The Forever Man(8)

Her gaze swung to the man who stepped through the barn door. And for a  moment, she wondered what it would feel like to have that tall, muscular  body close to hers, those strong male arms holding her.

Her mouth tightened, and she turned from the window abruptly. "You've  been that route, Johanna Patterson," she said aloud to herself, "and  what did it get you but a lot of heartache? Settle for what the man  offered, and count yourself lucky."





Chapter Four


"I surely didn't expect you'd be making your bedroom in the attic."

Johanna's breath caught in her throat as the deep voice cut into her  thoughts. Her skirts swirling around her legs, she did an abrupt  about-face, turning to seek out the man who was watching her. He was  head and shoulders above floor level, his feet planted firmly on the  attic stairs, one arm resting on the wide planking of the attic floor.

"Don't creep up on me that way!" Johanna's hand was at her throat, and her words were breathless, almost a whisper.

"I'm sorry," Tate said softly. "I thought you'd have heard me calling you from the back door."

"I didn't hear you come in," she answered, her hands sliding with measured nonchalance into her pockets.

His eyes slid from her to sweep the perimeters of the large, cluttered  room, resting finally on the bedroom furniture that occupied one wall.

"What are you doing up here, Johanna?" he prodded, his forehead creasing into a frown.

"Moving things," she said abruptly.

She'd begun by shifting an old dresser, and then, snagged by bittersweet  memories, she'd opened one of the drawers. The clothing inside was  neatly folded, just as she'd left it ten years ago, still smelling  faintly of her mother's scented sachets. She'd lifted a soft, worn  petticoat to her face and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as they  filled with unbidden tears, allowing the wistful thoughts to flood her  being for just a moment.

Reluctantly she'd placed the garment back inside the drawer, her fingers  lingering on the worn fabric as she set aside the remnants of her  mother's clothing. Wiping her eyes and blowing her nose ferociously,  she'd gently closed the drawer.

And then Tate had interrupted her pondering with his blunt query, startling her into a rude reply. It was time to backtrack.

"I'm deciding about this bed." She folded her arms about her waist,  nodding toward the headboard she'd leaned against the dresser.

His eyes followed her direction. "What's the problem? It looks to me like it'll fit down that stairway just fine."

A spark of defiance lit her eyes. "You don't think the attic would be a proper bedroom for me?"

"I think I'd feel better about it if you slept downstairs with the rest  of us." His frown had somehow vanished as he spoke, a glimmer of  amusement taking its place, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes.                       
       
           



       

"It's just that it's my mother's sewing room I was thinking of using,"  she answered obliquely, her hackles rising to meet his arbitrary  reasoning.

He tilted his head, his smile gentle. "Your mother's been gone a long  time, Johanna. I doubt she'd want you to make a shrine out of her  workroom." He climbed the remaining stairs and walked toward her. "I'll  help you carry the headboard down if you'd like me to."

"I know exactly how long my mother's been dead, Mr. Montgomery. And if I  want the bed taken down, I'll do it myself, the same way I got it up  here." She'd stiffened at his approach, and now her head tilted back,  allowing her gaze to clash with his.

He was stooped just a bit beneath the lowering eaves, a tall man, used  to allowing for his height. Now he reached out to lay a warm hand on her  shoulder, bending even closer, until she could see the shadows beneath  his eyes. "You don't have to move furniture while I'm here, Johanna. If  I'm to be the man of the house, I'll do the heavy work."

She held her ground, aware of his bulk, the masculine weight of his hand  against her more fragile bones. Flexing the muscles beneath that  pressure, she shrugged, as if to rid herself of his touch. It wasn't  worth the fuss.

"Suit yourself," she said, dropping her gaze from his, her mind  retaining the memory of his eyes and the shadows they contained. Perhaps  he hadn't slept well out there in her barn. Maybe his nights, like  hers, were occasionally prey to demons that stole sleep.

"Will you need help making room for us in the house today?" he asked,  releasing her and reaching for the heavy wooden headboard. "The boys are  anxious to see where they'll be sleeping. I think they've lost their  appetite for roughing it."

"They'll be usin' my old bedroom. It has a big bed in it. I suppose they  can bring in their belongings as soon as I empty my things from the  dresser and the wardrobe."

"They're pretty easy young'ns," he said with a trace of pride. "They'll  be happy most anywhere, long as there's something softer than the ground  to sleep on."

Johanna stepped aside, watching him lift the headboard with ease,  carrying it down the stairs as if it were no heavier than a length of  two-by-four. She followed him, her steps light, her house shoes silent  against the uncarpeted stairs.

"Which room am I headed for?" he asked over his shoulder, shifting his  burden to accommodate the corner at the foot of the attic stairs.

"The end of the hallway, on the right," she told him, closing the attic  door behind herself as she followed him down the wide corridor. She  scurried past him quickly, opening the door to her mother's sewing room,  making way for him to follow.

He halted in the doorway and whistled softly. "Not a whole lot of space, is there?"

A paisley shawl caught his eye, its folds draped gracefully over a  sewing machine in one corner. The black iron treadle below was angled,  as if a feminine foot had left it only moments ago.

A wardrobe filled another corner, its doors closed snugly. A small  dresser was tight against the wall near the door, a daintily crocheted  scarf centered on its surface. Beneath the window, a worktable lay  empty, not so much as a pincushion remaining in view. Obviously Johanna  had not made regular use of her mother's room. Either that or she was  the neatest woman he'd ever met.

A faint scent, perhaps that of rose petals, caught his attention, and  for a moment he felt another presence, as if the woman who had been the  possessor of this space lingered still. And then the notion vanished as  Johanna moved across the floor, her gaze measuring the walls and floor  space.

"I think there will be room enough once the worktable and sewing machine  are taken upstairs." She turned to him expectantly, as if she awaited  his opinion.

"Whatever you think, Johanna." He'd already decided to be as obliging as  he could. The house was her domain. The lines would be drawn soon  enough when it came to the running of the farm.

"I'll move most everything upstairs." She spoke softly, one hand  brushing at a speck of dust on the dresser. "This chest will be large  enough for my things."                       
       
           



       

"I'll take care of the heavy stuff. Where do you want the bed to go?"

She started abruptly. "Oh! Here, put it against the wall. We'll have to  move the sewing machine and the worktable out first, won't we?" Her  fingers lingered on the surface of the dresser as she spoke. "I'll empty  out these drawers after a while."

Tate leaned the heavy headboard against the wall and straightened. "Tell  me how this table comes apart. I'll carry it upstairs and bring down  the rest of the bed."

Johanna watched as he put one knee to the floor, leaning to peer beneath  the table where long bolts held the legs in place. "My father built it  for her," she told him, moving to his side and crouching next to him.  "He made it just like the one her mother had, back in the city. Shall I  get the tools from the kitchen for you to use?"

He'd shifted to both knees, his hands already busy with the heavy nuts  holding the bolts in place. "Your pa did a good job, I'd say. These  things are tighter than an old-"

Johanna's eyebrows lifted as he paused. "An old maid's pucker?" she asked.

He ducked his head, backing out from beneath the table, a grin twisting  his mouth. "Yeah, that's what I was about to say. Then thought better of  it."

"I am an old maid, Mr. Montgomery. And not ashamed of it."

"But not for long, Miss Patterson," he reminded her, his grin fading as  he took note of her somber expression. His jaw tightened as he  recognized the faint uneasiness she sought to hide. Her hands were  buried in the folds of her apron, her fingers no doubt clenched tight.  Johanna Patterson was taking a big chance marrying a stranger, and it  would behoove him to treat her with kid gloves, at least till the deed  was done.