The Forever Man(5)

A bitter wash of regret filled her to overflowing, and she stepped down  from the porch. Better that she not expose herself to close scrutiny.  Not now, not while old memories were bursting the seams of that hidden  place where she'd long ago relegated them for eternity.

"I'll be leaving, Miss Johanna." The soft words of the minister broke  into her thoughts, and she looked up quickly to see him astride his  horse, reins in hand. "I'll be anxious to hear your decision, ma'am," he  said. With a courtly gesture, he tipped his hat in her direction and  turned his horse to leave.

Johanna watched him go, her thoughts in turmoil. Would tomorrow be time  enough for her to decide her whole future? She lifted her gaze to the  small rise beyond the house, where a low fence enclosed the family  cemetery. Lifting her skirt a few inches, holding its hem above the  grass, she made her way there, climbing the hill with ease, unlatching  the wooden gate and leaving it open behind her as she knelt by the grave  of her mother.

She reached out to pull a milkweed that had sprung up in the past few  days. Her fingers sticky from the stem, she rubbed them distractedly  against her apron as she spoke. "Mama, a man wants to marry me." The  words were soft, murmured under her breath. She'd spent a lot of time in  these one-way conversations with the mother she'd helped bury over ten  years ago. Sometimes she wondered if she didn't hear a faint voice  within her that repeated some of her mother's favorite small sayings.

"He won't ever have to know, Mama. I won't tell him, and he says he  doesn't want a real wife, just a cook and someone to keep his children  clean and well fed. I can do that, can't I?" She rubbed her eyes,  unwilling that the tears should fall, those tears she held in abeyance  until the times she knelt here.

It was usually a lonely place, here where she'd buried the three humans  most important to her, two of the graves tended carefully, the third  marked only by a small rosebush. It was to that spot that she moved,  shifting on the cool ground, mindful of grass stains marring her dress.  She snapped two faded roses from the bush, the final flowers of summer,  touched by an early-autumn frost during the past nights.

"Baby mine, your mama … " Her voice faltered as she spoke the words no  other person had ever heard fall from her lips. And then the tears she  shed only in this place fell once more, as she smoothed her palm over  the grass that covered the grave where her baby lay.





Chapter Three


By the time she'd soaked her eyes in cool water, changed her dress and  scooped up her hair into a respectable knot on the back of her head,  Johanna had run out of time. Sure enough, she'd managed to get grass  stains on her work dress, and she'd scrubbed at them, then left the  dress to soak in a bucket.

Supper would have to be quick. Those two little boys were guaranteed to  be hungry before long, with only sugar cookies and milk in their bellies  since noontime. The image of Tate Montgomery popped unbidden into her  mind, and she found herself imagining his big hands holding a knife and  fork, eating at her table. She closed her eyes, nurturing the vision,  leaning against the pantry door.

So real was the mental picture, she could almost catch his scent, that  musky outdoor aroma she'd drawn into her lungs earlier. She inhaled  deeply, and opened her eyes.

"Ma'am? I didn't mean to disturb you." Tate Montgomery stood at her back  door, one hand lifted to rest against the frame, the other plunged deep  in his pocket. Less than four feet away from the pantry door, he stood  watching her, that intent, dark gaze focused on her face.

"Ma'am?" He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his gaze  drifted from her face to slide in a slow, lazy fashion over her person.  Not in a threatening manner, but as if he needed to see that all the  parts were in place, almost as if he were assessing her womanly form.                       
       
           



       

She felt the flush rise from her breasts, up the length of her long  neck, to settle deeply beneath the flesh covering her cheeks. "Do I suit  you, Mr. Montgomery?" she asked tartly. "Do I look sturdy enough to be a  housekeeper and cook and child-tender?"

His eyes focused once more on her face, the face she'd spent fifteen  minutes bathing in order to hide the signs of her bout of tears earlier.  She raised her left hand, brushing at a tendril of pale hair that had  escaped her severe hairdo, allowing the pad of her index finger to sweep  beneath her eye. There was no telltale swelling to be felt there, no  evidence of her brief but shattering lapse. The relief inherent in that  discovery put a measure of starch into her backbone, and she turned from  his presence.

Her largest bowl in hand, she opened the pantry door and stepped within.  On three sides, the shelves surrounded her, with their burden of food  close at hand. The large bags of flour, sugar, coffee and salt were at  waist level, easily reached for daily use. Above, where she must stretch  a bit for a good handhold, were the glass quart jars she'd filled with  the harvest from her kitchen garden during the past weeks. And to her  right she'd arranged more canning jars, these filled with the boiled-up  stewing hens she'd culled from the chicken yard once the young pullets  began laying, come summer.

She grasped the bag of flour, bringing it to the edge of the shelf,  where she opened it, tipping a good measure into the bowl she held. A  scoop of lard came next, the dollop landing in a cloud of flour. Chicken  potpie would be quick, once she rolled out a crust and put some  vegetables on to parboil. She turned to leave the pantry, the familiar  sense of satisfaction she found within its confines uplifting her  spirits. There was something about seeing the work of your hands  surrounding you, knowing you'd not have to worry about setting a table  through the long months of winter. It was a pleasurable thing to be a  woman, she decided.

"Can I help with something?" He was there, almost blocking her exit, and she blinked rapidly as her heart missed a beat.

"I didn't mean to insult you a few minutes ago," he said quietly. "And  to answer your question, yes, you do look more than capable of doing all  I've asked. You're a fine-looking woman, Miss Johanna."

For the first time, she saw a softening of his features, an easing of  his closely held emotions, as he offered his apology. She nodded in  acceptance of his words and carried the bowl to the table. Her fingers  left it reluctantly. He'd said she was a fine-looking woman. She knew  her teeth were straight and even. She brushed them every day with tooth  powder. Her hair was a good color, golden from the summer sun, and  thick, and her eyes were far apart, blue, like her mother's. If all that  added up to fine-looking, then she could accept the small compliment as  her due.

"Do you need the fire built up in the stove?" He'd stayed near the door,  and she saw his glance out into the yard when a childish shriek sounded  from near the barn. "Is the dog good with children?" he asked, his gaze  leveled beyond her field of vision.

She turned quickly. "Sheba won't put up with any foolishness, but she  doesn't bite. She's a herd dog, Mr. Montgomery, not a pet."

His smile was unexpected, and she savored its warmth for a moment.  "Apparently she doesn't know that, ma'am. She's chasing a stick for  Timmy."

Her lips tightened. They'd better get things squared away right off.  "Animals are only as useful as you make them. I can't afford to feed a  dog that doesn't serve a purpose. Sheba's no good to me if she attaches  to the boys and forgets her duties."

His smile faded, and his eyes became guarded, the momentary pleasure  she'd seen there replaced by a forbidding darkness. "I'll see to it."  Abruptly the man who'd been at ease in her kitchen was transformed into  the chilly stranger she'd first met earlier in the day.

"I'll tend the stove, Mr. Montgomery. If it's not too much trouble, you  can open the back door of the barn. The cows will be wanting to come in  to be milked before long." When she turned once more he was gone, and  she watched surreptitiously from one side of the kitchen door as he made  his way across her yard.                       
       
           



       

A pang of regret touched her, and not for the first time she rued her  quick tongue. The boys weren't hurting anything, playing with Sheba. The  dog was old enough to know her job, and even a dumb animal deserved a  little attention once in a while. Almost, she called out to rescind her  harsh words, hesitating but a few seconds. No, she might as well start  out as she meant to continue.