Chapter Eight
The spanking-new two-seater surrey was a sight to behold, rolling into Belle Haven on Sunday morning. Selena, nodding and smiling, lifted one hand to wave a discreet greeting as it passed her by. Beneath her breath, she murmured her blessing. "He was worth waiting for, Johanna Patterson. I'll warrant he'll put a bloom in your cheeks and a baby in your belly before the winter's out."
She'd been the girl's stoutest defender when Neville Olson's suit was denied. Marjorie Jones had said "the Patterson girl should have snatched up the Olson boy, probably the best chance she'd ever have, at her age." Selena had secretly thought Neville's fascination was with the Patterson farm, not with the young woman who owned it.
Now, watching the surrey progress toward the church on this crisp late-autumn morning, Selena felt more than vindicated. If ever a fine figure of a man had existed in this town, Tate Montgomery was it. From the top of his head-each dark chestnut hair held firmly in place by a discreet application of pomade-to the tips of his shiny boots, he was a man worthy of respect.
She'd heard he'd ordered the surrey without Johanna's say-so, bought the mares on impulse and built a new corral in jig time, all in the first two months of his marriage to the sharp-tongued young woman. What Johanna had to say to all that was a mystery, since she'd never been known to confide in anyone hereabouts.
The surrey pulled smartly into the churchyard, Tate lowering himself to the ground with an ease that spoke of physical strength. Fast on his heels, the two boys riding in the back seat slid to the side and, with quick movements, he lifted them down. Finally he turned to the woman he'd married.
"Would you like a hand, Mrs. Montgomery?" His dark gaze glittering with a silvery sheen, he held out his hand to her, and Johanna slid across the black leather seat, aware of more than just one pair of eyes focusing in her direction.
But it was the man before her who drew her attention. The scar ridging his cheek should have detracted from his male beauty. Indeed, the small white slash nicking the edge of his lip might have been judged an imperfection, had another man borne it. Instead, they only distinguished Tate Montgomery with their silent message. This was a man not to be underestimated. His face bore intriguing marks, from the crooked bridge of his nose to the scars he wore with self-assurance. She'd married a man to be reckoned with.
And unless she missed her guess, the day of reckoning was fast approaching. Johanna gripped the wide palm he offered, placing her feet carefully as she turned to climb from the surrey. His hand at her waist took her unawares as he guided her down, the other still grasping her fingers.
"I've got you." Steadying her as she got her bearings, allowing his warmth to creep past the woolen cape she'd worn, he pressed his advantage.
A habit he'd gotten into lately, Johanna thought ruefully. Every chance he had, every time an opportunity arose, he touched her. Like now, this very minute. By now she should have gotten used to the pressure of his palm against her back as he guided her up the path, toward the church doors. They'd been observing this ritual for two months now, since their marriage in September.
But then, some things took a lot of getting used to. Like the way his gaze seared her with heat every time he took a slow survey of her form. Not in any way Johanna could make a big fuss over, not with the boys around, anyhow. And then there was the trick he had of telling her goodnight and watching her climb the stairs. Her cheeks burning with a mixture of unease and excitement, she would lift one foot, then the other, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that those gray eyes were marking every move she made.
One would have thought that the familiarity of the ritual would have eased her into a comfortable rut. Her mouth pinched as she considered the thought. There were no ruts in the life she'd chosen to share with Tate Montgomery, and not a lot of comfort, either, for that matter.
His hand shifted on her back, sliding up to center between her shoulder blades. It was a silent message, and she lifted her face to his, caught by the small smile he sent her. So well she knew this man already. And yet she knew him not at all. She'd washed his clothing, folding his stockings and undergarments into precise, neat piles for storage in his chest of drawers, leaving them on a hall table outside his door. She'd ironed the very shirt he was wearing, yet never touched the flesh it covered.
"Selena is waving at you." His head bent low as he delivered the message in a soft whisper.
Johanna peered past him. Selena hurried across the churchyard, skirting the muddy spots. One hand uplifted in an unmistakable signal, she silently bade Johanna wait
The postmistress was past her prime. Johanna knew she had to be at least forty years old, and she certainly had lost the bloom of youth. But the firm flesh on her face and the golden hue of her curling hair allowed her the distinction of being one of the loveliest woman to inhabit Belle Haven. Why she'd never married had long been a source of speculation, but over the past few years, she'd been accepted as just exactly what she was-a woman alone, beyond the age of marriage, a permanent fixture in the small post office that took up one corner of Joseph Turner's general store.
"Johanna! You didn't come to town yesterday." The words weren't an accusation but a statement of fact, and Selena accompanied them with a swift hug and a brushing of cheeks.
"We were in on Thursday," Johanna told her. "Twice a week, just like always."
"Well, I knew I could look for you tomorrow, but I wanted to let you know that there was a catalog at the post office for you, and a letter for your husband. I thought it might be important."
Tate halted before the double doors of the small church. "When did the letter come, ma'am?"
"It came yesterday morning. It may not be of importance, but I'd be willing to open the office and give it to you today, if you'd like, Mr. Montgomery." Without waiting for his reply, Selena's gaze flowed to rest on Johanna's face. "You're looking well, Johanna. I'd say marriage agrees with you, but I'm sure you've heard that from numerous others in town already, and I don't want to be a copycat."
"Thank you," Johanna answered, aware suddenly that a line of hopeful entrants to the church was gathering behind them on the path. "I think we're blocking the doorway, Tate. We'd better move along."
His hand slid to her waist as he opened the door and ushered her through the portal, motioning to the postmistress to follow his wife. As Selena passed him, he nodded. "I'll be most appreciative if you could make a Sunday delivery of the mail, Miss Phillips. We'll come by after church. Perhaps you'd like a ride in our new surrey, ma'am."
"Thank you, Mr. Montgomery." Sliding into her usual pew, Selena watched as the couple moved up the aisle. The Patterson family had always sat on the right side, in the fourth pew from the front of the church. Not that their name was attached to the polished oak seat, but by habit, the pew belonged to them. Now it was occupied by the newlyweds and their two small boys.
The service was joyous, a celebration of Thanksgiving, in honor of the holiday to come just four days hence. The congregation sang with vigor, the small choir adding considerable volume to the music. Theodore Hughes had gathered up all the scripture he could find that signified reasons to be thankful and presented them with gusto. Indeed, so long was his list that Johanna began sympathizing with the wiggles of Timmy and Pete long before the sermon was over.
"Let us pray!" The young minister bowed his head, amid sighs of relief from almost every young person in the congregation, and pronounced the benediction over the heads of his congregation. " … now and forever, amen."
The noonday sun was brilliant, unseasonably warm and more than welcome as the congregation flowed into the churchyard. "Good to see you, Mr. Montgomery," Esther Turner chirped. "You too, Johanna." Her keen eyes scanning the couple, she smiled her regard. "You two certainly make a fine pair. Haven't seen you look so good in a month of Sundays, Johanna."
Tate slid a proprietary hand to rest against the curve of his wife's waist and dipped his head in a nod of thanks. "I think she always presents a fine image, Mrs. Turner," he said politely, steering Johanna toward the surrey, parked amid a dozen others at the hitching rail.
Leah Ibsen, teacher at the schoolhouse, stepped before them. "I thought I might have your eldest boy in class, Mr. Montgomery," she said politely, her eyes fixed on the ruggedly handsome man.