Carolyn Davidson (24 page)

There he lifted her, carrying her several feet, to fall with her against a fragrant pile of hay from their last harvest. “The day we hauled this stuff to the barn, I thought about making love to you up here,” he said against her ear.

She shivered at his words, at the damp pressure of his mouth as it moved against her throat. He clasped her tightly, rolling her beneath himself, and she opened her legs to welcome his weight against her body. Lowering his head, he brushed his mouth across her throat, his teeth touching her skin, where the top button of her dress gaped open.

“I’m so hungry for you, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice a groan as he suckled at the tender flesh. His fingers made a path for his mouth to follow, opening buttons, folding back the fabric of her dress, tugging down the beribboned edge of her chemise until he found the prize he sought

Her hands lifted to his head, her fingers tangling in his
dark hair. “Tate…I was jealous of Bessie,” she confessed, needing to wipe her mind clean of the blemish.

“Bessie is…I’ll only say you had no reason, honey,” he told her, his cheek resting against the swell of her breast. “If I’d wanted her, I could have had her years ago, before I married Belinda. I suppose I owe her for being so good to my boys, but I never wanted her. Not the way I want you, Johanna. The way I’ve wanted you since the morning I saw you walking across the meadow with a frown on your face and the sunlight in your hair.”

“You wanted me then?” she asked, her eyes alight with pleasure at that piece of news.

“Yup!” He chuckled, the sound muffled against her breast. “Since the moment I saw you. I talked you into our bargain, but I hoped from the beginning I’d not be held to it for very long.”

“This wasn’t part of it,” she reminded him. “In fact, if I remember right, you said you didn’t want a woman in your bed.”

“No, sweetheart. I said I didn’t want an unwilling woman in my bed. All I had to do was get you to be willing.”

“It didn’t take you too long, did it?” she asked, tugging at a stray lock, eliciting a grunt from him as he lifted to tower over her.

“It seemed like forever,” he vowed. “And let me tell you, these past two weeks have seemed like forever. Can we forget all the things we said, that night we quarreled? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what you wanted to know a long time ago, Jo. And I’m sorry I haven’t explained my plans to you better. It wasn’t fair to expect you to sit back and let me run the show without asking questions. Please trust me, Jo.”

“I do,” she said simply, and just that easily she did. “I love you, Tate Montgomery.” She wiggled against him, her eyes closing as the familiar rush of desire caught her unawares.
So quickly he could fan the flames, so easily her heart was moved by his words of need, and so readily she willed him to woo her with his touch.

“I’ve needed you for days, Jo.”

He lifted over her, and she opened her eyes, her lids heavy, as she gazed at him in the dim light of the hayloft. Husky, with a seductive lilt, her words coaxed him. “Well, far be it from me to make you wait any longer, Montgomery.”

“What do you suppose Pa and Miss Johanna are doing in the barn, Aunt Bessie?” Pete asked, peering through the window.

Bessie stirred the pan of oatmeal on the stove, refusing to look to where the boy’s attention had been focused for the past half hour or so. “Probably doing the chores,” she said sharply.

“I don’t like oatmeal for supper,” Timmy whined. “Miss Johanna fixed it once, and Pa didn’t like it, either.”

“Well, tonight you’ll eat oatmeal,” Bessie told them, stirring more vigorously. “I have to pack my bag after supper and get my things together.”

“Are you leavin’ tomorrow?” Pete asked, turning from the window.

“Yes!” Barely suppressing a shudder of distaste, Bessie looked around the comfortable kitchen. “I’m looking forward to my nice running water, turning on a faucet instead of having to pump every drop that comes into the house.”

“Miss Johanna doesn’t mind,” Pete said idly, moving to sit at the table as he awaited his meal.

“Well, maybe she’s a better woman than I am, then.” Bessie’s laugh was scornful.

“She don’t make kites, but she’s a good mama,” Timmy chirped. “She loves us.”

“She’s not your mama,” Bessie said adamantly.

“Yeah, she is,” Pete told her. “We don’t call her that, but she’s still our mama.”

Bessie sniffed, lifting the pan and carrying it to the table where the boys waited. “Sit down on that chair right, Timmy. Push your bowl over here, Pete.” Silently, she ladled the thick porridge and poured yellow cream into each dish. She scattered sugar over the steaming mounds and pushed them before the waiting children.

“There now,” she said, giving one last glance out the window through the gathering darkness, toward the open barn door. “Eat your oatmeal.”

T
he sewing room had changed, with no trace of her mother remaining. Standing in the doorway, Johanna was aware only of the scent of Bessie Swenson, the memory of the woman’s flamboyant, stylish wardrobe and the trilling laughter with which she’d bedazzled the males of this household.

“Out you go, Aunt Bessie,” Johanna muttered beneath her breath, marching into the room Bessie had occupied for two weeks. Her mouth set in a victorious grin, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Johanna set about putting it to rights. Sweeping vigorously, she had managed to set up quite a cloud of dust when Tate poked his head in the doorway.

“Spring-cleaning?” he asked, tipping his hat back with one finger.

Johanna shook her head. “Just trying to get this room cleaned up and aired out.”

“Why don’t we take that rug out to the clothesline and I’ll beat it for you?” Tate offered.

Johanna looked up at him. “Far be it from me to turn down an offer like that. It could use a good dose of fresh air, anyway.”

Tate’s lips curved in a knowing grin. “I’d forgotten
about Bessie and her perfume. Smells good for a while, but over the long run I’m kinda partial to that soap you use.”

Johanna flushed at his backhanded compliment. Since the encounter in the hayloft, she’d sensed a new awareness in Tate’s glances, an element of intimacy in his remarks. Almost as if he were gifting her with the courting she’d never received from his hand, he’d teased her, touching her with a gentle hand as he encountered her in the house. His fingers had caressed her shoulder, rested against her waist, brushed a wayward strand of hair from her cheek.

He’d told her the chicken soup was tasty and backed up the claim by eating two bowls of it at supper Monday evening. He’d watched her ready herself for bed and told her that her hair looked like sunlight shining through clover honey. She’d paused in her brushing to turn an incredulous look in his direction, gaining a chuckle of glee for her effort. He’d kissed her with decorum and curled against her back through the long night hours, leaving her to wonder at his restraint.

In all, he’d managed to set her mind in a whirl, filling her thoughts with small touches of his caring, allowing his lazy little compliments to surround her over the past two days.

Now he stepped within the room, filling its limited space with his presence, taking the broom from Johanna’s hands and leaning it against the wall. “I’m going to lift the end of the bed, and I want you to roll the rug, Jo. Then we’re gonna haul it to the yard and maybe set Pete to work with the rug beater.”

“Thought you offered to do it,” she reminded him.

He shrugged, flexing the powerful muscles of his shoulders. “Might do Pete good to lend a hand. Build him some muscles.” He bent, lifting the weight of the bed with an easy movement, waiting as she did his bidding, stepping high to allow her access to the rug beneath his feet. She straightened, nudging the rolled carpet with her foot.

“Think you can handle it by yourself, Mr. Montgomery?” she asked. “Or shall I give you a hand?”

“I can manage, ma’am. What else do you need done up here?”

She looked around. “I’ll strip off the bed and wash the bedding and polish the furniture. The floor could use a mopping before you put the rug back down, I suppose.” She tossed him a questioning look. “Don’t you have any work to do today?”

“There’s always something to do on a farm, Johanna. You know that. We’ve got six or seven new calves in the pasture since Bessie came, and a few more of those cows look like they’re about due to drop. I need to take a ride over to Jonas Cooney’s place to ask him to give me a hand right soon. Before the end of the week I’ll give the springhouse a coat of whitewash, and the corncrib has a couple of broken slats on the far wall I need to replace.”

Johanna measured him with a wary eye. “Then why on earth are you in here, messing with my work, when you’ve got a pile of your own to tend to?”

His grin was provocative as he lifted the rolled-up carpet to his shoulder. “Maybe I just like the way you smell, Mrs. Montgomery.” He leaned to sniff loudly and appreciatively at her neck, nudging her against the wall. The carpet whacked loudly against the open door, and Johanna pushed at Tate, palms against his chest.

“Get that thing out of here before you knock everything helter-skelter.” Her eyes shining with delight at his foolishness, she followed him out into the hallway. “Send Timmy up, will you? He can drag the bedding down to the washroom for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He was down the stairs and heading for the back door as she watched, and her gaze softened as she allowed it the liberty of feasting on Tate Montgomery’s backside. He was a fine figure of a man, all long, ropy muscles and firm flesh, a man in the prime of life.

“And he’s all mine, Bessie Swenson,” Johanna said softly. “All mine!”

The new calves were enchanting, scampering about the pasture with long legs aspraddle, leaning at odd angles to nurse from their patient mothers, exhibiting a penchant for suckling on unwary fingers, should a human hand be held temptingly near. That particular tendency was going to be a lifeline for one small black-and-white heifer, Johanna thought, coaxing the stubborn creature toward the bucket she held between her knees.

The calf had been abandoned in the pasture when her mother didn’t survive the birthing, something that just happened once in a while, according to Johanna’s father. A tight-lipped Tate had brought the newborn to the barn and wiped her clean, delivering her into Johanna’s hands for feeding. Now Pete urged the baby forward, helping to hold the stubborn calf in place.

Johanna coaxed her with soft entreaties, pushing the hard head into the pail of milk, holding her fingers beneath the surface for the heifer to encounter. A warm mouth enveloped her index finger, and Johanna grinned.

“That’s the way, baby. You’ve got it now.”

The calf snorted and jerked back, milk running from her mouth and nose. Then a long tongue lapped at the residue of milk, and the calf perked up.

Johanna repeated the process, and once more the heifer suckled her finger, managing to swallow a good portion of the creamy offering in the effort.

“I didn’t know that’s how you did it,” Pete exclaimed, fascinated by the process. “You’re a good mama, even for the baby cows.”

Johanna’s laughter rang out “I’m afraid I’m not much of a mama at all, Pete. This little gal won’t need me for long. She’ll catch on fast.”

Pete’s chin stuck out defensively. “You’re our mama.
Me and Timmy already told Aunt Bessie you were. And Pa promised us a long time ago you were gonna be our new mother.”

Johanna straightened on the milking stool, her expression a blend of wonder and disbelief. “You told Aunt Bessie…”

Pete nodded. “Yeah, we did. She was kinda poutin’ the other night when she had to fix our supper.”

“And you told her I was your mama,” Johanna repeated slowly.

Pete looked up quickly. “That was all right, wasn’t it? Me and Timmy think you’re a good mama for us.”

“Oh, yes!” Johanna’s fingers rubbed against the broad forehead of the calf. The newborn was dipping her head repeatedly into the pail, sniffling and snorting at the contents and Johanna took pity on her, reminding the creature again how to suckle the milk. She bent low, brushing her face against the animal’s head. “Oh, yes,” she repeated, her heart filling with joy as she savored Pete’s declaration.

“You sure cleaned the bejabbers out of that bedroom, Jo.” Tate slid his suspenders over his shoulders, his fingers busy at the buttons of his shirt as he watched his wife remove her stockings.

She glanced up at him from her perch on the side of the bed. “You may have set a dangerous precedent, helping me with it,” she told him. “I thought I’d tackle the parlor next.”

“Not tomorrow. I’ve got a dozen things lined up outdoors.” Turning to the washstand, Tate soaped his hands, then scrubbed at his face and neck. He rinsed off quickly, then soaped up a washrag and ran it under his arms and down their length to his wrists, a nightly ritual Johanna enjoyed watching.

“I can do most all of it alone,” she said, rising from the bed, ridding herself of the dress she’d worn all day. She piled it in a basket atop the rest of her soiled clothing behind
the screen and remained there, stripping off her underclothes, adding them to the pile.

“Pete says I’m his mama.” Unbidden, the words fell in a rush from her lips. She waited for his reply, clutching her nightgown to her bosom in the shelter of the screen.

“Pete said that?” Hushed and surprised, his words were accompanied by the man himself, lifting the flimsy barrier of the screen to one side as he faced her in the dim light. His gaze was intent on her face. A towel dangling from one hand, the other holding the edge of the screen, lest it topple over.

She nodded. “He and Timmy told Bessie I was their mama.”

“They did?” Tate smiled broadly. “How about that!”

“Tate! I’m getting undressed,” Johanna protested, waving with one hand to shoo him from her private corner of the room.

His brow cocked teasingly, and he nudged the screen over a bit more, making room for himself in front of her. “I’d be glad to help,” he offered, his fingers tangling in the gown she held, wrestling it easily from her grasp. He took in her bare shoulders. Then, skipping over her front parts, he peered over her shoulder, clearing his throat and raising one eyebrow as he considered her lack of covering. “In fact, looks to me like you’ve already done the job.”

“Tate!” Her muted squeal was diminished by the presence of his mouth as he bent to silence her protest And then she was enclosed in the cage of his embrace, a willing prisoner. She rose to her tiptoes, sliding up over the firm surface of his body, relishing the sensation of crisp, curling hair and ridged muscles caressing her breasts.

He lifted her easily, swinging her around and heading for the wide bed. Gently, he lowered her, tugging the sheet and quilt from beneath her, placing her in the center of the mattress. His gaze hot with a passion he made no attempt to conceal, he stripped from his trousers and drawers. And
then he was upon her, spreading her knees as he knelt there, his big hands urgent as he explored the surface of her flesh.

His palms ran over the flare of her hips, the curve of her waist, the rounding of her shoulder, filling themselves with the plush softness of her breasts. He was intrigued, enchanted, by her body, as if he had just discovered the wonder of her.

“I’ve about gone crazy without you, Johanna.” He’d intended to woo her gently, coaxing her with tender touches and entreating her response, but the reality of her welcoming arms and the sinuous movement of her body against his was his undoing. He lifted her hips and eased himself against her, his eyes closing at the pure pleasure of their joining.

And then he was lost, caught up in the joyous response of the woman he’d taken with such haste. Her soft cries of entreaty urging him, he bent to her, his hands and mouth claiming her flesh and molding it to his purpose, his kisses feeding her desire. She lifted against him, her soft, keening cry of fulfillment a symphony in her ears as he spilled his seed within her.

“I’m gonna smuch you into the mattress,” he whispered against her cheek, his eyes closed, his nostrils flaring as he gasped for breath.

She shook her head, unwilling to allow his escape, her arms twined around his neck, her legs holding him captive. And he allowed it. He basked in it, this sensation of being cradled in the depths of Johanna’s body, of loving her.

“I love you, Jo.” He spoke the words without hesitation, uttering them from the depths of his being, his mouth brushing damp kisses across her face. And then he repeated the phrase, slowly, as if he must imprint the words upon her.

It was more than she’d hoped for, this pledge of love from Tate Montgomery. He’d been bold in his expectations of her, taking hold and running her farm. He’d been brash
in his dealings, riding roughshod over her concerns, bringing home the bull and expecting her to be thrilled with the purchase. He’d beguiled his way into her heart with his care of her, then claimed her body with tender touches and gentle wooing.

And through it all, he’d won equal amounts of her love and anger. They’d have a time sorting out their differences, she decided, she and this strong man she’d married. But she could not deny the welling up of passion within her as she held him in her embrace.

“I thought you might never come to that,” she told him.

“Loving you? How could I help it?” he asked with a chuckle. “You’re everything I ever wanted in a woman, Jo.”

“I’m plain, and I’ll probably never have a striped taffeta dress to my name.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” he blurted out, rolling with her until they lay facing each other. “You almost had one, anyway. It’s under the bed, in a package from the Sears catalog. But I decided we’d better send it back. I don’t think it’s gonna fit you for a while.”

“Not going to fit?” she squeaked. “What dress?”

He held her fast. “I’ll show you later on. Right now we need to talk about your looks.”

“My looks?” Her eyes widened at his foolishness.

“Yeah. I want to tell you, you’re a long way from plain, with that long, sunshiny mane of yours and those big blue eyes and the prettiest, roundest, softest…” His index finger drew a line from her throat to the center of her left breast, and his drawled assessment of her charms came to a halt.

His mouth touched the spot his finger had so neatly drawn his attention to, and his murmur of praise was muffled against her flesh. “Pete was right,” he said after a moment. “You’re a good mama.”

“Tate!” Her squeal was a mixture of delight and chagrin. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll just bet that baby of ours is gonna love this bosom of yours about as much as I do,” he said, peering up at her with a smug grin.

“What baby?” She drew back, but he was quick, and her retreat ended almost before it began.

His long arms held her against him, and he slid up to face her, nose to nose. “You know what baby, Johanna. The one we made in this bed a couple of months ago. When were you gonna tell me?”