The Forever Man(25)

He shook his head. "I know, but I have to, honey. I'm just going to wash you off and then turn you over and do your back."

"I can do it," she argued, her voice stronger now.

"No." It was a firm refusal, with no hint of compromise to be heard in  its depths. "Just don't move now. We'll be done in no time, and then  I'll put salve on your cuts."

The towel rinsed once more, he began at her waist, moving to the softly  rounded flesh of her belly. And there his fingers slowed their  movements, the towel hesitating in mid air as he lifted it from one spot  to move to another.

Across the rounding of her hips, across the tender flesh above the  thatch of pale, curling hair, were faint lines of white scarring.

"Jo?" His gaze flew to hers, even as the towel lowered to cover the  evidence he'd discovered. "Jo?" How could it be? He shook his head,  unbelieving, yet aware of the unmistakable signs he'd uncovered. His  wife had borne two sons, had carried the same silvery scars across her  belly and hips, mute evidence of her motherhood.

"Please, let me do this." Her whisper was a plea, and her gaze was  fearful as her hands lifted to clutch at the towel he'd spread across  her belly.

"It's all right. Hush, now," he said quietly, forcing the knowledge he'd  gained in the past few moments to the back of his mind. Aware only that  her need for his care must supersede all else, he continued with the  bathing he'd begun. Her hands dropped to lie by her sides and her eyes  closed as tears of mute misery spilled down her temples and into her  hair.

And while he worked, bathing and applying salve, learning the curves of  her body as he went, his mind dwelled on the silvered scars that  betrayed her secret.

Johanna had had a child.





Chapter Ten


"I rescued the bread, Jo. And the pot roast is almost ready. I just cut  up some vegetables and put them in with the meat. We'll have stew." As  if he were reciting the letters of the alphabet, Tate listed his recent  accomplishments.

He'd made matter-of-fact conversation. He'd cleaned up the mess of  towels and the wash basin, disposed of her cutup clothing and managed to  find a nightgown to slip over her head. He'd lifted her, supporting her  back against his broad chest, as he lowered the white cotton into  place. His big fingers had buttoned up the bodice and tugged the  material down to cover her, sliding the blanket back as he went, careful  to keep her nakedness hidden from sight.

But he hadn't looked at her face. Not once in the hour or so he spent  tending her, straightening the room, moving around the bed, had his eyes  met hers. Even as he released her hair from its braid and combed  through the golden length with his fingers, he'd carefully looked away,  keeping himself from the intimacy of her gaze.

In one way, she was grateful. She'd feared reminders of those minutes  when he'd tended her wounds, when the long-concealed secrets of her body  had been revealed in the light of day to him. She'd seen his reaction,  his eyes narrowing as he viewed her breasts. She'd shrunk from his  fingers as they traced the scratch, embarrassed at the rush of heat that  accompanied that callused touch.                       
       
           



       

Tate had only seen what most any husband would be more than familiar  with. But not Johanna Patterson's husband. Not when she'd bargained to  sleep alone in her lonely bed, lest he discover her lack of virginity  and turn from her.

And now he knew. As he washed and tended her, he'd hesitated. His eyes  had widened, his lips had parted for just a moment as he saw,  recognized.

Johanna shivered, shrinking within the voluminous depths of her  nightgown, painfully aware of the scratch across her breast, the deeper  gouge in her upper arm. The rest of it was small potatoes. Just an  irritating reminder of her own stupidity. Within a week, the scabs would  form and fall and she'd be left with a series of small scars to mark  the folly of her carelessness.

Tate Montgomery was another matter. The knowledge he'd gained this  afternoon had managed to turn him into a silent, wary stranger. He'd  been kind enough, his hands gentle as he moved her in the bed, his voice  husky with concern as he bade her rest easy.

Now he stood in the doorway, as if unwilling to come closer, explaining  the pan-rattling and stove-clanking she'd heard for the past hour.

"That sounds fine, Tate. I appreciate you taking hold this way." She  rolled toward him, biting at her lip lest she allow the gasp of pain to  escape, her skin protesting the shifting of muscle beneath it

"Don't move, Johanna! I'll help you if you need to get up." In quick  strides, he was at her side, his hands lifting the bedding to allow her  movement beneath it.

"Before long," she muttered. The urge to make a trek to the outhouse was  upon her, but she dreaded the ordeal, unsure her legs would carry her  so far.

"I'll get the chamber pot from your room for you, if you need it. Just let me go get it, and I'll help you up."

She shook her head. "I can get into my own bed in a while. I'll use it then."

His silence was broken only by the sound of Timmy's laughter downstairs.  Tate reached again to tug the blanket into place over her shoulder and  said finally, "I don't think so, Johanna. You're going to stay here  tonight. I'll help you sit up to eat in a little while. I'll help you  get up to do whatever you need to do before bedtime. But I'm not going  to let you sleep across the hall tonight."

"Where will you sleep?" It had been on her mind almost since he placed  her in the middle of this big bed. The bed he'd once told her she wasn't  obliged to occupy. But if the truth were known, she could think of  nothing more appealing right now than having Tate Montgomery stretch out  beside her and give her the warmth of his body.

"We'll talk about it after we eat, Jo. Don't stew over it. I'll be back  in half an hour or so, and we'll sit you up. I'll bring the pillows from  your bed."

There could be no doubt. He'd seen those telltale reminders of her  pregnancy. She'd not even have known what they were, had she not tended  her mother during those last days before she died.

She'd asked about the almost invisible marks her mother bore, and been  astounded at the reason for their being. As for her own, she considered  them a private matter. She'd never expected any other human being to see  them, since she'd considered marriage to be out of the question.

But that had been before. Before Tate Montgomery came into her life,  bringing new joy and purpose to every day. And now, what must he think?  Surely he'd consider her life nothing but a lie, their marriage a union      founded on deceit.

She'd owed it to him to be honest before they married, to … what? To say,  "Oh, by the way, Mr. Montgomery, I bore a child ten years ago."

Fat chance. He'd have been gone, lickety-split, down the lane and on his way to town.

She'd never have known his kindness and masculine strength. She'd have  worn herself to a frazzle tending the stock. She'd have been toting  apples all fall. She'd still be walking to town twice a week with eggs  and butter.

She'd still be Johanna Patterson-spinster. And even though she wasn't really his wife, she was known as Johanna Montgomery.

He'd given her his name, and if there was any way to keep it she'd find  it. Tate Montgomery was the best thing that had ever happened to her.  She'd be danged if she gave up before-                       
       
           



       

"Pa's bringin' up our dinner," Timmy announced from the doorway. "Do you feel better yet, Miss Johanna?"

To banish this child's frown of distress, she'd have gladly lied about  her pain till doomsday. "I'm a lot better, Timmy. I'll bet I could sit  up if you helped me."

He approached, moving slowly, his mouth pulled down in a dubious manner,  his head cocked to one side. "I don't think so," he ventured. "I'm not  very big, you know."

"What are you trying to coax my son into, Johanna?" Humor laced Tate's  words as he came through the doorway, both hands full with the kettle he  carried. Behind him, Pete waited, a pail in one hand, a folded  tablecloth in the other.

"I wanted him to help me sit up, Tate." Testing the movement of her arms, she pushed the bedcovers down.

"No need. I'm here to do that." He placed the covered stew pot on a  braided rug next to the bed, motioning to Pete to come into the bedroom.  "Bring those dishes on in, son. We need to have that small table from  over by the window to put things on. Can you get it?"

Pete nodded, obeying his father's instructions, careful to keep his gaze  from Johanna, then busied himself lifting plates and silverware from  the bucket, piling them on the table. "What do you want with the  tablecloth, Pa?" he asked.