Carolyn Davidson (12 page)

“Jo, sweetheart…”

Tate urged her to the brink of discovery, the edge of ecstasy. And then watched the wonder unfold as she catapulted to pleasure, her mouth opening in a silent cry, her eyes closing tightly against the tears that trickled from beneath her lids.

He drew her against himself, rocking her carefully, lest he hurt her arm, his face buried in her fragrant hair. And then, as the spasms eased, as she quieted in his embrace, he lifted himself over her. She encouraged him, enclosing him, her knees hugging him, even as she felt the gentle thrust of his invasion of her body.

It was welcome, this coming into her most secret part, this careful taking of her womanhood that he had set about with such certainty. For a moment, the painful past reared, and she forced it from her mind. Tate bore no resemblance to Joseph Brittles, at whose hands she’d known only shame and despair.

He’d wooed and won her with care and concern, and she gave him the homage due his tenderness. She lifted to him, uncaring of the pain she dealt herself with the movement. She held him in a full embrace, her torn flesh forgotten in the knowledge of this most intimate act of marriage. Clinging to him, she gathered the sum and substance of his whole being within herself, sheltering against his big body, willing him to lay claim to her as he would, withholding nothing from his surging power.

He shuddered against her, gasping a guttural cry of completion, and his groan was magnified by her own. He dropped his head to rest beside hers, his breathing harsh against her ear.

“Ah…Johanna…” As if he could say no more, he shook his head, then brushed a series of warm kisses over her
face, across her throat, tipping her head back with the urging of his mouth.

She clung, her needy spirit given sustenance by the silent adulation he spent on her so lavishly. Her arm slid to the bed, the throbbing of her wound finally catching her attention, but she pushed it to the back of her mind, brushing the unwanted reminder aside.

“Jo? Did I hurt your arm?” His voice was hushed, worry taking hold as he sought her reassurance.

She shook her head. “No…I just…”

He groaned and turned to his side, taking her with him, easing the weight of her arm, careful as he lifted and held it in place. “I tried to be careful, sweetheart. Here, let me see.”

He slid the bodice down until the bandage was in sight. “It’s not bleeding,” he muttered, his fingers testing the flesh around the injury. “It’s not swollen, Jo, not even red or angry-looking. Do you think I hurt it?”

Johanna shook her head, the pain settling to a dull ache once she relaxed the muscles, pleased by his solicitude, allowing him to pamper her as he would.

Easing himself down on the pillow, Tate cradled her head against his shoulder. “Are you all right now?”

She nodded, unwilling to speak, afraid of the words that would reveal the message of her heart. Surely, if she allowed her voice to give reply, it would give sound to the words she feared to utter.

For as well as easing his way into her life, tonight he’d laid claim to her heart. As surely as Tate Montgomery had taken her body, filling her with the gift of his own splendid manhood, he’d captured the essence of her being. And with it the boundless bounty of love she’d hoarded for so long.

“It’s a lot harder gettin’ the chicken poop off my boots than it was gettin’ it on ’em, Miss Johanna.” Pete’s grumble was halfhearted at best, his small face glowing with
accomplishment as he scraped industriously at the soles of his boots.

“Your pa gave you a hard job to do, didn’t he?” Johanna used her left foot as a lever, pushing the porch swing once more. The stench of Pete’s boots, wafting to her nostrils, almost convinced her to send him farther from the porch to continue his task, but she’d be missing his company if she did. And the simple joy of watching his face as he worked was worth the odor of chicken droppings in her nostrils, she figured.

“Aw, it wasn’t too bad.” Pete’s offhand dismissal of the severity of his punishment was a sure sign that he was reveling in his father’s good graces. He’d paid the price for his behavior, and Tate Montgomery had inspected the chicken coop and pronounced it fit for the chickens to inhabit. And, in the process, had once more deemed his son’s punishment complete.

“Cleaning the chicken coop is a nasty job.” Johanna’s opinion of the chore was obvious. The wrinkling of her nose and her shudder of distaste were not a display for Pete’s benefit. Too well, the scent of his boot scrapings brought back the memory of mornings she’d spent at the task.

“Yeah, well, I guess Pa gave me the awfullest chore he could think of,” Pete said, his voice taking on a hint of pride as he considered his accomplishment He shot a glance at Johanna, his eyes speculative. “He was madder at me than you were, wasn’t he?”

Johanna nodded. “I expect he was, Pete.”

“But it was you that got hurt.” He leaned to peer down at the pile of droppings he’d scraped from his footwear. “If I leave this mess here, it’s gonna smell something terrible, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” she said agreeably, shoving her foot against the floor of the porch again, sending the swing once more into motion.

“I guess mothers don’t get as mad about stuff, do they?” Pete’s attention was absorbed by his task as he scraped his mess into a pile. Had she not been watching closely, Johanna might have missed his furtive look in her direction.

“I don’t know, Pete. I’ve never been a mother.” She was astonished at her calmness, given the pounding of her heart. Unless she was mistaken, he’d just placed her in that category. In a roundabout way, he’d given her his stamp of approval, and the occasion called for a celebration of sorts.

Holding the wide shovel in place, Pete loaded it with the results of his boot-cleaning, scraping the top layer of dirt with it. “I guess you catch on pretty quick, Miss Johanna. You’d be pretty good at it. If you had kids, I mean.” Rising from his crouch, he lifted the shovel, holding it firmly, lest the contents spill.

“I’m gonna dump this on the manure pile,” he said, setting off toward the barn. “Then I gotta go help Pa with the pasture fence.”

Johanna pushed herself upright, wincing only a little as she gripped the swing with her left hand. Her muscles were tender, but the cut was healing well. She watched as Pete set off, and her heart went out to the boy. So small, yet so knowledgeable.

“Pete!” She waited till he halted, then turned his head. “Maybe I could practice on you and Timmy.”

He nodded agreeably, his mouth twitching as he attempted to hide his obvious approval of her notion. “I guess that would be all right, ma’am. Timmy won’t care.” He turned away, his attention riveted on keeping the shovel level, his load intact. And not until he was sure Johanna could only see his back did he allow a smile of satisfaction to curve his lips.

Apple dumplings ought to be in order, Johanna decided. It seemed like something all three male members of her
family would enjoy. Her heart singing, ignoring the stiffness of her sore muscles, she went into the house.

“Thank you, God!” It was a fervent whisper, delivered with open eyes and a joyful spirit, a far cry from the doleful messages her father had been prone to deliver to the Almighty. Probably not at all the sort of prayer Theodore Hughes would approve of, she thought with a smile.

Although perhaps, of all people, Reverend Hughes would appreciate her heartfelt surge of thankfulness this morning.

A
s if winter had only been waiting for some hidden signal before it officially began, the snow had arrived. With a four-inch fall late one evening, the ground had been covered, presenting a pure and pristine welcome to Pete and Timmy the next morning.

They were ecstatic. Bundled in mittens and scarves, booted and capped with care, they indulged in a romp such as Johanna had never before seen take place in her yard. Sheba forsook her dignity to chase first one boy, then the other, barking and frolicking as if her life revolved around the entertainment of these two small humans.

A snowman appeared quickly, Pete instructing Timmy in the proper construction, even lifting the smaller child to place a withered carrot where a nose must be. Tate had refrained from mentioning chores, and indeed, Johanna had had a difficult time tending to her own, what with standing at the window to watch the shenanigans taking place outdoors.

By the time dinner was on the table, the boys were soaked through and red-cheeked, and more than ready for the hearty stew Johanna had prepared. The yard was a sight. No longer was there a lush carpet of white to beguile the
eye, only a bedraggled patchwork of dried grass and trampled snow remained.

Another blizzard of more major proportions exploded within days, drifting snow before the barn door, causing Tate to grumble as he shoveled it from his path before dawn. Johanna was reduced to drying clothes in the house, the rack behind the stove in almost constant use, with wet mittens and trousers draped over its length.

Then the sun came out, melting the wintry show of force, and for over a week they puddled through mud and rutted roads. Johanna suspected this was the final spell of moderate weather they would get until spring, and a lowering sky proved her right.

It was a mere scattering of snow, compared to the past extravaganzas nature had provided, but enough to cause her to leave a trail behind, her footprints clear in the moonlight, as she stepped from the silent house to the porch, and then across the yard.

She was gone. Acclimated to her presence in his bed, he sensed her absence. So quickly, in a matter of days and weeks, she had become part of his sleeping habits. Now, half-awake, Tate reached beside him, patting the quilt. “Jo? Johanna?” His voice was rusty, heavy with sleep, and, stilling the movement of his hand, he closed his eyes, listening. From the parlor below, he heard the chiming of the clock, announcing the hour.

Three in the morning. He rubbed his eyes and sat upright in the bed. Perhaps she’d gone downstairs. Before the thought had time to be born, his long legs were swinging over the side of the bed and he was reaching for his trousers. He slid into them quickly, his ears alert for a sound from below.

Noiselessly Tate moved through the hallway and down the stairs, his bare feet chilled by the cold floor. Inside the parlor, the moonlight splashed a path across the floor all
the way to the wide double doors where he stood. The room was empty, the couch holding only a rumpled afghan, left there at bedtime. The rocking chair stood unmoving in the shadows, and outside the lace curtains the silvery moonlight cast an unearthly glow over the snow.

Tate’s brow furrowed into a frown as he headed for the kitchen. He’d not expected her to be there, either, for some reason, and a twinge of concern had him biting his lip as he looked out the window toward the barn and the scattering of outbuildings across the yard.

The chicken coop and the springhouse were illuminated by the full moon, as were the corncrib and the outhouse behind it. But not a sign of Johanna.

He turned to the washroom, bending low to where their boots sat in a row. And found that only an empty space existed where Johanna’s small work boots should be.

Above the kitchen table, the kerosene lamp swung from his touch, and he reached out to grasp it firmly, lifting the chimney as he struck a match. It flared and caught quickly, the bright glow causing him to blink and narrow his eyes. The pegs on the wall were heavily laden with his sheepskin-lined coat and the boy’s jackets. Johanna’s heavy woolen coat was missing. He shook his head as he headed for the back door.

He looked out across the yard, toward the lane. Beyond it was the rise of land where the small burying ground had been established with the death of Mary Patterson, and it was there that his seeking ended.

Atop the hill, illuminated by the full moon, stood a figure, wrapped in a bulky coat, unmistakably Johanna. Head bent, arms curling around her body, she was immobile, as if cast from metal, to his eye resembling a portrait of mute sorrow.

“Johanna!” It was a whisper breathed from his lungs, a yearning cry as he sensed her grief, there on the hill where three graves marked the resting place of her family.

He spun from the door’s window, snatching his coat from the peg, stuffing his feet into his boots and hurrying from the house.

Following the path her smaller footprints had made through the scattering of snowflakes, he climbed to where she stood, then waited, sensing her need for solitude. She was unmoving, only the wind teasing her scarf giving proof that he was watching flesh and blood, and not a graven image.

Then she lifted one hand to brush at a lock of hair, and that slender member trembled as he watched. Her fingers curled in on themselves, and she wiped her cheek with the back of her fist.

It was more than he could bear, and he wondered, with a moment of insight, how many other nights she had come to this place, silent and alone with her grief. Surely, now that she was no longer alone, now that he and his sons were sharing her life, she could find solace within the new family that had been formed. Yet she had left his bed to climb the hill in the chill of the winter night to keep vigil in this place where only restless spirits kept her company. Had she come other nights, had he not known when she made silent journeys in the dark, had he slept, unaware of her absence? Surely not, for he’d have sensed the empty space next to him, as he had tonight.

“Johanna.” The sound of her name fell between them, and her shoulders stiffened. Her fist opened and her fingers swept again over her cheek, as if she must dismiss the evidence of her tears from his sight. And then she turned to face him.

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry. I tried to be quiet.” She whispered, barely disturbing the silence, her hands clutching the front of her coat, where buttons and buttonholes had not been paired. Beneath it, her white nightgown was scant covering against the cold, and she shivered, as if she had just noticed the wind that came from the
west

Tate swept his arms around her, moving his hand against her head as he held it beneath his chin. Her ear was cold against his palm, and he bent to her, roughly pushing her head back until he could see her face. Then his mouth was there, his lips taking possession with a force he had not spent on her before now.

As if he were angry, distraught over her venturing from his bed, his mouth plundered the depths of hers, his tongue taking liberties he had not sought on other nights. He lifted from her, his eyes caught by the wide-eyed surprise she made no effort to hide.

“You frightened me. I didn’t know where you were.” His voice was hoarse, and his scowl was accusing. Against her arms, his grip tightened, holding her with bruising strength.

Unafraid of his anger, perhaps drawn by his concern, she leaned against him, as if she sought the warmth his broad form offered. Her head tilted back, the better to gaze into his shadowed face. The tip of her tongue touched the inner tissue of her upper lip, traveling the path his own lips had taken only moments earlier, and he watched the movement from narrowed eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Stretching upward on tiptoe, she offered her mouth, her hands releasing the front of her coat to snatch at his, instead, as though fearful he might put her from him. A rising excitement quickened her heartbeat, flaring her nostrils as she inhaled sharply, pressing against his solid form. Accepting her surrender, he slid his hands to her hips, holding her there as he eased the fullness of his loins against her belly.

Deep within her, she sensed a primitive response, and welcomed the burgeoning evidence of his need. His hands rough, his mouth demanding, he drew her headlong into deep water, and willingly she took the plunge.

“Tate?” She whispered his name, a Lorelei in the night,
and he bent to her, seduced by the innocence of her swollen mouth and the clutching of her fingers against his chest.

His mouth was gentler now, coaxing her to respond. His tongue met no resistance as she parted her teeth, and welcomed it with her own. His curling and coaxing, hers tempting and teasing, they sparred.

Until, breathless and wide-eyed, she tilted her head back, gasping for a breath of air, exposing the slim line of her throat to his view. As a dominant male accepts the surrender of his mate in the wild, so Tate Montgomery took the offering she gave, his mouth finding new flesh upon which to leave his mark of possession.

He suckled at her throat, just above the line of her collarbone, pushing the flannel nightgown to one side, his hand moving in a familiar touch between their bodies to release the top buttons. His tongue touched the skin of her throat, tasting the faint salt flavor. His grin was feral against her flesh as he thought of the perspiration that had come to that surface earlier in the night. As always, she had accepted his loving, reveling in his possession, her body slick against his as he claimed her for his own.

Nowhere in his past had he yearned so to possess a woman. Not just in the intimacies of their coming together, but in the everyday drudgeries of their lives. The urge to stamp her as his mate, to know that she was his, even as she washed his clothing, cooked his meals, tended his children, consumed him.

And she was allowing it. His desire surged to a new, painful edge as he recognized her willingness to be subdued by his greater strength. She clung, her arms slipping around his neck. She leaned, her softness meshing with the muscular lines of his frame. She warmed, her shivering absorbed by his heat. And in the midst of it, she groaned her need in a wordless sound, a yielding, yearning cry for his possession.

He scooped her up, her gown and coat twisting around
her legs, exposing them from the knees down, where her heavy boots hung like the exaggerated fetlocks on a workhorse.

In strides that pounded his heels into the ground, he walked down the hill, leaving the graves behind. Past the house, across the yard to where the barn sat, colorless in the moonlight, its red boards washed gray by the silvering of the moon. With the fingers of his right hand he tugged at the door, sliding it open far enough for him to enter. The warm scent of animals, their big bodies creating a haven in the cold, met him full force, and he sensed for a moment a kinship with them.

As if he, too, were driven by a force not controlled by his human mind, he carried his wife through the door, down the aisle and into an empty stall. Filled with straw, ready for occupancy, it waited. And he blessed his forethought, as he’d cleaned and prepared it earlier for the animal it would contain on the morrow.

Now the bedding was awaiting the female creature he held in his arms. He lowered her to the thick layers of straw, following her to the ground as he straightened her body to match the lines of his own. Knowing he was heavy, his weight burdensome, yet yearning to conquer with the force of his masculine strength, he covered her.

And with a crooning acceptance, she tightened the grip she’d maintained, shifting only her hands as she drew him closer, her arms circling his neck. As though she could not be crushed by his weight, she lifted herself to him. As if she craved the possession his thrusting loins promised, she moved against him. And in the darkness of the barn, surrounded by the animals that made up a part of their lives, they came together.

His hands were trembling as he lifted her gown, spreading her coat to either side, his fingers fumbling as he undid the front of his trousers, releasing his manhood to the cold
air. And his groan was heartfelt as he meshed their bodies in a surging whirlwind of passion.

There was no light to guide their hands, only the darkness that made each movement a grasping, needy urgency. Their fingers meshed, his holding hers against the straw as he lifted and fell, time and again, against the softness of her smaller frame. There was only need, desire, and an overwhelming passion that sparked a response neither could deny.

Sensing her coiling urgency, he drew her into the web he wove with each movement, pulling her with him to that glittering promise of delight that hovered just beyond her reach. And then, with a guttural groan, he thrust her beyond the boundaries of her own yearning, into a shimmering knowledge of pleasure.

In the silence of the barn, Johanna caught huge, gasping breaths, her lungs straining to fill as she compensated for the overwhelming breathlessness that had seized her body. Tate was heavy, crushing her, and she held him tight, unwilling to lessen by one inch the intimacy of their coming together. But he withdrew from her, a gradual lessening of his embrace signaling his own return to the lucidity demanded by the cold night air.

“Johanna? Are you all right, sweetheart?” Husky and deep with concern, his words enthralled her. That his first concern was for her well-being brought a quiet joy to her heart, and she responded to his plea.

“Yes…I think I’m about as all right as I’ve ever dreamed of being, Tate.” She sensed a moment of reluctance, an unwillingness to end this moment of unadulterated bliss at his hands. And then he levered to his knees and tugged her coat together, covering the flesh he’d exposed to his touch. She heard his clothing rustle, felt the movement of his body as he shifted and arranged his trousers and buttoned his coat.

He rose and bent to her, lifting her to her feet, giving
her only a moment to gain her balance before he swept her into his arms once more.

“Still got your boots on?” he asked, a trace of humor evident in the query.

She nodded against his shoulder.

“Can you pull the door shut?” He’d managed to slip through the opening he’d left, and he turned, allowing her to shove the door into place.