Carolyn Davidson (11 page)

She’d made it back to the bed. He’d given her an hour and spent the time well, working in the barn, where the six milking cows had waited impatiently.

Now it was fully dark, and he entered the room quietly, latching the door behind himself. Beneath the covers, only the pale gleam of her hair was visible in the moonlight.

“Johanna? Are you asleep?” Unwilling to startle her, he called her name softly. The movement on the bed was response enough, and he lifted the lamp chimney to light the wick.

“We don’t need the lamp, Tate. Unless you…”

Sensing her reluctance, he replaced the chimney. “All right. No lamp, but enough light for me to see you,” he said firmly. He lit the short, squat candle on her dresser. Then, lowering his suspenders, he hesitated, hands set to undo the heavy work pants he wore. “You might want to close your eyes for this part,” he said teasingly.

“Yes.” She turned her head to face the window, and he slid quickly from his clothing, leaving only his short drawers and undershirt on. The bed gave to his weight, and he pulled the covers over himself.

“Are you warm enough? I could have put on an extra quilt.”

She shifted, turning back to face him, her fingers twining in the edge of the quilt. “I’m fine. The register brings up the heat from the kitchen.”

“We’ll need to start the fire in the parlor evenings. That part of the house is pretty cold tonight.” He turned to his side and reached for her hand, his fingers gentle as he loosened
the grip she’d taken on the covers. “Your hands are cold, Johanna. Let me warm them.”

“Don’t be so nice to me.”

For the first time, he caught an edge of petulance in her voice, and his smile was quick. “Why shouldn’t I be? You’re my wife. I guess I don’t know you as well as I thought, but then, we all have secrets, don’t we? I was thinkin’ while I was out milking the cows. There’s some things I haven’t told you, Jo. I don’t know if they’re important or not, and sometime I’ll probably…”

Her fingers squeezed his hand, and he heard the sob in her voice as she inhaled sharply. “Don’t, Tate. I can’t stand for you to be so good to me, when I’ve deceived you from the beginning.”

He nodded. “Maybe you did. But then again, maybe it wasn’t time for me to hear some things. We didn’t know each other well enough then, Jo.”

“And now we do?” She sounded hopeful, to his way of thinking. In the dim light, she’d shed her prickly ways and her pride. Tomorrow she’d probably be the old Johanna, but for tonight she was willing to soften to his touch.

He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, his lips open against her flesh. “We’re gonna know each other better before morning.”

She was silent for a moment, and he ventured another kiss, moving his mouth across her fingers, then tucking them against his cheek. His hand moved to her shoulder, pulling the quilts higher against the back of her neck. His fingers pressed against her back, and he shifted in the bed, moving closer to where she lay, until his shins felt the cold pressure of her feet.

“I’ll get you warm, Johanna, if you let me.” Somehow his voice had lost its even tenor, had developed an urgency of its own.

She drew in an audible breath, harsh and rasping. “You’re not going to…do that, are you, Tate?”

“No, honey.” Without hesitation, he allayed her fear. “I only want to share my body heat with you. You’re cold, Johanna.”

Her whisper was a harsh confession. “I’ve been cold for years, Tate Montgomery. Even in the summer, sometimes I’m cold inside and out.”

“Well, Mrs. Montgomery, you don’t have to be cold now.”

“I think it’s time for me to tell you something, Tate.” Seeking his gaze, she took a deep breath. “I think I knew it would come to this one day, and I was going to show you instead. But maybe it’s better to prepare you first.” She peered at him in the dim light, her eyes anxious. “There are three graves up on the hill. My mother and father, and—”

His whisper cut in smoothly. “Your baby, Johanna?”

“Yes.” It was a hissing sound, her confession, and he moved closer, until his face was just inches away.

“Who was it, Jo? Who gave you a child and left you on your own?”

Her shoulder lifted in a shrug. “His name was Joseph Brittles. He lived in town and worked at the mill.” She touched her upper lip with the tip of her tongue, and his eyes caught the gesture. “My mother had just died. She was sick for a long time, and by the time she died, it was almost…almost a relief, I suppose.” Her laugh was rasping. “I think I felt guilty, because I was…”

Tate moved his hand from her back, lifting it to rest against her face. “Sometimes it’s harder to be the one left behind, Johanna.” Her skin was soft to his touch, and his fingers cherished it, brushing back stray wisps of hair as he traced the line of her cheek and the furling edge of her ear.

Her eyes closed, as if she relished the comfort he offered. “Joseph had been keeping company with me, and he talked about getting married and setting up our own place. He was a big comfort to me, Tate. I think I felt I owed him something
for taking up so much of his time, after Mama died.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and he waited, his hand moving in a slow, comforting caress.

“He persuaded you to make love with him?” The words were difficult for him to utter, emerging in a harsh tone.

“I didn’t want to. I told him we should wait, but he said he couldn’t, he loved me too much. And even then…”

“He took advantage of you, honey.” As if he must give her some particle of comfort, he leaned to kiss her forehead, his fingers buried in her hair, holding her in place for his touch.

“It was horrible, Tate. He hurt me, and I was ashamed that I’d allowed it to happen.” She drew a shuddering breath. “When I knew I was going to have a child, I went to see him. He’d stayed away from the farm for weeks. He told me he was busy at the mill, working as many hours as he could to save money for us. But when I told him I needed to be married right away, he pushed me away. He said he wasn’t ready for that yet.”

“How old were you, Jo?” The thought of her begging for what should have been hers by right was repugnant to him, and he sensed an enormous hatred for the man that filled him almost to overflowing.

“Sixteen. Old enough to know better.” Her laugh was a bitter sound, and he shook his head.

“You were a child. Just a child, Jo.” Carefully, he raised the covers, his arm sliding beneath them, lifting her with gentle hands, holding her closer, till her shivering flesh was comforted by his warmth.

She rested her head in the bend of his shoulder. “He left town, Tate. When I went in the next week with the butter and eggs, I stopped by to see him, and Hardy Jones said he’d quit his job and gone.”

“What did your father do about that?” Had she been his daughter, he’d have chased the coward down and strung
him up, Tate thought vengefully. But apparently, Fred Patterson had been a milder man than he.

She laughed again, softly—a mirthless sound. “When I finally had to tell him, Pa said I’d tempted Joseph. He called me a Jezebel.” The word took on the sound of a curse as she spoke it. “And then the baby came early. He never breathed. He was so small and blue. I never saw his eyes.”

Tate’s arms tightened around her, and she stiffened in his embrace. He muttered a curse word beneath his breath and relaxed his hold. “I’m sorry, Jo. I didn’t mean to squeeze you. Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Just a little. I’m stiff and sore, mostly. The parts that hurt worst are on the front of me.”

The vision of her pale, rounded breast, its smooth surface marred by the shallow, slashing wound, pierced Tate’s mind, and he stifled the urge to expose it to his view once more, even as he yearned to caress its rounded softness. His mind visualized the scar she would sustain, and he swallowed the need to purge the hurt she’d borne with the pressure of his lips. His whisper was rough and rasping as he fought the yearnings roiling within himself. “The cuts aren’t deep, Jo. They’ll be healed in no time.”

“I know.” She nodded her head, her hair brushing his lips. “I can reckon with those kind of scars. It’s the ones that don’t show on the outside that are the hardest to deal with.”

“Johanna? Who cared for you, when you had the baby? Did your father help you bury him?” For one reason or another, he had to hear it all. Even knowing the hurt he inflicted on her as she recounted the ordeal, he must hear each detail, must live out with her the final days of her torment.

Shaking her head, she whispered the saddest words of all. “No one helped me. I was alone. I wrapped him in a flannel blanket I’d hemmed from one of my mother’s nightgowns
and put him in the box my shoes had come in. It’s a good thing it was summer. I had to dig a long time to make sure he was deep enough in the ground. And then I buried him. I knew I couldn’t mark the grave, but I thought maybe…Anyway, the next spring I planted a rosebush there.” She shivered once more in his embrace and buried her head against his chest. “It was a horrible night, Tate. It was the darkest night of my life.”

He’d heard it all. She’d stripped her soul bare of its sad secret and placed it before him. It was a gift of sorts, he supposed. That she could bring herself to trust him so readily was more than he’d hoped for.

For a moment, he faced his own hurt. That he had wanted her to be virgin, that he had hoped to be the only man to lay hand upon those soft curves, was a fact he must face. And, to his shame, he felt a sense of bitter disappointment that she had lain in another man’s arms before this night. That she had given her love to another.

“I’ll understand if you want to divorce me, Tate.”. Her words were brave, uttered firmly, but the tremors that shook her body lent little substance to her offer.

He eased her closer, and his kiss against her forehead was tender. “I’m not going to divorce you, Jo. I said all the same vows you did, about for better and for worse, remember? I think maybe the worst is behind us now.”

His arms enclosed her, his body lent her its warmth and on the dresser, the candle flame guttered and flamed its last. And for the first time in more years than he wanted to count, Tate Montgomery was at peace.

“I
brought you your shawl, Miss Johanna.”

Before her, head lowered, Pete waited. Her damp, dirty shawl clutched in his hands, he shifted from one foot to the other.

“Why, thank you. I’d forgotten I left it outdoors, Pete.” Her feet on the small footstool, Johanna sat propped in her mother’s rocking chair, awaiting the summons to supper. Tate had covered her with a quilt and left her there, even though she’d assured him she was more than able to fix a meal.

“Do you want me to wash it for you, ma’am? It got pretty dirty out there overnight.” His voice cracked on the words he spoke, and he risked a glance at her, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Why don’t you put it over the edge of the washtub, Pete? I’ll take care of it tomorrow or the next day.”

He nodded and turned away, as if relieved to be released from her presence. His back to her, his spine stiff, he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Miss Johanna. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I wouldn’t do that.” The words came out in a rush, one fast on the heels of the next.

Johanna’s mouth twisted in a smile, and she struggled to
suppress the tears that filled her eyes. “I know that, Pete. You aren’t a mean boy.”

“I was mad at you.” It was a hard admission, delivered in a whisper, and his shoulders slumped as he paused halfway to the parlor door.

“Pete, look at me,” she bade him quietly, and as he turned to obey, she stretched out one hand.

He approached hesitantly, as if loath to accept her forgiveness, unwilling to abandon his hair shirt of penance. His gaze drifted over her warmly clad body, draped in a pieced quilt and propped in comfort in a rocking chair. And then his eyes met hers and she saw the terrible need he tried to hide behind his belligerence.

“I’m not angry with you, Pete. You disobeyed and you were being naughty. I’m sure you’re sorry for what you did, though, and I don’t think we need to ever talk about it again, do you?”

He shook his head. “I have to tell my pa what happened. He’s gonna be mad at me, but it was all my fault.”

“I think it could be just between you and me, Pete.” That Tate had already figured out the general sequence of events of the day before, she was pretty sure. What he chose to do about his son’s involvement in her accident was a topic they’d not discussed.

“Pa knows. He always knows stuff like that.” Pete’s sigh was resigned. “But he’s probably waitin’ for me to tell him myself. He says we have to own up to things we do.”

Johanna nodded. “Your pa’s probably right about owning up and such, Pete. Just remember, he loves you.”

“Yeah.” Clutching her shawl to his chest, the boy flashed her a look so filled with yearning, she could scarcely bear it.

“Come here, Pete,” she coaxed, once more holding out her hand.

And he responded, his feet fairly flying as he catapulted
into her arms. His head against her bosom, he shuddered, taking long indrawn breaths, his small hands fiercely clutching at the quilt. She held his wiry, slim body in her arms, pressing silent kisses against his dark, silky hair.

For long seconds, gripping her with a silent desperation, he clung to the comfort she offered. Then, as if he’d thought better of his actions, he straightened, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand.

Johanna pulled her handkerchief from the depths of her pocket and handed it to him. And over his head she caught sight of Tate, just beyond the doorway, taking in the scene before him. She shook her head—a small, almost imperceptible movement—and he nodded in reluctant response.

“Run along, Pete,” she said softly. “Put the shawl in the washroom and get ready for supper. I’m sure it’s almost ready by now.”

Tate was gone, his footsteps silent, and Johanna watched as Pete obeyed her order. There would be a confrontation, of that she was sure. Tate would be fair, but his sense of right and wrong was strict, and somehow Pete would make reparations for his wrongdoing.

“I thought you meant just for a couple of nights.” Johanna’s protest was whispered in the darkness of the hallway, midway between her room and the large bedroom Tate occupied. Held against his body by the strength of his left arm, she sensed the futility of her argument as he turned her in the direction he intended her to take.

“You’re my wife, Jo. From now on you’ll sleep in my bed.”

That was simple enough for any idiot to understand, she figured glumly. He’d spoken his piece, and now he expected her to obey. Dragging her feet as he led her through the doorway, she watched as he closed and latched the heavy door behind them. She’d not felt this awkward in a month of Sundays, not since she refused Neville Olson’s
proposal of marriage several months past, shaking her head as he stumbled through his offer.

Tate wasn’t giving her a chance to refuse his decision, for it couldn’t be called an offer. He was hustling her to his bed, his hands careful of her healing wounds, yet firm in their intent. Stripping her of her robe, he sat her on the mattress and removed her house shoes, then lifted her legs to the bed.

She sat there, wide-eyed and watchful, wondering what she should do next. It seemed he’d accomplished his purpose and, having placed her where she belonged, was going about his own preparations for bed.

He was undressing, stripping out of his trousers, hanging them on the bedpost, placing his shirt atop them till morning. His stockings were next, a matter quickly dealt with, and then he’d climbed into the big bed.

And still she sat, upright and chilled, aware only of the steady gaze he turned in her direction.

“You’ve slept in my arms for the last three nights,” he reminded her gently, his fingers lifting to tug at a stray lock of hair, tangling in the waving remnants of her braid. “I think it’s time for you to be my wife, Johanna.”

She nodded, as if speech were beyond her. As surely as the sun would rise tomorrow, she knew he’d drawn a line and she must step over it, if they were to move beyond this moment.

“I want to be your wife, Tate. I just don’t know how to do this.” She whispered the words reluctantly, wishing he would reach for her, yearning for him to pull her down to his embrace. If only to receive the warmth he offered, the tenderness of his touch, she was more than willing to accept his body into her own.

There was within her a terrible need, and suddenly she recognized it as being akin to the need that had painted young Pete’s face with such dreadful yearning. As the flowers
needed the sunlight in order to thrive, she needed what Tate was offering her now, the warmth of his embrace.

“I’ll show you, Johanna.” Offered in a gruff undertone, his words coaxed her, and she bent to him, leaning back on one elbow, turning to her side, her other hand fumbling as she sought his fingers, clasping them tightly as she lowered herself to lie beside him. Her movements were careful, for the scratches she’d received were more tender than she’d expected.

Their faces were mere inches apart, and she allowed her eyes to move to the scar ridging his cheekbone. Her fingers were careful, tracing the raised flesh. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the pain he must have suffered.

“Does it bother you?” he asked. “I know I’m not a handsome man, Jo. My nose is bent out of shape, and my—”

“Shhh…don’t say that,” she whispered, her fingers moving to still his words. “You’re a strong man, Tate. You’ve been hurt, more than once, but the scars don’t take from your looks. I only hurt for the pain you felt.”

His grin was crooked as he kissed her fingertips. “There’s no pain tonight, Jo. Not for me.” His mouth sobered, and he rolled to hover over her, easing her to her back. “I’ll be careful,” he vowed. “I wouldn’t knowingly cause you harm.”

“Will you turn out the lamp?” Her glance skittered to the bright flame. Its brilliance was harsh against her eyes.

“I’ve already seen you, Jo,” he reminded her gently. “We don’t need any more secrets between us, do we?”

“It’s not a matter of keeping secrets, Tate.”

Her eyes wide, she watched as he lowered his head, allowing his mouth to meld with her own. His lips opened, his teeth tugging against her lower lip, holding the plump prize in a gentle grip, drawing it into his mouth. And there his tongue bathed the sensitive flesh with a caress that
coaxed a moan from her throat. Her eyes closed once more as she savored the shivering sensation.

She tingled throughout her body, gooseflesh erupting upon her arms and legs. She shifted beneath him, her aching muscles and numerous cuts forgotten for the moment as she concentrated on the shimmering delight of his touch.

And then his mouth moved, releasing her slowly, as if he were reluctant to forfeit the small territory he’d conquered so easily. His lips were agile, seizing the lobe of her ear, his teeth measuring its size, then moving to explore the soft, vulnerable skin of her throat.

Whispering against her flesh, he spoke broken phrases and hushed messages that she blushed to hear. “Soft…You’re so warm and…smell so sweet, here…and here.”

His hands were gentle, his fingers careful, as he freed the small buttons on her gown from their moorings. And then moved the fabric aside, allowing the lamp to illuminate her flesh with a golden glow. Slowly, he bent his head, his mouth brushing against the rounding firmness, his fingers circling beneath to caress with tender care, even as he lifted and held the fullness in his palm.

So careful was his touch, so gentle his caress, she forgot the wound marring her skin, until his tongue laved across its healing surface. She’d cleaned it this morning, washing the salve from the scabbing flesh, leaving it without a covering bandage, to heal. Now, in a tender bathing, as if he would take the hurt of her injury, he ministered to her, finally tracing it with his lips, taking the last vestige of moisture with his mouth and then blowing against the damaged skin to dry it.

Johanna felt the puckering of her nipple, the drawing of her flesh as his warm breath flowed over her skin, and she shivered. Tate’s chuckle was a low sound, as if he were pleased by her response, and she opened her eyes. He was watching her, lifting to his elbows, his gaze intent on the changes his touch had wrought on her tender flesh.

“Tate?” Wary of this loveplay, she whispered his name.

“Ah, Jo, you’re such a prize,” he said softly, his gaze moving to capture hers. “Don’t stop me, sweetheart. I feel as if I’ve waited forever for this.”

She could not resist his plea, could not resist this man who had crept into her heart with such ease. She, who had determined never to be a bride, had in these few moments discovered that she was ready to be a wife. So quickly, Tate Montgomery, with all his own secrets intact, had eased his way into her life and taken his place there.

“I just don’t know what you want me to do,” she told him in a hushed whisper.

His smile was crooked, and his eyes glowed with a warmth she reveled in. “Just let me love you, Jo,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll be careful.”

She nodded, giving herself over to his care, willing herself to relax beneath him as he lowered his head to the skin he’d left untouched until now. His mouth was firmer in its pursuit here, his tongue brushing against the crest that rose to meet his caress. And then he captured that small nubbin of flesh, took it between his lips and suckled it against the roof of his mouth, his tongue holding it captive.

She squirmed beneath him, breathless, caught by the web of piercing pleasure he wrapped about her. Her mouth opened on a moan of protest, as though she could not withstand such a concentration of feeling.

As if he sensed her need, he released her from his mouth, his lips moving to brush reassurance against her skin as he quieted her trembling. He tended her, his fingers cradling her, his breath warm on her skin, spending countless kisses across the surface of her breasts. Ever aware of the scarred surface, skirting it, murmuring soft phrases of comfort, he touched either end of the long scratch with his lips, as if it would shrink and heal at his loving.

And then he rolled onto his side, leaning up on his elbow and pulling the covers from her, lowering them until only
her gown kept her from his sight. His hand tugged at it, lifting it, easing it up her legs, and she caught her breath at the brushing of his callused fingers against her skin.

Feeling the pressure of his touch easing between her thighs, she moved, whispering a protest, tightening the muscles that would keep him from his goal. “Tate…please cover me. I’ll be cold.”

His head dropped, his forehead meeting hers, brushing back and forth in a mute refusal. Then he meshed their mouths in a kiss that was different from the others, a hot, damp blending of lips and tongue that smothered her objection, urging her to a new exploration. She allowed it, giving in readily to the invasion of his tongue, intrigued by the path it traveled as he forged new ground, coaxing her into a fusion that sent shivers of delight down her spine.

So sweetly he pleasured her, so careful was he in his tender movements, that she was almost unaware of the brush of his hand over the thatch of curls he’d claimed as his own. Until his fingertips foraged farther and a glittering surge of pleasure brought a piercing cry from her throat. His mouth muffled the sound, capturing her once more in the hot, wet embrace of his lips.

With a groan of surrender, she lifted her arm, easing it around his shoulder, her fingers sliding into his hair as she held him to her. She moved to his pace, her body giving way to his clever fingers, her legs relaxing at his bidding, ever aware of the gentle pressure of his hand against her flesh.

He lifted his head, calling her name, his whisper hoarse in the silence. “Johanna! Look at me, sweetheart.”

“No…” Shaking her head, she frowned, unwilling to leave the haven of pleasure he’d offered her, unable to control the hushed sounds that breathed between her lips. Still, he persisted, whispering his bidding once more.

Her eyelids fluttering, she murmured a protest. But he would not be denied. Coaxing her, his lips urgent against
her cheek, he nudged her to obey, and her eyes opened reluctantly, then widened at the expression of tenderness on his face.