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The sun was hot, shimmering on the hay field east of the house. Another week or so would make it ready for cutting, Johanna figured. Hardy Jones at the mill in town had made arrangements to come in and take care of it. Shares were better than nothing, and close to nothing was what she'd have if she did the arranging herself. Menfolk were afforded more respect than women, no matter how you sliced it. At least she'd have hay for the cows, enough to last till spring, after this last cutting.
She counted the wooden crates of apples as she neared the orchard, knowing the number even as she sounded them out aloud. Pure foolishness, Pa would say. Prideful behavior, thinking well of herself for such a simple task. She flexed the muscles in her calves as she bent to pick up the first crate. The muscles had been hard to come by. Climbing a ladder, moving it from one tree to the next as she went, was a far cry from a simple task, as far as she could see. At least for a woman alone.
Her lips tightened at the thought. She'd better get used to it. Either that or cut down the apple trees. And that she could never bring herself to do. The three acres she'd devoted to her apples was her favorite place to be, even if the work did about wear her down.
A "Hallo" from the house caught her ear as she straightened, crate held before her. Lowering it to the ground, she lifted one hand to her brow, shading from the sun's glare as she tried to make out the visitors waiting at her back door. She saw a wagon, filled to the brim, canvas stretched tight over the whole of it, the three figures on the seat looking at her. From the far side, the preacher waved from horseback.
"Yoo-hoo, Miss Johanna! I've brought Mr. Montgomery along, like I promised."
What the dickens had he promised? Johanna's brow furrowed as she struggled to remember the conversation she'd had so little part of. Whatever his plan, she'd apparently agreed to listen. She set off for the house, her long-skirted strides hampered by the tall grass between the orchard and the house.
The man had shifted on his perch atop the wagon seat to face her. His enigmatic look was measuring as she headed toward him, and his mouth was drawn tight. Looked like he'd swallowed a persimmon. Not a bit of friendly to him, if she had him pegged right.
And then her breath drew in sharply as she caught sight of the ridged scar that rode his high cheekbone. He lifted one hand to tilt back the brim of his hat, exposing his face to full sunlight as she watched. He lowered that broad, long-fingered hand to rest against his thigh, and his mouth twisted at one corner, as if he were daring her to react to his imperfection.
He wore the scar almost proudly, she thought, her gaze leaving it to sweep once more over the stern visage he presented her. Except for a faint tightening of his mouth, he was unmoving beneath her scrutiny. His shoulders were broad beneath the fine fabric of his coat, his trousers clung to the strong line of his thigh as he shifted after a moment, lifting one long leg, propping it against the front of the wagon.
He was a big man, a strong man, if the size of his hands, the flexing muscles in his thigh and the width of his upper body were anything to go by. Her gaze moved to tangle with his, meeting dark eyes that were narrowed just a bit against the sun's rays and held her own with unswerving intensity.
"What can I do for you, mister?" She drew to a halt several feet from the wagon, her irritation at the interruption vivid in her voice. The wind blew a lock of pale golden hair across her eyes, and she lifted an impatient hand to brush it back.
"From the looks of things, I'd say the question is what can I do for you?" His words were harsh against her ear, and she bristled.
"You're the one comin' hat in hand, mister. Looks to me like you've got something to say. Spit it out or leave me to my work. I haven't time to do much entertainin' this morning."
"Miss Johanna! I've brought Mr. Montgomery here to do you a service." Reverend Hughes slid from his mount to hurry to her side. "If you can come to a mutual agreement, it will greatly benefit you both. I urge you to give him a few minutes of your time."
Johanna sighed. "I haven't got much time, Reverend. If Mr. Montgomery wants to sign on as a hired hand, he'll find the pickin' pretty poor here. Lots of work and not much pay to be found. And it looks like I'd be feedin' three more at my table."
"I've no experience as a hired hand, Miss Patterson." Tate Montgomery's voice vibrated with a multitude of impatience. "I thought we might come to an understanding, perhaps an agreement, but now I'm thinking your attitude would not be beneficial to my children." He turned in the wagon seat, speaking in a low voice to the young boys who were peering past him at Johanna.
"My attitude!" Her hands lifted to rest against her hips as she challenged his judgment. "I've been called from my work to speak to you, Mr. Montgomery, and you look me over like a side of beef at the general store. I've been judged and found lacking, and I don't even know what you're doin' on my property."
Looking down at her from his perch, he hesitated, then spoke quickly, in a voice that was pitched at a level she strained to hear. "I've been looking for a place to invest in, where my boys can live a peaceful life and I can build a future for them. But from the looks and sounds of things here, there wouldn't be much peace to be found." His eyes rested on her, darting to take in the telltale stance she'd taken, her hands propped belligerently against her hipbones.
His quiet words were chilling in their finality as he lifted the reins in one hand. "They've already lived through all the wrangling any soul should be obliged to contend with." Slapping the leather straps against the broad backs of his team of horses, he averted his gaze as the wagon creaked into motion.
Johanna bit at her lip, abashed by his scathing words, aware that his conclusions were fairly reached. She watched as the big wagon lumbered in a circle, heading back to the road. The two small boys had turned, looking back over their shoulders.
Maybe it was the quiet acceptance she recognized in their gaze, or perhaps the vulnerable curve of the smaller child's cheek as he flexed his jaw. A shadow of shame dulled the sunshine as Johanna watched. Those two young'ns looked like they could use a bite to eat and some shade to park in for a while, she thought, no matter how grim and ornery their daddy appeared to be.
"Mr. Montgomery!" Her voice was husky, but firm. "Come on back. Let those boys down to stretch their legs for a while."
The horses pulled the wagon another twelve feet or so before he drew it to a halt. His shoulders square, his head erect, he waited. Beside him, the two children wiggled, their whispers quiet, obviously urging him to consider the woman's offer. His glance downward encompassed both small faces, and he relented, nodding his agreement.
Needing no further permission, the boys edged to the wagon's side, the elder sliding to the ground and turning to help his young brother down. Tate Montgomery grasped the child beneath the arms and lifted him, lowering him to his brother's side. Then he turned the wagon once more, following the two boys back toward the house and the woman waiting there.
Chapter Two
Pete was the oldest boy's name. Seven years old, he'd said proudly-much older than his small brother, his uptilted chin had proclaimed. Timothy was four, Tate Montgomery had volunteered gruffly, even as four chubby fingers rose in silent affirmation of his father's words. Still carrying a vestige of baby roundness about his features, he'd smiled at her with innocent warmth, beguiling her with his blue eyes and rosy cheeks.
She'd offered them milk in thick china cups and a small plate of sugar cookies from her crock. Then she'd ushered them to sit on the back porch, where Timothy had grasped his cup with both hands to drink deeply of the cool milk. His smile had been white-rimmed above his upper lip, and she felt a strange warmth invade her as she remembered the sight.
Across the table, Tate Montgomery had removed his hat and unbuttoned his coat, the latter a concession to the warmth of her kitchen. He'd swept the wide-brimmed hat from his head as he bent to enter the door, holding it against his leg as he took the chair she offered him. His eyes had scanned the room, pausing as they reached the cookstove, where chicken simmered within her Dutch oven. She'd set it to cook before heading to the orchard, and now its aroma filled the room, a little garlic and onion combining to coax her appetite.