The Forever Man(32)

There was no light to guide their hands, only the darkness that made  each movement a grasping, needy urgency. Their fingers meshed, his  holding hers against the straw as he lifted and fell, time and again,  against the softness of her smaller frame. There was only need, desire,  and an overwhelming passion that sparked a response neither could deny.

Sensing her coiling urgency, he drew her into the web he wove with each  movement, pulling her with him to that glittering promise of delight  that hovered just beyond her reach. And then, with a guttural groan, he  thrust her beyond the boundaries of her own yearning, into a shimmering  knowledge of pleasure.

In the silence of the barn, Johanna caught huge, gasping breaths, her  lungs straining to fill as she compensated for the overwhelming  breathlessness that had seized her body. Tate was heavy, crushing her,  and she held him tight, unwilling to lessen by one inch the intimacy of  their coming together. But he withdrew from her, a gradual lessening of  his embrace signaling his own return to the lucidity demanded by the  cold night air.

"Johanna? Are you all right, sweetheart?" Husky and deep with concern,  his words enthralled her. That his first concern was for her well-being  brought a quiet joy to her heart, and she responded to his plea.

"Yes … I think I'm about as all right as I've ever dreamed of being,  Tate." She sensed a moment of reluctance, an unwillingness to end this  moment of unadulterated bliss at his hands. And then he levered to his  knees and tugged her coat together, covering the flesh he'd exposed to  his touch. She heard his clothing rustle, felt the movement of his body  as he shifted and arranged his trousers and buttoned his coat.                       
       
           



       

He rose and bent to her, lifting her to her feet, giving her only a  moment to gain her balance before he swept her into his arms once more.

"Still got your boots on?" he asked, a trace of humor evident in the query.

She nodded against his shoulder.

"Can you pull the door shut?" He'd managed to slip through the opening  he'd left, and he turned, allowing her to shove the door into place.

With a sigh of contentment, she slid her arm around his neck, biting  back the urge to make her own way to the house. She was perfectly  capable of walking, but the sense of security she was reveling in at  this moment precluded her need for independence.

Tomorrow she could walk. Tomorrow she could tend to herself. In the  morning she would arise, clothed once more in the skin she had worn for  so long, that of a strong, able female, capable of tackling any chore  that crossed her horizon.

For now, for the few blessed minutes left of this night, she would be  only what Tate Montgomery asked her to be. And if part of that was his  urging her to be compliant, to rest in his embrace as he carried her to  his bed, she would be the most willing of women.

The burden of grief she had carried with her to the hillside earlier was  gone, vanquished by the storm of his loving. She'd left it amid the  fallen leaves of autumn, beneath the scattering of winter snow that  covered three graves. She'd buried it beneath the frozen ground that  held prisoner the body of the baby boy she'd borne and buried by  herself. And in the shedding of that terrible cloak of sorrow, she'd  donned a new garment, woven of love, knit with the care and concern of a  generous soul, stitched and fitted to her precise measurements by the  fervent embrace of the man she had married.

As he carried her up the stairs, she clung unashamedly to his greater  strength. As he pulled her worn boots from her feet and placed them by  the bedside, she bent to kiss the crown of his head. And as he drew her  into his embrace, she gifted him with the secrets of her heart.

"I had to let him go, Tate." It was an offering she was willing to give,  this admission of hers. "I'd held his memory in my heart for so long, I  feared there would never be room for anyone else."

"You've grieved over that baby long enough, Johanna. It was time." His  hand rubbed slow circles against her back as she nestled against him.

She nodded. "There wasn't room for all that sorrow anymore. Not since  you came. But I had to tell him goodbye. I had to go up there and  explain that I couldn't let him hold me back from loving your boys. Or  you."

His arms tightened, and his breath caught in his throat "Me?"

"I love you, Tate. I've needed to tell you." Her confession muffled  against his chest, she sighed, as if relieved to be rid of its weight.  "I thought you must know, but I want to say the words."

He brushed his mouth against her forehead. And she waited as his warm breath bathed her flesh. Until she could wait no longer.

"Tate?" It was a small sound in the darkness.

"I care about you, honey. You must know that." Evenly spaced, soft as  the whisper of a dove in the springtime, his words spread comfort  throughout her being.

"Yes, I know that. I know you wanted to … " She hesitated, brave in the  darkness, but unwilling to put words to the moments of loving.

"I want you more than I can tell you, honey." The sound of his laugh was  strained, and there was a reserve in the words he spoke. "I still do. I  need you for my wife, I need the comfort you give me." His kiss against  her brow emphasized the admission. "You ease my pain, Johanna. Your  body takes my manhood, and somehow, you heal me. You draw all the bad  memories and leave me clean and fresh and feeling like a man who could  conquer the world." His laugh was short, tinged with embarrassment, as  if he rued the poetry of the words he spoke.

"You'll think I've gone soft in the head, Jo." He rocked her in his  embrace, dropping kisses against the pure line of her forehead as he  spoke.

"No." It was a softly uttered denial of his fear. "No, I wouldn't think  that. I guess I just don't understand why you can't bring yourself to  speak about your life with Belinda. Maybe I need to know what happened  then, so I can understand what you feel."                       
       
           



       

"I feel … mixed up sometimes." He shook his head, as if he were struggling  to express himself for her benefit. "I need you, Jo … but I don't know if  I have any love left to give you. I've had to put everything I have and  all I am as a man into those boys of mine for a long time. I was mother  and father both a good share of the time-all the time, lately. Until we  came here. There just doesn't seem to be much love left in me for  anyone else, once I've poured it out on them."

Her throat was dry at his denial of the emotion she craved. Her hands  closed into fists, mute evidence of the tensing that surged throughout  her slender body.

"But what happened back then, Tate?" She touched the scar on his upper  lip, her fingers gentle against his mouth. "Were you hurt in an  accident?" Her hand moved upward, resting against his cheek, her  fingertips marking the ridged scar he bore, and she hesitated at the  indrawn breath he could not hide from her hearing.

"What happened here?" she persisted, once more caressing the ragged  reminder of injury. She rose on one elbow and leaned closer, her mouth  against his cheek, as if she would place a kiss of healing upon the  blemish he wore.

"Stop it, Johanna. I don't want to discuss this right now." Gruff and  terse, his words halted her, and she lifted her head, her eyes seeking  his in the darkness. But it was no use. They were closed against her,  effectively barring her from his thoughts.

So she turned, sensing the ruin of the unity they'd shared during those  minutes in the stall, unable to look any longer into the stern visage he  presented. Easing her way, she turned to lie with her back to him,  allowing only the firm line of her spine to touch the front of his body.

"I need to sleep, Tate," she whispered. "Morning's almost here."

If he sensed her withdrawal, he hid it well. His arm encircled her  waist, his big hand sliding up to capture the full measure of her  breast, enclosing it in the embrace of his hand, plumping it to fit the  palm, his fingers spread to contain the whole of it. It was as if her  turning away had erased his mood, as though he would mend the distance  he'd brought about between them. And then his head dipped, allowing his  mouth to touch the side of her throat, leaving a last kiss there before  he curled his big body around her.

Yet even as he slept, his soft snoring a hum in her ear, she lay  unmoving, her eyes wide in the darkness, her yearning heart hungry for  the words he was unable to speak.





In the light of day, Johanna recalled the almost-quarrel they'd  conducted in their bed, remembering the words she'd fretted over through  the hours of the night, and decided she'd best leave well enough alone.  She hadn't bargained for the man's love when she married him. That  she'd fallen into that trap was her problem, and she'd manage to live  with it. She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of resolve.