The Forever Man(11)

Yet none of that had touched her inner heart as had the warm caress of  Tate Montgomery's kiss. It had spoken to her of commitment, as if in  that one gesture he'd taken on her problems, her debts, her worries and  her woes. She'd felt, for that moment, safe and secure, with his hands  clasping her forearms, his head bent low to salute her with the wedding  kiss. She'd felt like a bride, almost.

Tate had held her arm in his grasp, guiding her past the women who would  have gushed their well-wishes and words of advice in her ear, had he  given them more of a chance. As it was, the two of them had made their  way down the aisle and out the door within minutes of the short  ceremony. Tate had gathered up his boys on the way and piled them into  the back of the wagon with an economy of motion Johanna could not help  but admire. The man knew how to make an exit, she'd give him that. As if  he recognized her unwillingness to make small talk, he'd taken charge  in grand style. They'd been on their way home before the preacher  cleared the doorway, ushering the remnants of his flock before him.

"You going to stir that gravy all day, or are we going to get to put it  on our potatoes?" Tate had left his seat at the table and walked up  behind her.

"It's done." Her voice was downright normal, she was pleased to note.  Her hands made all the right movements, picking up the pot holders,  serving up the vegetables, pouring the perfectly smooth gravy into her  mother's china gravy boat and then placing everything on the table. All  without looking once at the man who watched her every movement as if he  were trying to see beneath her skin.

"You're all upset about this, aren't you, Johanna? We need to be  comfortable with each other. We can't live in this house like two  strangers."                       
       
           



       

"I don't see how it can be any different, for now at least," she  answered, pulling the oven door open, rescuing the biscuits in the nick  of time. "We are strangers."

The woman who'd been dancing around in his mind for two days had taken  to ignoring him ever since they repeated their vows, two hours ago. He'd  thought to hear her making small talk while she cooked, maybe tell him  about the people who'd hung around to watch the impromptu wedding. She  could even have told him about the farm. Hell, he hadn't even known how  many head of cattle she had till he went looking for himself. Her "not  many" had led him to think there were no more than a half-dozen young  steers and milk cows in the pastures. The herd he'd tracked down in the  far pasture last night numbered at least thirty or so. Accompanied by  the rangiest, most worn-out bull he'd seen in a month of Sundays.

"We may be strangers, Johanna, but we're married. We need to talk about a  few things." Beneath the genial words lay a tone of voice that had  caused people to sit up and take notice over the years. He wasn't  surprised to see her shoulders straighten and her spine stiffen. She'd  gotten the message. Tate Montgomery was ready to set this marriage in  motion. He would not suffer her silence any longer.

Johanna placed the pork roast on the table, careful to put it squarely  on the hot pad that would protect her wooden tabletop. He watched as her  gaze flicked over each bowl and plate, aware that she was assuring  herself that her meal was ready for consumption and that each plate and  fork and napkin was squarely in place.

And still that pair of blue eyes avoided his. Staring at the second  button of his white shirt, she told him dinner was ready, her voice low  and controlled, her unease apparent only in the pulse that fluttered in  her throat.

He took pity on her. Johanna Patterson was having second thoughts, and  his masculine presence in her kitchen had not helped matters any. His  flat demand for a conversation had not set too well with her, either, if  he was any judge. In fact, if he wasn't mistaken, she was about to bolt  And that he couldn't allow.

"Jo."

Her eyes widened, sweeping from the middle of his chest to his face, as  if the diminutive of her given name had shocked her. She blinked, her  attention on him fully for the first time since they'd left the church.

"I'm not pushing for any intimacies between us. I just want us to talk  and act like families act within the walls of their home. Can't you just  pretend I'm your brother or your uncle for the next hour or so? Talk to  me like you would a man you've known for years, like you and your pa  used to talk at mealtimes." He watched her closely, noting the faint  flush that rose from her high-collared neckline.

"Pa and I didn't talk much, Tate. We didn't have a whole lot to say. Pa  wasn't the same after my mother died." She spoke slowly, the words  halting, as if she hesitated to admit the lack of closeness she'd felt  with her father.

"You don't have any relations hereabouts? You didn't have folks in for Sunday dinner?"

She shook her head. "I fed the thrashers. Out in the yard, under the  trees. Once Selena Phillips came out to see me, right after my mother  died. Pa told her we didn't take to having folks hanging around. She  didn't come back."

A wave of sympathy for the woman he'd married hit Tate with the force of  an afternoon storm. She'd been alone here for years, living with her  father, but as solitary as any human could be. Suddenly the wall of  bristling, cutting words she'd thrown up between them at their first  meeting made sense. Johanna Patterson was more than a lonely woman. She  was hurting, and wary of any advances.

"Is it time to eat?" Timmy's treble voice through the screen door broke  the silence that had fallen in the kitchen. His nose pushing up against  the wire mesh, he squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light  inside.

"Come in, boys." Johanna smiled at them, welcoming their presence. She  could cope with them, talk with them, serve their food and get through  this meal with a minimum of contact with their father. She watched as  Pete pulled the door open, stretching the spring as far as he could,  waiting for his brother to step inside, then allowing the door to slam  behind him. His eyes lit with a degree of satisfaction as he darted a  look in her direction.                       
       
           



       

"Don't let the door slam next time, Pete," his father said firmly.

"Yessir," the boy replied, ducking his head deliberately as he spoke.

"Your hands clean?" Tate asked, frowning at his eldest son.

"I washed mine, Pa," Timmy volunteered, holding up the items in question, his palms still wet and glistening.

"Pete?"

"They're clean, Pa," the boy mumbled. "We used the pump outside."

Johanna pulled out the chair to the right of her own. "Sit here, won't  you, Timmy? Take the chair across from your brother, Pete." She clasped  her hands before her, watching as the boys did her bidding, aware of the  man who stood across the table, his own hands clasping the back of his  chair. Finally she felt herself snagged by the strange warmth of his  gray eyes.

"Sit down, Johanna. Everything looks fine. We need to eat before it gets  cold." He waited for her to take her place, not allowing her to attempt  retreat.

And the thought had passed fleetingly through her mind. Only the  presence of the two children made it feasible for her to eat with any  pretense of ease and affability. She waited while Tate bowed his head  and asked a brief blessing on the food, then busied herself with fixing  Timmy's plate, cutting his meat and watching as he took the first bite.  As she'd noticed yesterday, his chin came only inches above the  tabletop. Now he tilted it to ease the passage of his potato-laden fork  as he aimed it toward his mouth.

"Would he do better with a pillow under him?" Johanna asked.

"I thought maybe a chunk or two of firewood would work," Tate said with a grin.

"I can kneel, Pa," Timmy volunteered cheerfully. Depositing his fork on  the table, he scrambled to his knees and leaned back on his heels. "This  will work good," he announced, setting to with renewed energy, now that  he could reach his food more readily. "I was hungry, Miss Johanna."

For the first time in days, Johanna's mouth curled in genuine humor. The  child's glee was infectious. "I'm glad you're hungry, Timmy. I like to  cook for hungry men."

Across the table, Pete ate slowly, as if he begrudged every bite passing  his lips. His eyes were downcast, his fork held in his fist like a  weapon, his whole demeanor morose.

Johanna watched the older boy from beneath her lashes as she ate,  wanting desperately to speak his name, to have him look up at her with  open, cheerful good humor, yet knowing she must not infringe on his  mood. His was about as far from a good mood as east was from west, and  she wasn't about to get him in trouble with his father.