He slid the bodice down until the bandage was in sight. "It's not bleeding," he muttered, his fingers testing the flesh around the injury. "It's not swollen, Jo, not even red or angry-looking. Do you think I hurt it?"
Johanna shook her head, the pain settling to a dull ache once she relaxed the muscles, pleased by his solicitude, allowing him to pamper her as he would.
Easing himself down on the pillow, Tate cradled her head against his shoulder. "Are you all right now?"
She nodded, unwilling to speak, afraid of the words that would reveal the message of her heart. Surely, if she allowed her voice to give reply, it would give sound to the words she feared to utter.
For as well as easing his way into her life, tonight he'd laid claim to her heart. As surely as Tate Montgomery had taken her body, filling her with the gift of his own splendid manhood, he'd captured the essence of her being. And with it the boundless bounty of love she'd hoarded for so long.
"It's a lot harder gettin' the chicken poop off my boots than it was gettin' it on 'em, Miss Johanna." Pete's grumble was halfhearted at best, his small face glowing with accomplishment as he scraped industriously at the soles of his boots.
"Your pa gave you a hard job to do, didn't he?" Johanna used her left foot as a lever, pushing the porch swing once more. The stench of Pete's boots, wafting to her nostrils, almost convinced her to send him farther from the porch to continue his task, but she'd be missing his company if she did. And the simple joy of watching his face as he worked was worth the odor of chicken droppings in her nostrils, she figured.
"Aw, it wasn't too bad." Pete's offhand dismissal of the severity of his punishment was a sure sign that he was reveling in his father's good graces. He'd paid the price for his behavior, and Tate Montgomery had inspected the chicken coop and pronounced it fit for the chickens to inhabit. And, in the process, had once more deemed his son's punishment complete.
"Cleaning the chicken coop is a nasty job." Johanna's opinion of the chore was obvious. The wrinkling of her nose and her shudder of distaste were not a display for Pete's benefit. Too well, the scent of his boot scrapings brought back the memory of mornings she'd spent at the task.
"Yeah, well, I guess Pa gave me the awfullest chore he could think of," Pete said, his voice taking on a hint of pride as he considered his accomplishment He shot a glance at Johanna, his eyes speculative. "He was madder at me than you were, wasn't he?"
Johanna nodded. "I expect he was, Pete."
"But it was you that got hurt." He leaned to peer down at the pile of droppings he'd scraped from his footwear. "If I leave this mess here, it's gonna smell something terrible, isn't it?"
"Probably," she said agreeably, shoving her foot against the floor of the porch again, sending the swing once more into motion.
"I guess mothers don't get as mad about stuff, do they?" Pete's attention was absorbed by his task as he scraped his mess into a pile. Had she not been watching closely, Johanna might have missed his furtive look in her direction.
"I don't know, Pete. I've never been a mother." She was astonished at her calmness, given the pounding of her heart. Unless she was mistaken, he'd just placed her in that category. In a roundabout way, he'd given her his stamp of approval, and the occasion called for a celebration of sorts.
Holding the wide shovel in place, Pete loaded it with the results of his boot-cleaning, scraping the top layer of dirt with it. "I guess you catch on pretty quick, Miss Johanna. You'd be pretty good at it. If you had kids, I mean." Rising from his crouch, he lifted the shovel, holding it firmly, lest the contents spill.
"I'm gonna dump this on the manure pile," he said, setting off toward the barn. "Then I gotta go help Pa with the pasture fence."
Johanna pushed herself upright, wincing only a little as she gripped the swing with her left hand. Her muscles were tender, but the cut was healing well. She watched as Pete set off, and her heart went out to the boy. So small, yet so knowledgeable.
"Pete!" She waited till he halted, then turned his head. "Maybe I could practice on you and Timmy."
He nodded agreeably, his mouth twitching as he attempted to hide his obvious approval of her notion. "I guess that would be all right, ma'am. Timmy won't care." He turned away, his attention riveted on keeping the shovel level, his load intact. And not until he was sure Johanna could only see his back did he allow a smile of satisfaction to curve his lips.
Apple dumplings ought to be in order, Johanna decided. It seemed like something all three male members of her family would enjoy. Her heart singing, ignoring the stiffness of her sore muscles, she went into the house.
"Thank you, God!" It was a fervent whisper, delivered with open eyes and a joyful spirit, a far cry from the doleful messages her father had been prone to deliver to the Almighty. Probably not at all the sort of prayer Theodore Hughes would approve of, she thought with a smile.
Although perhaps, of all people, Reverend Hughes would appreciate her heartfelt surge of thankfulness this morning.
Chapter Twelve
As if winter had only been waiting for some hidden signal before it officially began, the snow had arrived. With a four-inch fall late one evening, the ground had been covered, presenting a pure and pristine welcome to Pete and Timmy the next morning.
They were ecstatic. Bundled in mittens and scarves, booted and capped with care, they indulged in a romp such as Johanna had never before seen take place in her yard. Sheba forsook her dignity to chase first one boy, then the other, barking and frolicking as if her life revolved around the entertainment of these two small humans.
A snowman appeared quickly, Pete instructing Timmy in the proper construction, even lifting the smaller child to place a withered carrot where a nose must be. Tate had refrained from mentioning chores, and indeed, Johanna had had a difficult time tending to her own, what with standing at the window to watch the shenanigans taking place outdoors.
By the time dinner was on the table, the boys were soaked through and red-cheeked, and more than ready for the hearty stew Johanna had prepared. The yard was a sight. No longer was there a lush carpet of white to beguile the eye, only a bedraggled patchwork of dried grass and trampled snow remained.
Another blizzard of more major proportions exploded within days, drifting snow before the barn door, causing Tate to grumble as he shoveled it from his path before dawn. Johanna was reduced to drying clothes in the house, the rack behind the stove in almost constant use, with wet mittens and trousers draped over its length.
Then the sun came out, melting the wintry show of force, and for over a week they puddled through mud and rutted roads. Johanna suspected this was the final spell of moderate weather they would get until spring, and a lowering sky proved her right.
It was a mere scattering of snow, compared to the past extravaganzas nature had provided, but enough to cause her to leave a trail behind, her footprints clear in the moonlight, as she stepped from the silent house to the porch, and then across the yard.
She was gone. Acclimated to her presence in his bed, he sensed her absence. So quickly, in a matter of days and weeks, she had become part of his sleeping habits. Now, half-awake, Tate reached beside him, patting the quilt. "Jo? Johanna?" His voice was rusty, heavy with sleep, and, stilling the movement of his hand, he closed his eyes, listening. From the parlor below, he heard the chiming of the clock, announcing the hour.
Three in the morning. He rubbed his eyes and sat upright in the bed. Perhaps she'd gone downstairs. Before the thought had time to be born, his long legs were swinging over the side of the bed and he was reaching for his trousers. He slid into them quickly, his ears alert for a sound from below.
Noiselessly Tate moved through the hallway and down the stairs, his bare feet chilled by the cold floor. Inside the parlor, the moonlight splashed a path across the floor all the way to the wide double doors where he stood. The room was empty, the couch holding only a rumpled afghan, left there at bedtime. The rocking chair stood unmoving in the shadows, and outside the lace curtains the silvery moonlight cast an unearthly glow over the snow.
Tate's brow furrowed into a frown as he headed for the kitchen. He'd not expected her to be there, either, for some reason, and a twinge of concern had him biting his lip as he looked out the window toward the barn and the scattering of outbuildings across the yard.