The Forever Man(6)

And then she drew in a deep breath as she recognized that her decision  had already been made. She would marry Tate Montgomery. She would take  on his children as her own. She would be Mrs. Montgomery, a wife in  name, at least. If he asked no more from her than that, she would never  have to own up to the shame she carried as a great weight on her  conscience. The shame of a fallen woman. A Jezebel, Pa had said.





"I'd see the letters you brought with you, Mr. Montgomery," she said,  scooping a generous helping of chicken and vegetables onto his plate.  She ladled a spoonful of steaming gravy over it all, then carefully  placed the next piece of crusty topping over it and handed him his  plate. She'd taken the first spoonful for herself, then served him, so  that his crust would be unbroken and appetizing. It was a small gesture,  one she'd seen her mother repeat often.

A man was the head of the house, given the best piece of meat, the  freshest bread. His coffee was poured first, his shirts ironed when the  sadirons were cooled just enough not to scorch. Pa had expected it, the  honor accorded him as a man.

Tate Montgomery, on the other hand, looked a bit amazed at the attention  he'd been given by his hostess. She'd placed the fresh round of butter  in front of his place, piled newly sliced bread on a plate and edged it  with a jar of strawberry jam and a comb of honey. His cup was brimming  with hot coffee as he sat and nodded his thanks with a raised eyebrow  and a half smile signifying his surprise.

Timothy and Pete sat at the sides of the table, the three forming a  setting she could not help but appreciate. They looked like a family,  the four of them around the table, the kerosene lamp above, its glow  circling them with a suggestion of warmth. The boys stretched their  plates toward her, and she helped them to the food before taking up her  napkin to spread across her lap.

Timothy watched her carefully, then removed his own napkin to follow her  example. She caught his eye as he glanced at her again, and smiled her  approval. His small, perfect teeth flashed for a moment between his lips  as he allowed a crooked grin to touch his mouth. Then he ducked his  head and tended to the business at hand.

"I'll bring you the letters after supper," Tate Montgomery offered as he  swallowed his first bite of potpie. "You cook a fine meal, Miss  Johanna," he said, as if compliments came easily to his lips. It was the  second one he'd given her, and both in the space of a day. He was a  gentleman, she decided. The fine woolen trousers had given way to  farmer's overalls, and the coat he'd worn earlier had been replaced by a  heavy flannel shirt, but he ate with clean hands and good table  manners.

"Can I have jam on my bread, Pa?" Pete had made away with over half his  dinner already. She'd been right. The boys had been more than hungry.  She'd have to be sure to offer them apples in the afternoon from now on.  Or maybe … Her mind swirled with thoughts of tending to three male  creatures, the work implicit in their well-being, the extra washing to  do, the meals to cook.

And where would they sleep? Once she married their father, the boys  would move into the house, perhaps share her old bedroom with its big  double bed and hand-hewn dresser.

Where would she sleep then? In the attic? In her mother's sewing room?  Surely not in the big bedroom at the top of the stairs, where her  parents had conducted a marriage for almost twenty years. That would be  Tate Montgomery's room. He deserved it, as the head of the family.

"I said, I wouldn't mind another helping of that chicken pie, if you  don't mind, Miss Johanna." His voice was quiet, sounding amused at her  expense, as if he knew he'd caught her daydreaming. If such a thing  could be, with night coming on. She'd done her share during daylight  hours, that was for sure. But usually by this time of the day she was  too tired to think of much else than setting the kitchen to rights and  heading for her bed.                       
       
           



       

She spooned up another portion on his plate, and he murmured his thanks.  His hands were deft as he spread jam on another slice of bread and  handed it to Pete, then did the same for Timothy. He was used to looking  out for them, she thought idly. It showed in his manner, in the way he  watched them, unobtrusively but with vigilance, noting their behavior,  nodding his head with approval or shaking it slightly as Timothy stuffed  his mouth in his eagerness to eat the jam-laden bread.

"I'm glad your boys are good eaters," she said. "Will they like oatmeal  for breakfast? Or would sausage and eggs be better?" Folding her napkin  beside her plate, she lifted her glass to drink from its foaming depths.  The milk was cool, fresh from this morning's milking. "Would you like  more milk, Pete?" she asked, setting her glass on the table.

A glance at his father gained him permission, and Pete nodded his  answer. He swallowed quickly and supported his unspoken request with a  "Yes, ma'am."

Johanna rose from the table and lifted the pitcher from the cupboard,  filling both boys' glasses, Timothy's not quite to the brim, in  deference to his youth and his smaller hands.

"I'd take a small tumbler of that milk, if you don't mind," their father said as she straightened from her task.

"Would you rather not have coffee? I assumed … My father always liked  coffee with his supper." She reached for another heavy glass from the  shelf behind her and poured it full, placing it next to his plate as she  spoke.

"I enjoy both sometimes. Coffee always, especially at breakfast. As for  early morning, we take whatever's available. Oatmeal and the rest will  do fine." he assured her. His gaze followed her as she moved across the  kitchen. "Sit down, Miss Johanna. We need to speak for a few minutes."

She complied, bringing with her a bowl of cookies she'd taken from the  crock where she kept them for freshness' sake. The boy's eyes brightened  as they tilted their chins to better see within the dish, and Timothy  was hasty in his movements as he finished up the last of his supper. He  licked a stray crumb of crust from his upper lip and edged his hand  across the table to where the bowl sat.

"Ask first, son." Though quietly spoken, it was a rebuke nonetheless, and the child nodded.

"Please, ma'am, may I?" he whispered, his dark gaze fixed on her face.

"You may have one of each, if your father says so," she offered, sensing his indecision.

His smile flashing, the child accepted her offer.

"Ma'am?" the older boy asked, his question implicit

She tipped the bowl in the other direction, and the boy reached in.

Tate shoved his chair back from the table and stood. "I believe I'll  make a trip to the barn, Miss Johanna. You boys can eat your cookies and  then get on outside. Stay away from the back of the barn, like I told  you."

They nodded simultaneously, their mouths full, Timmy's feet swinging  beneath the table. Johanna felt the brush of his small boots against her  skirt as he kept time to an unheard beat. It was a foolishly comforting  touch, and she sat unmoving until he'd eaten every last crumb of his  cookies and drunk the last drop of milk.

"Go along now, boys," she told them, gathering the plates and flatware.  Intuitively she left the cup in front of Tate Montgomery's place. He'd  not had any dessert yet. He might want more coffee to go with it.

Her hands were plunged in the dishwater when she heard him come back in  the door. A quick glance over her shoulder proved her right. He'd taken  the coffeepot to the table and filled his cup. At his right hand was an  envelope, fat with folded papers. He gestured at it as she watched.

"Here are the letters of recommendation I spoke of. You'll find two from  ministers in the town we lived in, and one from my banker, the owner of  the general store, and my doctor."

She flushed, embarrassed for a moment as she anticipated reading  personal things about this man. Surely she had the right to know all she  could about him, but the thought of learning it in this way was almost  like … maybe windowpeeping, or reading another person's mail.                       
       
           



       

Drying her hands on the towel, she walked back to the table and sat across from him once more, then reached for the envelope.

"Go ahead," he told her. "It won't take you long. It's just information  you'd expect to get from a doctor or banker. You'll find that I'm  healthy and fit, I've got a decent bank account, and I paid my debts at  the general store on time and in full. My minister even noted the amount  I gave toward the building fund for the new church last year." His  mouth was twisted wryly as he watched her, and she recognized his own  slight embarrassment as he made light of the letters written in his  behalf.