The chicken coop and the springhouse were illuminated by the full moon, as were the corncrib and the outhouse behind it. But not a sign of Johanna.
He turned to the washroom, bending low to where their boots sat in a row. And found that only an empty space existed where Johanna's small work boots should be.
Above the kitchen table, the kerosene lamp swung from his touch, and he reached out to grasp it firmly, lifting the chimney as he struck a match. It flared and caught quickly, the bright glow causing him to blink and narrow his eyes. The pegs on the wall were heavily laden with his sheepskin-lined coat and the boy's jackets. Johanna's heavy woolen coat was missing. He shook his head as he headed for the back door.
He looked out across the yard, toward the lane. Beyond it was the rise of land where the small burying ground had been established with the death of Mary Patterson, and it was there that his seeking ended.
Atop the hill, illuminated by the full moon, stood a figure, wrapped in a bulky coat, unmistakably Johanna. Head bent, arms curling around her body, she was immobile, as if cast from metal, to his eye resembling a portrait of mute sorrow.
"Johanna!" It was a whisper breathed from his lungs, a yearning cry as he sensed her grief, there on the hill where three graves marked the resting place of her family.
He spun from the door's window, snatching his coat from the peg, stuffing his feet into his boots and hurrying from the house.
Following the path her smaller footprints had made through the scattering of snowflakes, he climbed to where she stood, then waited, sensing her need for solitude. She was unmoving, only the wind teasing her scarf giving proof that he was watching flesh and blood, and not a graven image.
Then she lifted one hand to brush at a lock of hair, and that slender member trembled as he watched. Her fingers curled in on themselves, and she wiped her cheek with the back of her fist.
It was more than he could bear, and he wondered, with a moment of insight, how many other nights she had come to this place, silent and alone with her grief. Surely, now that she was no longer alone, now that he and his sons were sharing her life, she could find solace within the new family that had been formed. Yet she had left his bed to climb the hill in the chill of the winter night to keep vigil in this place where only restless spirits kept her company. Had she come other nights, had he not known when she made silent journeys in the dark, had he slept, unaware of her absence? Surely not, for he'd have sensed the empty space next to him, as he had tonight.
"Johanna." The sound of her name fell between them, and her shoulders stiffened. Her fist opened and her fingers swept again over her cheek, as if she must dismiss the evidence of her tears from his sight. And then she turned to face him.
"Did I wake you? I'm sorry. I tried to be quiet." She whispered, barely disturbing the silence, her hands clutching the front of her coat, where buttons and buttonholes had not been paired. Beneath it, her white nightgown was scant covering against the cold, and she shivered, as if she had just noticed the wind that came from the west
Tate swept his arms around her, moving his hand against her head as he held it beneath his chin. Her ear was cold against his palm, and he bent to her, roughly pushing her head back until he could see her face. Then his mouth was there, his lips taking possession with a force he had not spent on her before now.
As if he were angry, distraught over her venturing from his bed, his mouth plundered the depths of hers, his tongue taking liberties he had not sought on other nights. He lifted from her, his eyes caught by the wide-eyed surprise she made no effort to hide.
"You frightened me. I didn't know where you were." His voice was hoarse, and his scowl was accusing. Against her arms, his grip tightened, holding her with bruising strength.
Unafraid of his anger, perhaps drawn by his concern, she leaned against him, as if she sought the warmth his broad form offered. Her head tilted back, the better to gaze into his shadowed face. The tip of her tongue touched the inner tissue of her upper lip, traveling the path his own lips had taken only moments earlier, and he watched the movement from narrowed eyes.
"I'm sorry." Stretching upward on tiptoe, she offered her mouth, her hands releasing the front of her coat to snatch at his, instead, as though fearful he might put her from him. A rising excitement quickened her heartbeat, flaring her nostrils as she inhaled sharply, pressing against his solid form. Accepting her surrender, he slid his hands to her hips, holding her there as he eased the fullness of his loins against her belly.
Deep within her, she sensed a primitive response, and welcomed the burgeoning evidence of his need. His hands rough, his mouth demanding, he drew her headlong into deep water, and willingly she took the plunge.
"Tate?" She whispered his name, a Lorelei in the night, and he bent to her, seduced by the innocence of her swollen mouth and the clutching of her fingers against his chest.
His mouth was gentler now, coaxing her to respond. His tongue met no resistance as she parted her teeth, and welcomed it with her own. His curling and coaxing, hers tempting and teasing, they sparred.
Until, breathless and wide-eyed, she tilted her head back, gasping for a breath of air, exposing the slim line of her throat to his view. As a dominant male accepts the surrender of his mate in the wild, so Tate Montgomery took the offering she gave, his mouth finding new flesh upon which to leave his mark of possession.
He suckled at her throat, just above the line of her collarbone, pushing the flannel nightgown to one side, his hand moving in a familiar touch between their bodies to release the top buttons. His tongue touched the skin of her throat, tasting the faint salt flavor. His grin was feral against her flesh as he thought of the perspiration that had come to that surface earlier in the night. As always, she had accepted his loving, reveling in his possession, her body slick against his as he claimed her for his own.
Nowhere in his past had he yearned so to possess a woman. Not just in the intimacies of their coming together, but in the everyday drudgeries of their lives. The urge to stamp her as his mate, to know that she was his, even as she washed his clothing, cooked his meals, tended his children, consumed him.
And she was allowing it. His desire surged to a new, painful edge as he recognized her willingness to be subdued by his greater strength. She clung, her arms slipping around his neck. She leaned, her softness meshing with the muscular lines of his frame. She warmed, her shivering absorbed by his heat. And in the midst of it, she groaned her need in a wordless sound, a yielding, yearning cry for his possession.
He scooped her up, her gown and coat twisting around her legs, exposing them from the knees down, where her heavy boots hung like the exaggerated fetlocks on a workhorse.
In strides that pounded his heels into the ground, he walked down the hill, leaving the graves behind. Past the house, across the yard to where the barn sat, colorless in the moonlight, its red boards washed gray by the silvering of the moon. With the fingers of his right hand he tugged at the door, sliding it open far enough for him to enter. The warm scent of animals, their big bodies creating a haven in the cold, met him full force, and he sensed for a moment a kinship with them.
As if he, too, were driven by a force not controlled by his human mind, he carried his wife through the door, down the aisle and into an empty stall. Filled with straw, ready for occupancy, it waited. And he blessed his forethought, as he'd cleaned and prepared it earlier for the animal it would contain on the morrow.
Now the bedding was awaiting the female creature he held in his arms. He lowered her to the thick layers of straw, following her to the ground as he straightened her body to match the lines of his own. Knowing he was heavy, his weight burdensome, yet yearning to conquer with the force of his masculine strength, he covered her.
And with a crooning acceptance, she tightened the grip she'd maintained, shifting only her hands as she drew him closer, her arms circling his neck. As though she could not be crushed by his weight, she lifted herself to him. As if she craved the possession his thrusting loins promised, she moved against him. And in the darkness of the barn, surrounded by the animals that made up a part of their lives, they came together.
His hands were trembling as he lifted her gown, spreading her coat to either side, his fingers fumbling as he undid the front of his trousers, releasing his manhood to the cold air. And his groan was heartfelt as he meshed their bodies in a surging whirlwind of passion.