Johanna swept her free hand through his dark hair, her fingers fluffing the stray yellow wisps from its silken length. Her heart went out to the child, his innocence shining from eyes so blue they reminded her of summer skies.
"We were just playin', and my pa won't like it that you yelled at us," Pete announced stoutly.
"Your pa will have to find a piece of canvas and top off this stack before the afternoon's over, and you'd better plan on helping him with the chore," Johanna told him quietly, her aggravation under control.
From the orchard, a shrill whistle caught her ear, and she spun to face the direction where her apple trees stood in neat rows. The tall figure of Tate Montgomery strode through the section where she'd planted several lateripening northern spy trees, his head covered by a wide-brimmed hat. He lifted one arm in a wave, the other hand clasping a bucket laden with apples.
Her heartbeat quickened as she watched him stride through the tall grass, down the slope past the pasture fence and toward the house. His long legs carried him at a rapid pace, and a grin of satisfaction curled his mouth as he neared. So quickly he had found a place here on her farm. Just as rapidly, he'd managed to plant himself right smack in the middle of her every waking thought.
She shook her head, willing the small trickle of pleasure she felt to be subdued. The man was a sight to behold, but she hadn't the right to … to what? Surely it did no harm to please herself by admiring his broad shoulders and longlegged stride.
That she'd ever considered the young Joseph Brittles to be a likely candidate for her husband those ten long years ago was more than she could fathom now. Now that she'd met Tate Montgomery. Her eyes were fixed upon him as he brushed a path through the near meadow toward her, like a colossus making his way across a field of battle.
"Brought you a bucket of the first Baldwins, Johanna. Thought you could bake some for dinner. Sure would taste good with some brown sugar and cinnamon sprinkled over the top." He swung the heavy pail easily, as if the half bushel or so of apples weighed but a few ounces, instead of the twenty-five pounds she was certain it contained.
Tilting her head to one side as she considered his request, she nodded. "I can do that. Anybody who picks apples half the morning ought to get a little of the fruit of his labor, I always figure."
His laugh was boyish in its cheerful exultation, as if he had not a care in the world. The bucket swung, the apples it held brimming over the top, and Johanna was struck by the masculine beauty of the man she'd married. His hair was blown by the breeze, probably tangled by apple branches while he'd poked amid them on the ladder. Sweat staining his shirt in a half circle beneath each arm and his hands soiled by the honest labor he'd done thus far today, he presented a picture she could only admire.
"I'll carry these to the kitchen for you, Mrs. Montgomery," he told her, a grin wreathing his face.
The somber man she first saw two weeks ago atop his wagon had been a far cry from the male specimen facing her now, she thought. Tate Montgomery thrived on hard work. Sunrise found him in the barn, milking and feeding the cows. Contrary to his joking appraisal of his skills, he was an accomplished farmer, she'd found. Whistling softly, cajoling the cows with gentle, coaxing praises, he made short work of the chores.
He'd taken to eating her food as if he hadn't sat at a decent table in years. His approval of her cooking was generous, and it pleased Johanna mightily that she could so provide for him. She plied him with food as a mother robin might tend her nestlings, proudly watching as her offerings were consumed. She'd never enjoyed her kitchen so much, gathering the final bounty from her summer garden to chop and peel and prepare for his approval.
Their noontime meals were hasty, Tate unwilling to keep from his work longer than was necessary to refuel his body for the afternoon's labor.
Supper was another matter entirely. Leaning back in his chair, he would watch her as she moved around her kitchen, ladling and pouring, readying the food for her table. His voice strong and vibrant, he'd tell of his day's accomplishments. Of the fences mended, the chores completed, the apples picked and sorted for storage, the last cutting of hay mowed and raked into neat rows.
His capacity for work astounded her. His cheerfulness in the face of such unending toil amazed her. His tenderness with the sons he'd fathered beguiled her. And the occasional look of assessment he cast in her direction piqued her curiosity. He'd made no advances; as he'd promised, he demanded nothing of her beyond what they'd bargained for. He bade her good-night at the foot of the stairway each evening and wished her a good day at the kitchen door every morning, after milking.
She walked behind him now as he strode to the porch, waited as he hoisted the apples easily to its wide planked surface. "Dinner's about ready," she told him, lifting her skirts to climb the three steps. "I just have to dish up."
"We'll wash at the pump. Looks like these boys have been rolling in the dirt." His big hands rested on young shoulders as he turned both children to where the iron pump stood.
Johanna heard the squeaks of Timmy's laughter as the cold water splashed over his hands and face. Her smile broadened as she imagined the three of them splashing water, clustered beneath the gushing flow, each of them taking a turn at wielding the long handle while the other two soaped and scrubbed.
How different her days were from the stern and staid life she'd led with her father for the past ten years. How quickly she'd welcomed the merriment two small boys and one tolerant father brought to this place.
This noontime, she feared, the smiles would be held in abeyance as she told Tate of the morning's small disaster.
Maybe the table laden with food would soften the blow she'd be obliged to deliver when Tate came in. He'd not be pleased to have to stop what he was doing to fuss with his sons' mischievousness. She'd have to soften the news, maybe wait until she served up the bread pudding she'd made for dessert. That Tate Montgomery enjoyed his sweets was a fact she'd come to appreciate.
Feet stomping across the porch alerted her, and she quickly carried the food to the table, gaining her seat just as the others found theirs. Timmy brushed off her offer of help, easing his way to kneel on the seat of his chair.
"For what we are about to receive, make us truly thankful," Tate prayed, elbows on the table, hands folded over his plate. She watched him through lowered lashes as his voice intoned the words, then quickly placed her napkin in her lap, lest he catch her peeking.
"Closing our eyes when we pray is a sign of respect," Tate said chidingly.
Johanna's head lifted quickly, her eyes seeking his. Surely he hadn't noticed!
"I always do, Pa," said Timmy earnestly, squeezing his eyelids shut, as if to demonstrate.
"Do you think God cares?" Pete's query was morose, as if he could not be concerned with what the Almighty deemed important. "I'd think he ought to worry more about other stuff."
"I've wondered about that myself," Johanna answered, dishing up potatoes on Timmy's plate before she served herself.
The older boy's head swung around, his eyes wide. "You have? You think he's got more important things to fuss over?"
Johanna nodded, doling out vegetables with a generous hand. "I used to wonder why he didn't look after my mother a little better, let her live a little longer. I prayed a lot about that, but she died anyway."
"Your mother died? How old were you?" His eyes were wide, and his somber, small face was expectant.
"Pretty old … sixteen. But I don't think you ever get old enough not to miss your mother when she's gone." Keeping her gaze deliberately away from Pete, Johanna dealt with Timmy's meat, cutting it into small pieces.
"Did she drown?"
It was a pitiful query, delivered in a wispy voice, and Johanna's heart melted, even as she shook her head. Perhaps she could let the matter of the strawstack go by the wayside until tomorrow. The thought of Pete being scolded by his father was more than she could cope with today. Suddenly, the loss of a pile of straw seemed trivial, next to the terrible deprivation suffered by the child when his mother had vanished from his life.
"Eat your dinner, Pete. We've got work to do this afternoon," his father said firmly.
"Yeah! We gotta clean up the mess we made in the straw," Timmy volunteered brightly. "Miss Johanna hollered at us, Pa."