The Forever Man(31)

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.