The Forever Man(26)

"Just you watch, son," Tate said. "First, we'll get Johanna ready to  eat." He'd halted her attempts to rise by his very presence; now he  reached to complete the task she'd begun. The blanket was pulled down,  exposing her slim form, well encased in the white gown, only her bare  feet showing beneath the hem.

"Fetch me the pillows from Johanna's room, Timmy." Tate bent, his arms  sliding beneath Johanna's knees and shoulders, taking her weight easily,  lifting her just inches above the mattress. "Now hold tight to my  neck," he told her. "I'll slide you up to the headboard and prop pillows  behind you."

She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth against the pain his movements  brought about The stabbing hurt was gone, but every shifting of her body  caused fresh discomfort.

"There. Let me prop another one on this side, Jo. And then lift your  knee and I'll put one under it to hold you, so you won't slide down in  bed."

His hand lifted her leg, and she felt a flush rise from her breasts.  He'd seen most all of her there was to see, she knew that for a fact.  But the brush of those long fingers behind her knee, the warmth of the  big palm against her thigh, was almost more personal than the lengthy  perusal he'd made of her body earlier. That had been of necessity. This  was a lingering touch, a careful movement of his hand, sliding her gown  into place.

"Thank you," she whispered as he settled her against three plump pillows.

"Now we're going to feed you." Tate scooped a big helping of stew into a  heavy crockery bowl. One-handedly opening a dish towel across her lap  with a flourish, he placed the bowl there, gave her a spoon and stood  erect.

"Let's have that tablecloth, Pete. We need to set up our picnic."  Snapping his fingers in a bantering gesture, he motioned to the boys to  draw closer. He opened the cloth on the floor and instructed the two  boys to take their places, then filled their bowls. Thick slices of  fresh bread, generously covered with jam, came next.

"Pray, Pete," Tate told his son. And they all waited while the boy  stumbled through a short blessing. "Thank you, son." Tate shot a glance  of amusement at Johanna, and she blinked her surprise.

He'd been so careful to steer clear of her, except for the lifting and  propping, that she'd begun to think he would ignore her for the rest of  the day. And now he'd made her a part of the picnic, with that one  glance.

She lifted the bowl, holding it close to her chest, and tasted the stew  he'd concocted. "It's good, Tate. I didn't know you could cook."

Serving himself from the kettle, he settled on the end of the bed and  grinned. "I'm not real fond of the process, but I can do it in a pinch."

She nodded, relieved at his attempt at humor. "I'll have to bear that in mind."                       
       
           



       

They ate quickly, Timmy gleeful at the impromptu picnic atmosphere, Pete quiet but obviously relieved at Johanna's well-being.

The dirty dishes went back in the bucket, the tablecloth was folded and  placed on top, and the kettle was carried downstairs. Johanna heard the  dishes rattling, and then the sound of Tate's footsteps on the stairs  once more.

"We need to talk." He closed the door behind him and approached the bed. "Look at me, Johanna."

"I thought you were the one not lookin' my way," she said quietly.  "You've pretty much been avoiding looking at me since this afternoon."

"I didn't mean to be rude. I just had some things to think about," he  told her. His gray eyes had lost their sparkle. "I think there's  something you need to tell me, Jo."

"Now?" She looked around the room, as if seeking an escape. "The boys … "

"The boys are getting ready for bed. I'll tend to them a little later.  Right now, it's just you and me, Mrs. Montgomery." Sitting down on the  side of the bed, he reached for her hand, holding it within the cradle  of his palm. "I may be going about this the wrong way, Johanna, but I  think we need to-"

"Please … " Her heart felt as though it would burst. She drew up her legs.  It was a painful process, and her eyes closed tight at the hurt she  dealt herself with the movement. Her head bowed to cradle against her  knees, and her hair, unbound and free, fell to cover the sides of her  face.

"Ah, damn it, Jo. I'm not tryin' to cause you any more pain than you've  already had to bear." He scooted closer to her, his big palm cupping the  back of her head, ruffling her hair awkwardly in comfort. "I didn't  mean to be so ornery to you earlier. I was just sort of in a snit, I  guess." His voice softened, and he bent nearer, his face resting against  her head. "Come on, Jo. Don't take on this way. We'll talk tonight, if  that's what you want."

She nodded, moving her head against her knees, willing him to hold her against his chest. But it was not to be.

He cleared his throat. "Do you need to get up now?"

She nodded, only too aware of the misery she'd tried to ignore for the  past hour. This was the part she'd been dreading, when he would be privy  to her most private tasks.

"Here, sit on the side of the bed, while I get your chamber pot." He  pulled her to the edge of the mattress and eased her legs to the floor.  His hands cupped her shoulders then, holding her upright until he seemed  to be sure she was balanced and able to hold herself erect. "Will you  be all right for a minute?"

She nodded once more, and lifted her head to snatch a glimpse of him as  he walked away from her. The sheer size of the man had struck her more  than once today. He'd rescued her, carried her, comforted her-all of  which had fed the terrible hunger she'd lived with for so long. To  belong to someone. To have a human being in her life who would not turn  away from her.

Her mother's death had left her bereft. Joseph Brittles had turned his  back and walked away, denying his love for her. Her father had chosen  death over living, even knowing he left her alone. And the greatest hurt  of all had been the loss of her child, a tiny scrap of humanity who  might have been the one bright spot in her life. Perhaps it had been  God's will that she be punished for her terrible sin. Perhaps he'd taken  the child in vengeance, taken the small life before he could draw  breath.

It might be that she was doomed to be alone and lonely.

"Johanna?" Tate stood before her, hand outheld to her. "Let me help you up."

She nodded, extending her fingers to clasp his wrists, allowing him to  lift her from the bed. He drew her up until her body was pressed against  his, her breasts flattened against his chest, her fingers grasping to  clutch at his shoulders.

He held her there, as if he understood her need for solace, his arms  sliding into place around her back, taking her weight, lifting her to  ease the strain of standing. "All right now? Can you walk over to the  screen?"

He'd placed the chamber pot behind the folding screen her mother had  used to dress behind for all the years of her marriage, and it was there  that he led her, one arm around her middle, the other holding her hand  in a firm grip.                       
       
           



       

"I can do this," she told him. "I can, Tate."

He frowned, unwilling to trust her strength.

"Please, just go check the boys. I'll be fine," she told him, tightening  her jaw. This was where she must draw the line. And her glare from  stormy blue eyes reinforced her words.

He left her there, one hand holding to the back of a rocking chair, the  other brushing at her hair. "I'll be back after a while. If you need me,  call out" It was a firm commitment, and she nodded her agreement.





She'd made it back to the bed. He'd given her an hour and spent the time  well, working in the barn, where the six milking cows had waited  impatiently.

Now it was fully dark, and he entered the room quietly, latching the  door behind himself. Beneath the covers, only the pale gleam of her hair  was visible in the moonlight.

"Johanna? Are you asleep?" Unwilling to startle her, he called her name  softly. The movement on the bed was response enough, and he lifted the  lamp chimney to light the wick.

"We don't need the lamp, Tate. Unless you … "

Sensing her reluctance, he replaced the chimney. "All right. No lamp,  but enough light for me to see you," he said firmly. He lit the short,  squat candle on her dresser. Then, lowering his suspenders, he  hesitated, hands set to undo the heavy work pants he wore. "You might  want to close your eyes for this part," he said teasingly.

"Yes." She turned her head to face the window, and he slid quickly from  his clothing, leaving only his short drawers and undershirt on. The bed  gave to his weight, and he pulled the covers over himself.