The Forever Man(28)

"I'll understand if you want to divorce me, Tate.". Her words were  brave, uttered firmly, but the tremors that shook her body lent little  substance to her offer.

He eased her closer, and his kiss against her forehead was tender. "I'm  not going to divorce you, Jo. I said all the same vows you did, about  for better and for worse, remember? I think maybe the worst is behind us  now."

His arms enclosed her, his body lent her its warmth and on the dresser,  the candle flame guttered and flamed its last. And for the first time in  more years than he wanted to count, Tate Montgomery was at peace.





Chapter Eleven


"I brought you your shawl, Miss Johanna."

Before her, head lowered, Pete waited. Her damp, dirty shawl clutched in his hands, he shifted from one foot to the other.

"Why, thank you. I'd forgotten I left it outdoors, Pete." Her feet on  the small footstool, Johanna sat propped in her mother's rocking chair,  awaiting the summons to supper. Tate had covered her with a quilt and  left her there, even though she'd assured him she was more than able to  fix a meal.

"Do you want me to wash it for you, ma'am? It got pretty dirty out there  overnight." His voice cracked on the words he spoke, and he risked a  glance at her, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Why don't you put it over the edge of the washtub, Pete? I'll take care of it tomorrow or the next day."

He nodded and turned away, as if relieved to be released from her  presence. His back to her, his spine stiff, he cleared his throat. "I'm  sorry, Miss Johanna. I didn't mean for you to get hurt. I wouldn't do  that." The words came out in a rush, one fast on the heels of the next.

Johanna's mouth twisted in a smile, and she struggled to suppress the  tears that filled her eyes. "I know that, Pete. You aren't a mean boy."

"I was mad at you." It was a hard admission, delivered in a whisper, and  his shoulders slumped as he paused halfway to the parlor door.

"Pete, look at me," she bade him quietly, and as he turned to obey, she stretched out one hand.                       
       
           



       

He approached hesitantly, as if loath to accept her forgiveness,  unwilling to abandon his hair shirt of penance. His gaze drifted over  her warmly clad body, draped in a pieced quilt and propped in comfort in  a rocking chair. And then his eyes met hers and she saw the terrible  need he tried to hide behind his belligerence.

"I'm not angry with you, Pete. You disobeyed and you were being naughty.  I'm sure you're sorry for what you did, though, and I don't think we  need to ever talk about it again, do you?"

He shook his head. "I have to tell my pa what happened. He's gonna be mad at me, but it was all my fault."

"I think it could be just between you and me, Pete." That Tate had  already figured out the general sequence of events of the day before,  she was pretty sure. What he chose to do about his son's involvement in  her accident was a topic they'd not discussed.

"Pa knows. He always knows stuff like that." Pete's sigh was resigned.  "But he's probably waitin' for me to tell him myself. He says we have to  own up to things we do."

Johanna nodded. "Your pa's probably right about owning up and such, Pete. Just remember, he loves you."

"Yeah." Clutching her shawl to his chest, the boy flashed her a look so filled with yearning, she could scarcely bear it.

"Come here, Pete," she coaxed, once more holding out her hand.

And he responded, his feet fairly flying as he catapulted into her arms.  His head against her bosom, he shuddered, taking long indrawn breaths,  his small hands fiercely clutching at the quilt. She held his wiry, slim  body in her arms, pressing silent kisses against his dark, silky hair.

For long seconds, gripping her with a silent desperation, he clung to  the comfort she offered. Then, as if he'd thought better of his actions,  he straightened, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand.

Johanna pulled her handkerchief from the depths of her pocket and handed  it to him. And over his head she caught sight of Tate, just beyond the  doorway, taking in the scene before him. She shook her head-a small,  almost imperceptible movement-and he nodded in reluctant response.

"Run along, Pete," she said softly. "Put the shawl in the washroom and get ready for supper. I'm sure it's almost ready by now."

Tate was gone, his footsteps silent, and Johanna watched as Pete obeyed  her order. There would be a confrontation, of that she was sure. Tate  would be fair, but his sense of right and wrong was strict, and somehow  Pete would make reparations for his wrongdoing.





"I thought you meant just for a couple of nights." Johanna's protest was  whispered in the darkness of the hallway, midway between her room and  the large bedroom Tate occupied. Held against his body by the strength  of his left arm, she sensed the futility of her argument as he turned  her in the direction he intended her to take.

"You're my wife, Jo. From now on you'll sleep in my bed."

That was simple enough for any idiot to understand, she figured glumly.  He'd spoken his piece, and now he expected her to obey. Dragging her  feet as he led her through the doorway, she watched as he closed and  latched the heavy door behind them. She'd not felt this awkward in a  month of Sundays, not since she refused Neville Olson's proposal of  marriage several months past, shaking her head as he stumbled through  his offer.

Tate wasn't giving her a chance to refuse his decision, for it couldn't  be called an offer. He was hustling her to his bed, his hands careful of  her healing wounds, yet firm in their intent. Stripping her of her  robe, he sat her on the mattress and removed her house shoes, then  lifted her legs to the bed.

She sat there, wide-eyed and watchful, wondering what she should do  next. It seemed he'd accomplished his purpose and, having placed her  where she belonged, was going about his own preparations for bed.

He was undressing, stripping out of his trousers, hanging them on the  bedpost, placing his shirt atop them till morning. His stockings were  next, a matter quickly dealt with, and then he'd climbed into the big  bed.

And still she sat, upright and chilled, aware only of the steady gaze he turned in her direction.                       
       
           



       

"You've slept in my arms for the last three nights," he reminded her  gently, his fingers lifting to tug at a stray lock of hair, tangling in  the waving remnants of her braid. "I think it's time for you to be my  wife, Johanna."

She nodded, as if speech were beyond her. As surely as the sun would  rise tomorrow, she knew he'd drawn a line and she must step over it, if  they were to move beyond this moment.

"I want to be your wife, Tate. I just don't know how to do this." She  whispered the words reluctantly, wishing he would reach for her,  yearning for him to pull her down to his embrace. If only to receive the  warmth he offered, the tenderness of his touch, she was more than  willing to accept his body into her own.

There was within her a terrible need, and suddenly she recognized it as  being akin to the need that had painted young Pete's face with such  dreadful yearning. As the flowers needed the sunlight in order to  thrive, she needed what Tate was offering her now, the warmth of his  embrace.

"I'll show you, Johanna." Offered in a gruff undertone, his words coaxed  her, and she bent to him, leaning back on one elbow, turning to her  side, her other hand fumbling as she sought his fingers, clasping them  tightly as she lowered herself to lie beside him. Her movements were  careful, for the scratches she'd received were more tender than she'd  expected.

Their faces were mere inches apart, and she allowed her eyes to move to  the scar ridging his cheekbone. Her fingers were careful, tracing the  raised flesh. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the pain he  must have suffered.

"Does it bother you?" he asked. "I know I'm not a handsome man, Jo. My nose is bent out of shape, and my-"

"Shhh … don't say that," she whispered, her fingers moving to still his  words. "You're a strong man, Tate. You've been hurt, more than once, but  the scars don't take from your looks. I only hurt for the pain you  felt."

His grin was crooked as he kissed her fingertips. "There's no pain  tonight, Jo. Not for me." His mouth sobered, and he rolled to hover over  her, easing her to her back. "I'll be careful," he vowed. "I wouldn't  knowingly cause you harm."

"Will you turn out the lamp?" Her glance skittered to the bright flame. Its brilliance was harsh against her eyes.

"I've already seen you, Jo," he reminded her gently. "We don't need any more secrets between us, do we?"