Carolyn Davidson (16 page)

“Three days,” she answered.

“That’s this many,” Timmy said from behind her, waving his fingers beside her head. “Can I come up there and sit with you, too, Miss Johanna?”

“Yes, of course,” she told him, pulling the team to a halt and lifting him over the back of the seat.

He settled next to her and, reaching up, took the ends of the reins in his hands, mimicking her movements as she urged the horses into motion.

“When I’m big as you, I’ll be able to drive the team too, won’t I?” His grin was infectious, and she answered it with one of her own.

“You can help me drive now,” she told him, and then lifted him to sit in her lap, needful of the warmth of his small body against her own.

The surrey moved quickly, but not as rapidly as the setting sun, darkness overtaking the trio long before they reached the farm. Still a good distance away, from her kitchen window, a beam of light beckoned, and Johanna’s heart was stirred.

Even in his absence, Tate had managed to remind her of his concern and caring. With determination, she set aside the unease that had plagued her this day.

T
he bed was terribly empty without Tate’s warm body next to hers. Johanna punched her pillow, then brought his closer, hugging it against herself, doubting she’d be able to sleep. Yet even as she inhaled the scent of his shaving soap from the pillowcase that had known his head only that morning, she found her eyes closing.

For two days she lived with the memories of her lonely existence before Tate Montgomery had entered her life, and the process was enlightening. The boys were good company, and good help, for that matter. But the absence of their father was a blight on their days. Scarcely an hour passed when one or the other of them didn’t mention Tate’s absence. Johanna didn’t have the heart to be impatient, for her own thoughts never strayed far afield from him, either.

Mr. Cooney had been there when they arrived home from the train station. He’d taken on the milking and much of the caring for the stock, trudging about with goodwill. That Tate had planned for this, asking the neighbor to lend a hand, was but another reminder of his thoughtfulness.

She’d told him once that her heart was full of love for him and his boys. Once, she’d said those words. And not again. The thought of his inability to feel that same deep
emotion for her had somehow prohibited her from releasing her spoken avowal into his keeping.

So foolish she’d been. What did it matter if he never dealt in the rituals of courtship? Tate Montgomery had shown his caring in numerous ways over the months, had spilled his tender concern upon her from the first day. And she was stewing over his lack of love?

On Tuesday, Johanna churned butter and washed the eggs, sorting them into baskets, holding the largest for Tate’s consumption. She fed the new mares and the heavier draft horses, enjoying the companionship of the big animals, talking to them in the same low, crooning fashion as had Tate. And in every task, every moment of those two days, she missed the man she’d married with a ferocious intensity.

Tuesday night found Timmy at her bedside, dragging his quilt behind him. She sat upright, startled by his appearance in the middle of the night, and reached for him.

“Timmy! Are you all right? What’s the matter?”

He leaned against her, warm and soft and smelling like a little boy, a mixture she could not have described if she tried. She only knew it was a special aroma, peculiar to the children who lived in her house.

“I’m awake, Miss Johanna,” he said through a yawn.

“So I see.” She hugged him close, tugging him up onto the mattress beside her.

“Can I sleep with you?” he asked plaintively.

Arranging the covers over him, she tucked him next to her, just as Pete trailed through the doorway.

“Where’s Timmy?” he growled.

“I’m sleepin’ with Miss Johanna,” Timmy piped up from his vantage point on his father’s pillow.

“You can climb in, too, if you want to,” Johanna said, pleased by the company the presence of the boys offered.

“Gimme the quilt, Timmy,” Pete ordered, his tone bossy. He snatched up the heavy covering and climbed up
to curl himself at the foot of the bed. Mumbling beneath his breath, he pulled the quilt around himself until all that could be seen was a blurred lump near Johanna’s feet.

“Is today the day? Is this Thursday?” Timmy’s question preceded him into the kitchen as he clambered down the staircase, his high-pitched voice bringing a smile to Johanna’s lips.

Turning to the doorway, she welcomed the child with open arms, and he leaped into her embrace with vigor. “Yes, today’s Thursday,” she told him, her lips pressing kisses against his dark hair. How she loved this little bundle, this wiggling, chattering boy.

She looked up to see Pete leaning against the doorway. “When are we going to town?” he asked, stifling a yawn as he scratched his nose.

“As soon as breakfast is done and the chores finished.” Johanna deposited Timmy on the floor and turned back to the stove. “The oatmeal is about done, Pete. Why don’t you and Timmy put your coats on and feed the chickens, so Mr. Cooney won’t have to? I’ll need the eggs gathered, too.”

“I don’t like the chickens,” Timmy offered. “They squawk at me.”

“That’s ’cause you chase ’em,” Pete told him with a scowl.

“You don’t like ’em, either.” Timmy made a face at his brother as he tugged his coat from the peg by the door.

“That’s ’cause they try to pick at me when I steal their eggs.” Pete scowled at the younger boy, wrapping Timmy’s scarf around his neck before donning his own heavy jacket.

“Put on gloves first, Pete. They can’t hurt you that way.” Johanna covered the oatmeal with a lid and opened the oven to check on the leftover biscuits she was warming,
calling after the boys distractedly. “Hurry now! Breakfast is almost ready.”

Still wrangling good-naturedly, the two boys left the house, and she glanced out the window to watch them crossing the yard. The sun was up, the eastern sky washed with its glory, and she closed her eyes for a moment. It was almost too much, this joy, this inner exuberance she felt sometimes.

Mr. Cooney was making his way from the barn, laden with milk pails, and she hurried to the door. “Yoo-hoo! Mr. Cooney! Would you like some breakfast? The biscuits are warming, and the sausage is ready.”

Depositing his double burden by the springhouse, he opened the door. “I’ll just take a couple with me, missus. My woman will be waiting breakfast for me at home.”

The boys were inside the chicken house, and Johanna watched as the hens tottered down the ramp from the small entrance they used. They scurried around the fenced-in area, heads to the ground as they fed on the scattered corn Pete had provided. Timmy appeared, holding the door for his brother, and Pete emerged, carrying the blue-speckled pan full of eggs, his tongue tucked neatly into the corner of his mouth.

They made their way across the yard, then, with a great stamping of feet, came into the kitchen. “Here’s your eggs, Miss Johanna.” Pete carried his burden proudly. “We got almost two dozen this morning.”

“That’s more than all my fingers,” Timmy announced, shedding his coat and scarf just inside the door.

“We gotta wash in here. It’s too cold by the pump.” Depositing the eggs on the cupboard, Pete made for the sink.

“I left you a pan of warm water,” Johanna told him, her hands full of food as she carried sausage and the pan of oatmeal to the table.

“Hurry, Pete. We’re gonna get Pa.” Timmy rinsed his
hands, standing on tiptoe to reach the water, and dried them ineffectually on his shirt.

Breakfast was quick, the food disappearing rapidly, and then they were ready. Johanna headed for the barn, stopping by to pick up the butter she’d left, wrapped and in the basket, in the springhouse. Pete carried the basket of eggs, and Timmy ran ahead to open the barn door.

In a matter of minutes, she’d harnessed the horses and loaded the wagon, her fingers fairly flying as she fastened buckles, performing the familiar chore. In the full light of day, they set off for Belle Haven, Johanna’s reticule containing the letter she’d written at Tate’s request, assuring Bessie Swenson of her welcome come April.

And this morning, even that approaching event could not quell the happiness that rose within her.

There he was, waiting for the train to come to a full stop, one hand holding the pole, one foot already on the step, his satchel behind him. As the puffing engine passed, Johanna waited impatiently. The rail cars slowed, until finally, with a screeching of brakes, the iron wheels skidded on the tracks and the whole shebang rocked back and forth.

“Pa! We been waitin’!” Timmy’s shriek carried to the stationmaster, and beyond him, to the assortment of townsfolk who waited for the variety of goods to be delivered from the city. Mr. Turner’s helper sat aboard an empty wagon. Selena Phillips stood in the doorway of the station house, empty mailbag in hand, waiting to exchange it for this morning’s delivery.

And from the passenger coach, Tate Montgomery stepped to the platform, reaching back to swing his satchel from the train. Two small boys approached at breakneck speed, and he braced himself for their assault, bending to catch their bodies as they hurled themselves into his arms.

Johanna’s tears came close to overflowing as she watched. Such fatherly love was beyond her imagining.
And then the big man on the platform lifted his gaze to where she stood, and she saw a change sweep over his features. His eyes narrowing against the rays of the sun, he scanned her motionless form. His mouth tilting up at one corner, he gave each portion of her anatomy a slow, thorough inspection that pleased her enormously, even as she blushed at his scrutiny.

With one boy in each arm, hat askew and face drawn by weariness, he approached. “Ma’am? Do you know these two scallywags?” he asked, squeezing the small bodies tightly.

“Pa! She knows us real good!” Timmy hollered, loudly enough to make his father wince and tilt his head away from the excited child.

“He’s teasin’ us, Timmy.” Pete’s scornful set-down went unheeded as Timmy wiggled to be lowered to the ground.

Running back to where the brown satchel had been abandoned on the platform, Timmy struggled to lift it, both hands wrapped around the handle. “Pa’s got our presents in here, I’ll betcha.”

Tate bent, lowering Pete to the ground. “Help your brother with that, son,” he said, his gaze still on Johanna.

And then he reached her, his hands circumspect as they rested on her shoulders, only the force of his fingers revealing the depth of his need. His kiss was brief, a mere brush of lips, but the breath he expelled against her cheek told her of his restraint. Never would Tate be less than a gentleman in public, but the effort was costly.

“Just wait till I get you alone.” If it was meant to be a threat, he’d missed the mark, Johanna decided. Delivered in a growling, guttural tone against her ear, the words sent a thrill of anticipation down her spine.

“Did you bring me something?” she asked, sweetly and innocently, her eyes blinking a teasing message.

“A couple of somethings. But one of them will have to
wait,” he told her, releasing her from his grip and turning back to where a boxcar was being unloaded.

A ramp was lowered to the platform, and from within the dark interior, a bellowing creature of enormous proportions was being led by a very sturdy-looking man. “That’s a red-and-white purebred shorthorn bull you’re looking at, Mrs. Montgomery.” He’d turned her to view the proceedings, and his hands were on her shoulders, his lips near her ear. “How do you like your present, honey?”

“My present?” She was bewildered, to say the least. Instead of getting rid of fifteen head of cattle, it seemed, they were about to take possession of a bull.

“How do you like him? Isn’t he a dandy?” Tate’s enthusiasm was overcoming his weariness, if his excitement was any indication.

“We already have a bull.” She hadn’t seen the creature lately, but if the swollen bellies of the cows in the near pasture was any indication, the animal had done his job last year. Johanna didn’t have to be close up to believe in the animal’s prowess. She’d as soon he stayed out in the far corners of the farm. Bulls were worrisome.

Now Tate had announced that this beast was a gift meant for her benefit.

“I meant it as a surprise, Jo.” Releasing her from his touch, he walked to where the stockman held fast to the bull’s rope. The other end was looped through a ring piercing the animal’s nose, and Tate gripped the rope tightly, controlling the bull with a knowledgeable grip.

“I’ll tie him to the back of the wagon,” he told her, leading his prize past where she stood.

Johanna followed him at a safe distance, her teeth biting at one corner of her mouth. “He looks expensive,” she ventured quietly.

Tate shot her a knowing grin. “I’ll say! I had to bid high for this one. But he’ll be worth it, Jo.”

“I didn’t know you were that rich, Tate.” She’d seen
the ads for this kind of creature in the farm magazine her father bought on occasion. A purebred shorthorn must have cost a fortune. Well, perhaps not that much, but at least a whole lot more than Johanna had in the bank.

“It would have taken everything I had left, Johanna.”

“Would have?” She wrinkled her brow, not understanding his statement.

“Can we talk about this later, honey?” Tate tugged at the rope, making sure of its knots as he tied the bull to the back of the wagon.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said slowly. The thought of riding home with that animal behind her gave her a feeling of unease she could not have described. But she was even more apprehensive about the eerie sensation that had seized her at Tate’s announcement. If he hadn’t spent his bank account on the bull, where had he gotten the money? She doubted the men in Chicago had given him credit.

“Johanna? We need to hurry. We’ll have to drop off the apples, along with the butter and eggs, and I don’t want to have this bull in town any longer than we need to.”

Butter and eggs and four bushels of apples were the least of her worries right now, Johanna thought, her insides twisting into an aching mass as she faced her husband. “Where did you get the money?” She felt the blood leave her face, felt it pooling somewhere deep within her, felt the cold chill of disbelief sweep over her.

Across the width of the wagon, his mouth tightened, and his gaze pierced her with steel-gray strength. “I took out a small mortgage on the farm. Now climb in the wagon, Jo, so we can get going.”

Her feet felt made of stone, so heavy and huge inside her boots, she feared she could not move one in front of the other. But she did, turning from him to make her way across the platform to where the wooden sidewalk led to the center of town. Ahead of her, on either side of the road, were the buildings making up the town of Belle Haven.
The bank, the livery stable, the general store and the hotel. Assorted shops and businesses touched, side by side, shopkeepers and early customers visible without and within.

She made her way, slowly at first, then more quickly as she heard the bells on the harnesses of Tate’s horses approaching behind her. He slowed, keeping to her pace.