Carolyn Davidson (19 page)

“I’m going up to bed, Tate,” she told him, turning away.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” he said. “Leave the chair. I’ll put it away when I’m done.”

Sensing his eyes upon her, she escaped the small room he’d made his own over the winter months. She climbed the stairs, thinking of his presence in that room of her father’s. Tate’s account book was neatly placed in the center of the desk, accessible should she care to open the cover. His pens and pencils were in the desk drawer, the spectacles he used when he did close work in a leather case beside them.

His books were lined up between heavy brass bookends. Books dealing with the care of animals, periodicals from far-off places with pictures of cows and bulls gracing their pages. Her Sears catalog had been brought to his desk, and she’d seen it open tonight to a page of women’s clothing, catching only a glimpse before he swept it from her view, placing it on the far corner of the desk. The room was clean—she’d swept the carpet herself this morning and dusted the desk, careful not to disturb his papers.

Her days of being denied entry to that male sanctuary were gone. The door remained open now, Tate frequently leaning back in his chair to hold one or the other of his sons on his lap while they told him of their day’s doings. It was a different household since Tate Montgomery had come into her life. A better place to be.

She climbed the stairs slowly, her thoughts confused as she sought vainly to sustain the anger she’d felt for the past week. Perhaps he’d been right to buy the bull. If only he’d told her first, asked her about the new mortgage. But would she have told him to go ahead with it?

She paused at the doorway to their bedroom. No, she probably would have backed from the suggestion, her fear of being indebted to the bank a strong deterrent to such an idea. But he should have told her. Stubbornly she clung to the thought. He’d gone behind her back and mortgaged the farm. Once more she was at the mercy of the bank.

She undressed slowly and crawled beneath the quilts, her pillow drawn as close to the side of the bed as she could get it. She’d been awakening every morning in his arms, and for the life of her she could never figure out how she’d gotten there. He made no excuses, releasing her reluctantly as she pushed away from his warmth in the early-morning darkness, and she shivered as she thought of the promise of pleasure those strong arms held.

His footsteps were almost silent as he came up the stairs and down the hallway. She’d left the lamp burning, a low flame that sputtered as it struggled to stay lit. In the faint glow, she watched from beneath lowered eyelids as Tate slid his suspenders from his shoulders and opened the front of his trousers. As if he welcomed her scrutiny, he undressed in front of her, sitting to remove his stockings, shedding his shirt to the floor and stripping off his trousers with one swift movement.

She knew he’d seen her watching, had caught the quick flicker of his eyelids as he glanced toward the bed. And yet she could not look away. He went to the dresser and turned the wick on the lamp, until only the moonlight from the window lit the room. Then, clothed in his underwear, he walked from her view, to the foot of the bed and around behind her.

The mattress gave when he sat on it, the cool air rushing
beneath the covers when he lifted them. His big body filled the other side of the bed as he stretched his long legs to press against the foot board.

As surely as if she were facing him, she could see him there, looking up at the ceiling, arms bent, his hands stacked beneath his head. And then she turned over, tugging impatiently at her nightgown as it twisted about her legs.

He tilted his head, looking at her, his eyes barely discernible in the darkness, and the need for his touch rose within her like the bubbles in a kettle coming to a full boil.

She swallowed, her throat constricting. “Tate? I’m sorry I’ve—” Her voice failed her, the words she had thought to say seeming to be lodged in her chest.

“Sorry?” His movement was rapid and almost overwhelming as he turned onto his side, blocking the light from the window behind him.

She tried again, moistening her lips and closing her eyes, as if not seeing him loom over her might make it easier to speak. “I mean…I haven’t been a wife to you for a while, since before you went to Chicago.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” he said dryly. He shifted, lifting himself to his elbow, leaning closer. “Are you offering to make love with me, Jo? ’Cause if you are, I won’t refuse. And if you’re not, you’d better scoot back over and hug that mattress before I get any more ideas than I’ve already got about the matter.”

“You’ve got ideas?” Her voice trembled, and her eyes opened wide, as she grasped the last thing he’d said, repeating it as if at a loss to speak a thought of her own. Her brain befuddled at his nearness, her only thought was to reach out, to touch him, to feel those big, strong hands against her flesh.

She was close to weeping as she considered a future without Tate Montgomery. Even one more day without him
holding her and giving her the gift of himself was almost more than she could bear.

“Johanna? If you don’t want me to do this, you’d better back off right now, because I’ve stayed clear of you about as long as I can.”

His hoarse whisper was a warning, one she could not heed. Her heart was beating with a strange thumping rhythm, her ears were ringing, her eyes were blurring with tears that would not be denied, no matter how hard she blinked.

Her body was limber, forming to his as she rolled against him, her arms clutching him in a frenzy of despair. “I need you, Tate,” she cried against his shoulder, unknowingly echoing his own urgent cry in the springhouse in the early-morning hours. Her sobs were harsh as she clung to him, her fingers digging without mercy into his shoulders, sliding to his arms, then reaching for a frantic hold against his back.

“Tate?” Her cry muffled against his throat, she thrust her body upward against him, seeking the union of flesh, only to be frustrated by the layers of clothing that separated them.

“Johanna…Here, baby, sit up for me.” He spoke in her ear, his voice harsh, as he tugged at her nightgown, pulling it up and over her head. It caught, the buttons half-undone, and his big fingers struggled to work at them. He finally tore at the fabric before he managed to free her from the voluminous garment.

Kneeling beside her, he lifted her to face him and she knelt, too, swaying as his head bent to her breasts. He cupped them in his hands, holding them before him as if he would feast on their bounty, his mouth open against the firm flesh. Whimpering, she stroked his fingers, the backs of his hands, squeezing with her lesser strength as he molded her to suit his purpose. His lips were hot and hungry against her, and his tongue was urgent as he suckled,
and she cried out, a high, keening sound, her head falling back, her eyes closing.

The tears ran in a steady stream, her choked sobs accompanied by the sound of his name, spoken in breathless murmurs and yearning whispers. “Tate! Tate!” She twisted against him, her whispers urging him with frantic wooings. “Yes, please…there…there.” Her hands left his and pressed the back of his head, as if she were fearful that he would move from her. She leaned over him, her mouth brushing countless kisses across his hair, his temple, wherever she could find a place to press her lips. As though she were cradling a child to her breasts, she rocked, pleasuring him with mouth and hands, her fingers tangling in his hair, her lips speaking garbled phrases.

And then he was gone. He’d eased his way from her grasp, stripping the undershirt he wore from his body. His hands were swift, tossing it to the floor, then returning to undo his drawers and push them down his thighs. Quickly he stood, shedding the garment, and her breath caught in her throat at the sight.

Limned in the moonlight, he was framed by the window behind him, like a mythical giant of yore, bent on conquering the woman before him. His broad shoulders and narrow waist were a symphony of power, his arms and hands, reaching for her, an extension of that strength. And when he lifted her to himself, she groaned her exultation.

The touch of his warm flesh against her own beguiled her, the crisp curls on his chest brushing her breasts coaxed her to move against him. His arms tightened, one hand spread over the curve of her bottom, pressing the urgent need of his manhood against the soft flesh of her belly. Rigid and pulsing, it wedged between them, searing and seducing her with its promise.

The long nights in his arms had only served to ready her for this moment. The memory of hours spent in the circle of his embrace surrounded her, enticing her with a sensual
promise she could not resist. A willing captive, she surrendered, clinging, sobbing, her hands frantic against him as she groaned her need.

He fell with her to the bed, catching his weight on his forearms, lest he crush her against the mattress, and she was fluid beneath him, forming her body to his. Tate bent to her, his mouth seeking, taking her cries and multiplying them with his own.

And then he could wait no longer, the days and nights of abstinence pushing him beyond his limits of control. His knees pressed between her thighs, and she moved to his bidding. Surging against her softness, he held her fast, imprisoning her by the force of his male strength. As if he must lay claim to his woman with no preliminaries, no coaxing phrases or pleas for her favors. Only the primitive urgency of a man left bereft by the absence of his mate for too long a time.

And yet it was more than that, for he could exist without the relief her body offered. Even as he took possession of her, he knew that the force driving him required more than ease from the passion possessing him in these moments—more than release from his physical urgency.

The impetus was that of a man’s powerful sense of completion. Without this woman, he was less than he could be. Without Johanna at his side, he was fated to forever seek the elusive unity they had only begun to forge between them over the past weeks.

Lifting to meet his powerful thrust, Johanna caught her breath, her body stretching to conform to him, her heart pounding against her ribs. She twisted beneath him, sobbing as she sought to accommodate his manhood within herself, clutching at him, lest he withdraw from her and take that nourishing presence from her grasp.

“Johanna!” His muted cry was that of a man too long denied, a man who had sought and in the seeking had finally found the satisfaction he yearned for. And with a
shuddering spasm that rocked them both, he surged against her.

She cried out, her face buried against his shoulder, her teeth against his flesh, her being held in the clasp of a pleasure so pure, it seemed she might die from the pain of possessing it. And for a moment, she rested in it, closing her eyes and absorbing the waves of shivering ecstasy it afforded her.

He was heavy against her, and she reveled in his weight. His lips were soft against hers, and she suckled them, carefully, tenderly. His hands were lax, fingers tangled in her hair. She rubbed her head against them, seeking the possession of his touch.

Tate rolled onto his side, taking her with him, folding her in his embrace and pulling the covers over them to keep out the chill of the night air.

“Tate…” Her whisper was his name, but he hushed her with a single word.

“No.”

He could not bear to speak. He could not bear to listen. He could only hold her, seek the comfort of her flesh for the rest of the night, storing up the ardor she had spent upon him as a buffer against the silent woman she might be on the morrow.

For although they had met and shared the passion each had offered the other tonight, the reason for their estrangement had only been put aside for this short time. And he dreaded the dawn, when the woman in his arms would take on the armor of mistrust and wear it as a shield against him.

She must learn in her own time, and nothing he did would bring that to pass any sooner. Almost, he rued the moments just past. He’d behaved like the stallion he’d bred to his mares, taking and conquering without the wooing and coaxing a woman deserved.

He hugged Johanna to himself, knowing that he would
do the same again if he could live over those minutes of possession. That small space of time when they’d become one in the fullest sense of the biblical term. When each small part of them had been in complete accord with the other, when their bodies had found completion in the molding and meshing of male and female. When, for that small instant of time, he had sought for, and found, a taste of what heaven must be.

“L
ooks like spring out there.” Pulling on his coat, Tate turned from the window, his gaze seeking Johanna. “Won’t be long before we hear robins in the mornings.”

“I saw a pair last week.” Johanna answered from the pantry.

“They’re probably already nesting back home. I’d have had my land about plowed by now in Ohio. I used to like watching the robins follow me along the rows, looking for worms.” He crossed the room as he spoke and peered into the pantry. “You suppose we could have pancakes this morning?” Johanna glanced up from where she was filling a bowl from the sack of flour on the shelf. “I suppose,” she answered quietly.

He’d watched her all morning, from the time she left their bed to dress. She’d been aware of him, there on the bed, his dark eyes on her, as she stepped behind the screen to don the dress she’d worn the day before, unwilling to wear her Sunday dress to cook in.

He’d risen then, following her example, pulling on his trousers and heavy shirt, and he’d been right behind her as she came down the stairs. Now, readying himself for the milking, he dallied, his attention still focused in her direction.

She squeezed past him, carrying her heavy crockery bowl in front of her, her eyes unwilling to meet his gaze. “Breakfast will be ready by the time you finish milking.”

It sure sounded like an invitation to leave, as far as Tate could tell, and his mouth twisted into a grin as he followed her across the kitchen.

“Johanna?” His fingers working at the buttons and buttonholes of his coat, he came toward her, and she looked up from the egg she was cracking into the bowl.

It was hard to face him this morning. She’d known from the first that the memory of last night would lie between them. And Tate was not willing to leave it dormant. She bit at her lip, wiping her hands on the front of her apron.

“I don’t think I want to talk about this, Tate.” Their conversation had been of robins and pancakes, but her mind had been on another subject entirely, and she was well aware that his own thoughts had shared the same topic.

He bent to kiss her forehead, a brush of his lips that spoke of understanding. “Just one thing, Jo, and then I’ll not say any more about it.”

She drew in a deep breath. “All right. What is it?”

“I don’t want you fretting about what happened last night.”

She glanced up at him and then away, as if the warmth of his gaze could not be tolerated. “I’m…I just…” She turned her head aside.

His hand touched her cheek, and he spread his fingers to cradle her jaw, tilting her head back. “Don’t ever be ashamed of what you feel, Jo. What we have between us is private. What we share is sacred to our marriage.”

“What I said—” Her voice choked on the words.

He leaned closer. “You said you needed me. I’d already told you the same thing earlier. Nothing you said or did should cause you shame, Johanna. We’re married, and our coming together is always right and proper. And last night was about as right as it’s ever gonna get, as far as I’m
concerned.” He grinned down at her, his lazy, lopsided smile begging her response.

“I don’t know how I could…be that way with you.” Her gaze anguished, she dared another look, her eyes pleading for his understanding. “I’m still feeling…confused, Tate. I’m still angry with you.” She blurted the words harshly.

He nodded. “I know that. It’ll work out, Jo. We’ll make it work.”

Once more he bent, his mouth warm against hers in a brief kiss. As if he bound a bargain between them with that gesture, his hands settled on her shoulders and he squeezed firmly.

Johanna’s head ducked, her tongue touching her upper lip in a tentative movement, and she backed from him. “You’d better get on with the milking. I’ll send the boys out to feed the hens and gather eggs.”

Tate turned to the door, fishing in his pocket for the gloves he’d left there. “I think I’m going to put Pete up on the mare today, maybe after dinner,” he said. “That’ll put a shine on his Sunday, won’t it?”

Johanna looked up, her eyes alight as she imagined the boy’s reaction. “He’ll be tickled pink. I’ll tell him.”

He glanced toward the doorway and into the hall, where the stairs climbed to the second floor. “They need to be up. Want me to call them before I go out?”

Johanna shook her head. “Just go on now and get the milking done. We’ll never get to church if we don’t hurry.”

He nodded and turned from her, reaching for his hat as he passed the peg by the door where it hung.

It had been a mistake to tell the boy before church, Johanna decided, watching as Pete fidgeted throughout the sermon. Reverend Hughes’s words were passing right over his head as he swung his feet, gripping his fingers on the edge of the pew beside her. The sermon about springtime
and renewal and all the wonder of Easter coming up in a couple of weeks were wasted on Pete Montgomery, as far as Johanna could tell. In fact, if she knew anything about it at all, his head was filled with visions of a chestnut mare, himself on her back.

She placed her hand on his knee, stilling the swinging of his foot, and he glanced up at her, blinking as if she had roused him from a delightful daydream. Her barely noticeable nod was enough to make him grin and duck his head.

Tate leaned close, his whisper low in her ear. “He’s thinkin’ about that mare.”

She nodded again. “I know.” She breathed the words, aware of a glance sent their way by Marjorie Jones. With a voiceless apology, she bit her lip and nodded at the woman, catching sight of a smile as Marjorie turned away.

Once more Pete’s leg swung, and his heel brushed against Johanna’s dress. She sighed, accepting that he was lost in his own world this morning. Her hand moved from her lap to rest against his knee once more, and she patted it softly, smiling when he looked up guiltily. Her fingers squeezed gently and her mouth formed a smile. He accepted her touch with a tolerant grin of acknowledgment, nudging her calf with the toe of his boot.

Theodore Hughes wrapped up his message with an admonition to his congregation to take time from their duties to pay heed to the beauty of the earth, the advent of spring and the renewal of life. Then, bidding them rise, he led them in a booming rendition of a hymn, the pianist banging out the melody with more passion than skill.

No matter that the stationmaster’s wife was not an accomplished player, Johanna thought, her soul soaring with the music. The words alone, sung from memory, her voice blending with Tate’s deeper baritone, were enough to fill her heart with the joy of the new season.

“Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise!”

*  *  *

It seemed that teaching Pete to ride required the whole family in attendance. The dinner dishes were left to soak, Pete’s face pressing against the screen door as he urged Johanna to hurry. Timmy was at the barn already, perched on a nail keg, watching as his father prepared the sleek mare for riding.

Johanna’s heart thumped with anticipation as she accompanied Pete across the yard, her shawl hanging from one shoulder. She’d snatched it from the back of her chair as she passed, tossing it in place as she stepped from the porch. The March sunshine had remained, a harbinger of the summer days to come, and she basked in the welcome warmth of it.

Tate led the mare from the barn, his hand grasping the bridle firmly. “Think you can get into the saddle, son?”

Pete nodded, swallowing hard, as he walked past his father.

“Should I give him a leg up?” Johanna asked, wary of the small boy struggling to reach the stirrup.

Tate shook his head, leading the mare to where a large log had been placed. “Left foot in the stirrup, Pete.” The chestnut stood quietly, soothed by the soft sounds of her master, untroubled by the slight weight of the child who climbed quickly into the saddle.

“Lift the reins, son.” Spoken in the same soft tones, Tate’s command was simply a part of the wooing process he’d undertaken with the horse. As he walked with her, he spoke in an undertone, constantly aware of the child in the saddle, his attention attuned to the mood of the animal he controlled.

Pete looked lost in the saddle, to Johanna’s way of thinking. Perhaps she would feel better when the smaller one Tate had ordered arrived. But Pete seemed to have no qualms about the ride he’d undertaken. His legs hung down, his toes barely touching the stirrups, and his face glowed with an eagerness she’d seldom seen expressed by the boy.
He held the reins in his hand, unaware that he was only a figurehead, that his father was the guiding hand in this endeavor.

“Pa, can I ride, too?” Timmy squeaked, bouncing on his toes as he watched his brother’s triumph.

“In a while, Timmy,” Tate promised. “I’ll let you sit in front of me later on. But not by yourself yet.”

“Come here, Timmy.” Johanna held out her hand, and the boy ran to her. “Let me pick you up so you can see better.”

Tate brought the mare in a circle, gripping the reins beneath her chin, stepping up his pace until she broke into a slow trot. In the saddle, Pete bounced in time to the gait, his knees gripping in vain for purchase.

“I can’t make my butt stay where it belongs, Pa!”

Tate grinned. “You’ll learn to ride with it, Pete. It takes time. Don’t squeeze with your knees. Hang on this way.” He paced beside the boy for a moment, his hands pressing on Pete’s lower leg, showing him what he meant. “That’s right, son. Now, just hold the reins easy, don’t pull on them.”

He slowed the mare and halted before Johanna, the dark muzzle just inches from Timmy’s hand. “You can touch her, Timmy, if you want to.” Tate watched as the small boy reached a tentative hand to press against the long face, his fingers stretching to brush against the stiff hair. Then his hand slid, touching the velvety muzzle, and he laughed aloud.

“She’s soft, like the kittens, Pa.” Bending forward, he breathed deeply of the horse’s scent. “She doesn’t smell like the kittens, though, does she?”

Tate’s laughter rang, and Johanna relished the sound, her arms hugging Timmy close. Tate shook his head, still chuckling. “No, she smells like a horse, son.”

“I like her, Pa.” Timmy leaned forward, his cheek
brushing against the mare’s jaw, as if he found bravery in Johanna’s arms.

Tate reached out, taking some of the child’s weight, his arm beneath Johanna’s, and his eyes swept the woman who held his son. “I like her, too, Timmy,” he said softly, his gaze tender. “But I think you’re kinda heavy for Johanna to hold for so long. You need to get down.”

“All right.” Sliding to the ground, Timmy maintained his hold on Johanna’s hand and backed off a step. “That horse looks bigger from down here, Pa.”

Pete’s hand reached forward, and he stroked the mare’s neck, his look impatient as he glanced at his small brother. “Can we ride some more now?”

“I need to tell you a few things first, Pete,” Tate said. Releasing the reins, he snapped a lead rope onto the bridle, then handed it to Johanna. “Here, Jo. Hold this for me, will you? I think she’s pretty well settled down. She seems to take to kids like a champ.”

Johanna held the rope, Timmy reaching up to grasp the end of it, his face glowing. Together they watched as Tate instructed Pete in the holding of the reins and the movement of them to one side or the other.

“I’m going to let you go in a circle around me, Pete.” Tate took the lead from Johanna’s hand and motioned her to stand closer to the barn.

She watched as Tate moved out across the yard, feeding the rope through his fingers, controlling each movement of boy and mare with softly spoken words of instruction. The sun shone with brilliant splendor on the scene before her, and the sky was so blue it seemed to stretch farther than her mind could fathom.

It was a moment of perfection, a space in time to be cherished in memory, and she watched as if mesmerized, as if compelled by the grace and strength of man and beast, the youthful beauty of the child, his face shining with the joy of this moment.

“Miss Johanna? When does it get to be your turn?” Timmy tugged at her hand, his small face earnest as he peered up at her.

Johanna smiled at the boy’s query. “Not today, sweetie. One at a time is enough for your father to handle.”

“I heard that, Jo,” Tate called out. Wrapping the rope into a coil, he drew the mare in a tighter circle, finally reaching to grasp the bridle and bringing her to a halt. “When you want her to stop, you must pull back gently on the reins, Pete, and say, ’Whoa.’“

Pete nodded, his look solemn; he was quite taken with the responsibility he’d gained today.

“I’m going to let you slide down now, and then we’ll let Johanna have a turn.” Tate watched as the boy easily gained the ground and took a tottering step.

“My legs feel funny, Pa.” Pete frowned and then grinned as he gained his balance. “I feel like I’m still up there.”

Timmy was tugging at Johanna’s hand. “I knew it would be your turn next,” he chortled. “Come on, Miss Johanna!”

She dragged her feet, unwilling to be exposed as less than courageous. “Pete’s young and spry, Tate. I think I’m a little old to be learning how to ride,” she protested.

His look was sober. “You might need to ride someday, Jo. I can’t believe your father never put you up on a horse when you were a child. Besides, you might enjoy it once you get the hang of things. I’ll give you a hand up.”

She frowned, looking down at her dress. “I’m not sure this will work.”

“Trust me.” His hand was beckoning, his nod urging her compliance. And then he hesitated, his mouth twisting, his eyes measuring, as if he had reconsidered.

Now that the prospect of sitting astride the animal was upon her, the chestnut mare had assumed gigantic proportions, and Johanna swallowed a moment’s terror, determined
not to appear a coward before her audience. “How do we do this?”

“Maybe…maybe we won’t, just now,” Tate said slowly. Taking a chance with Johanna wouldn’t be a smart move, he thought. There was no sense in courting trouble, should she truly be carrying a child. “We’ll let you have a turn another time, Jo,” he said glibly.

“All right.” She backed off, relieved not to be tested today. “Another time.”