tugged the material down to cover her, sliding the blanket back as he went, careful to keep her nakedness hidden from sight.

But he hadn’t looked at her face. Not once in the hour or so he spent tending her, straightening the room, moving around the bed, had his eyes met hers. Even as he released her hair from its braid and combed through the golden length with his fingers, he’d carefully looked away, keeping himself from the intimacy of her gaze.

In one way, she was grateful. She’d feared reminders of those minutes when he’d tended her wounds, when the long-concealed secrets of her body had been revealed in the light of day to him. She’d seen his reaction, his eyes
narrowing as he viewed her breasts. She’d shrunk from his fingers as they traced the scratch, embarrassed at the rush of heat that accompanied that callused touch.

Tate had only seen what most any husband would be more than familiar with. But not Johanna Patterson’s husband. Not when she’d bargained to sleep alone in her lonely bed, lest he discover her lack of virginity and turn from her.

And now he knew. As he washed and tended her, he’d hesitated. His eyes had widened, his lips had parted for just a moment as he saw, recognized.

Johanna shivered, shrinking within the voluminous depths of her nightgown, painfully aware of the scratch across her breast, the deeper gouge in her upper arm. The rest of it was small potatoes. Just an irritating reminder of her own stupidity. Within a week, the scabs would form and fall and she’d be left with a series of small scars to mark the folly of her carelessness.

Tate Montgomery was another matter. The knowledge he’d gained this afternoon had managed to turn him into a silent, wary stranger. He’d been kind enough, his hands gentle as he moved her in the bed, his voice husky with concern as he bade her rest easy.

Now he stood in the doorway, as if unwilling to come closer, explaining the pan-rattling and stove-clanking she’d heard for the past hour.

“That sounds fine, Tate. I appreciate you taking hold this way.” She rolled toward him, biting at her lip lest she allow the gasp of pain to escape, her skin protesting the shifting of muscle beneath it

“Don’t move, Johanna! I’ll help you if you need to get up.” In quick strides, he was at her side, his hands lifting the bedding to allow her movement beneath it.

“Before long,” she muttered. The urge to make a trek to the outhouse was upon her, but she dreaded the ordeal, unsure her legs would carry her so far.

“I’ll get the chamber pot from your room for you, if you need it. Just let me go get it, and I’ll help you up.”

She shook her head. “I can get into my own bed in a while. I’ll use it then.”

His silence was broken only by the sound of Timmy’s laughter downstairs. Tate reached again to tug the blanket into place over her shoulder and said finally, “I don’t think so, Johanna. You’re going to stay here tonight. I’ll help you sit up to eat in a little while. I’ll help you get up to do whatever you need to do before bedtime. But I’m not going to let you sleep across the hall tonight.”

“Where will you sleep?” It had been on her mind almost since he placed her in the middle of this big bed. The bed he’d once told her she wasn’t obliged to occupy. But if the truth were known, she could think of nothing more appealing right now than having Tate Montgomery stretch out beside her and give her the warmth of his body.

“We’ll talk about it after we eat, Jo. Don’t stew over it. I’ll be back in half an hour or so, and we’ll sit you up. I’ll bring the pillows from your bed.”

There could be no doubt. He’d seen those telltale reminders of her pregnancy. She’d not even have known what they were, had she not tended her mother during those last days before she died.

She’d asked about the almost invisible marks her mother bore, and been astounded at the reason for their being. As for her own, she considered them a private matter. She’d never expected any other human being to see them, since she’d considered marriage to be out of the question.

But that had been before. Before Tate Montgomery came into her life, bringing new joy and purpose to every day. And now, what must he think? Surely he’d consider her life nothing but a lie, their marriage a union founded on deceit.

She’d owed it to him to be honest before they married,
to…what? To say, “Oh, by the way, Mr. Montgomery, I bore a child ten years ago.”

Fat chance. He’d have been gone, lickety-split, down the lane and on his way to town.

She’d never have known his kindness and masculine strength. She’d have worn herself to a frazzle tending the stock. She’d have been toting apples all fall. She’d still be walking to town twice a week with eggs and butter.

She’d still be Johanna Patterson—spinster. And even though she wasn’t really his wife, she was known as Johanna Montgomery.

He’d given her his name, and if there was any way to keep it she’d find it. Tate Montgomery was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She’d be danged if she gave up before—

“Pa’s bringin’ up our dinner,” Timmy announced from the doorway. “Do you feel better yet, Miss Johanna?”

To banish this child’s frown of distress, she’d have gladly lied about her pain till doomsday. “I’m a lot better, Timmy. I’ll bet I could sit up if you helped me.”

He approached, moving slowly, his mouth pulled down in a dubious manner, his head cocked to one side. “I don’t think so,” he ventured. “I’m not very big, you know.”

“What are you trying to coax my son into, Johanna?” Humor laced Tate’s words as he came through the doorway, both hands full with the kettle he carried. Behind him, Pete waited, a pail in one hand, a folded tablecloth in the other.

“I wanted him to help me sit up, Tate.” Testing the movement of her arms, she pushed the bedcovers down.

“No need. I’m here to do that.” He placed the covered stew pot on a braided rug next to the bed, motioning to Pete to come into the bedroom. “Bring those dishes on in, son. We need to have that small table from over by the window to put things on. Can you get it?”

Pete nodded, obeying his father’s instructions, careful to
keep his gaze from Johanna, then busied himself lifting plates and silverware from the bucket, piling them on the table. “What do you want with the tablecloth, Pa?” he asked.

“Just you watch, son,” Tate said. “First, we’ll get Johanna ready to eat.” He’d halted her attempts to rise by his very presence; now he reached to complete the task she’d begun. The blanket was pulled down, exposing her slim form, well encased in the white gown, only her bare feet showing beneath the hem.

“Fetch me the pillows from Johanna’s room, Timmy.” Tate bent, his arms sliding beneath Johanna’s knees and shoulders, taking her weight easily, lifting her just inches above the mattress. “Now hold tight to my neck,” he told her. “I’ll slide you up to the headboard and prop pillows behind you.”

She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth against the pain his movements brought about The stabbing hurt was gone, but every shifting of her body caused fresh discomfort.

“There. Let me prop another one on this side, Jo. And then lift your knee and I’ll put one under it to hold you, so you won’t slide down in bed.”

His hand lifted her leg, and she felt a flush rise from her breasts. He’d seen most all of her there was to see, she knew that for a fact. But the brush of those long fingers behind her knee, the warmth of the big palm against her thigh, was almost more personal than the lengthy perusal he’d made of her body earlier. That had been of necessity. This was a lingering touch, a careful movement of his hand, sliding her gown into place.

“Thank you,” she whispered as he settled her against three plump pillows.

“Now we’re going to feed you.” Tate scooped a big helping of stew into a heavy crockery bowl. One-handedly opening a dish towel across her lap with a flourish, he placed the bowl there, gave her a spoon and stood erect.

“Let’s have that tablecloth, Pete. We need to set up our picnic.” Snapping his fingers in a bantering gesture, he motioned to the boys to draw closer. He opened the cloth on the floor and instructed the two boys to take their places, then filled their bowls. Thick slices of fresh bread, generously covered with jam, came next.

“Pray, Pete,” Tate told his son. And they all waited while the boy stumbled through a short blessing. “Thank you, son.” Tate shot a glance of amusement at Johanna, and she blinked her surprise.

He’d been so careful to steer clear of her, except for the lifting and propping, that she’d begun to think he would ignore her for the rest of the day. And now he’d made her a part of the picnic, with that one glance.

She lifted the bowl, holding it close to her chest, and tasted the stew he’d concocted. “It’s good, Tate. I didn’t know you could cook.”

Serving himself from the kettle, he settled on the end of the bed and grinned. “I’m not real fond of the process, but I can do it in a pinch.”

She nodded, relieved at his attempt at humor. “I’ll have to bear that in mind.”

They ate quickly, Timmy gleeful at the impromptu picnic atmosphere, Pete quiet but obviously relieved at Johanna’s well-being.

The dirty dishes went back in the bucket, the tablecloth was folded and placed on top, and the kettle was carried downstairs. Johanna heard the dishes rattling, and then the sound of Tate’s footsteps on the stairs once more.

“We need to talk.” He closed the door behind him and approached the bed. “Look at me, Johanna.”

“I thought you were the one not lookin’
my
way,” she said quietly. “You’ve pretty much been avoiding looking at me since this afternoon.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude. I just had some things to think
about,” he told her. His gray eyes had lost their sparkle. “I think there’s something you need to tell me, Jo.”

“Now?” She looked around the room, as if seeking an escape. “The boys…”

“The boys are getting ready for bed. I’ll tend to them a little later. Right now, it’s just you and me, Mrs. Montgomery.” Sitting down on the side of the bed, he reached for her hand, holding it within the cradle of his palm. “I may be going about this the wrong way, Johanna, but I think we need to—”

“Please…” Her heart felt as though it would burst. She drew up her legs. It was a painful process, and her eyes closed tight at the hurt she dealt herself with the movement. Her head bowed to cradle against her knees, and her hair, unbound and free, fell to cover the sides of her face.

“Ah, damn it, Jo. I’m not tryin’ to cause you any more pain than you’ve already had to bear.” He scooted closer to her, his big palm cupping the back of her head, ruffling her hair awkwardly in comfort. “I didn’t mean to be so ornery to you earlier. I was just sort of in a snit, I guess.” His voice softened, and he bent nearer, his face resting against her head. “Come on, Jo. Don’t take on this way. We’ll talk tonight, if that’s what you want.”

She nodded, moving her head against her knees, willing him to hold her against his chest. But it was not to be.

He cleared his throat. “Do you need to get up now?”

She nodded, only too aware of the misery she’d tried to ignore for the past hour. This was the part she’d been dreading, when he would be privy to her most private tasks.

“Here, sit on the side of the bed, while I get your chamber pot.” He pulled her to the edge of the mattress and eased her legs to the floor. His hands cupped her shoulders then, holding her upright until he seemed to be sure she was balanced and able to hold herself erect. “Will you be all right for a minute?”

She nodded once more, and lifted her head to snatch a
glimpse of him as he walked away from her. The sheer size of the man had struck her more than once today. He’d rescued her, carried her, comforted her—all of which had fed the terrible hunger she’d lived with for so long. To belong to someone. To have a human being in her life who would not turn away from her.

Her mother’s death had left her bereft. Joseph Brittles had turned his back and walked away, denying his love for her. Her father had chosen death over living, even knowing he left her alone. And the greatest hurt of all had been the loss of her child, a tiny scrap of humanity who might have been the one bright spot in her life. Perhaps it had been God’s will that she be punished for her terrible sin. Perhaps he’d taken the child in vengeance, taken the small life before he could draw breath.

It might be that she was doomed to be alone and lonely.

“Johanna?” Tate stood before her, hand outheld to her. “Let me help you up.”

She nodded, extending her fingers to clasp his wrists, allowing him to lift her from the bed. He drew her up until her body was pressed against his, her breasts flattened against his chest, her fingers grasping to clutch at his shoulders.

He held her there, as if he understood her need for solace, his arms sliding into place around her back, taking her weight, lifting her to ease the strain of standing. “All right now? Can you walk over to the screen?”

He’d placed the chamber pot behind the folding screen her mother had used to dress behind for all the years of her marriage, and it was there that he led her, one arm around her middle, the other holding her hand in a firm grip.

“I can do this,” she told him. “I can, Tate.”

He frowned, unwilling to trust her strength.

“Please, just go check the boys. I’ll be fine,” she told him, tightening her jaw. This was where she must draw the
line. And her glare from stormy blue eyes reinforced her words.

He left her there, one hand holding to the back of a rocking chair, the other brushing at her hair. “I’ll be back after a while. If you need me, call out” It was a firm commitment, and she nodded her agreement.