Whether or not Tate Montgomery had any love to spend on her, he was generous, more than willing to give her full advantage of his bank account, and that was a bonus she could not help but appreciate.
Turning the crank that operated her new Fulton #1 washing machine, Johanna listened to the sound of a load of undergarments and shirts being agitated. It was like music to her ears. The water splashed and sloshed in a most satisfying manner, and she couldn't help the small smile of satisfaction that would not be denied.
The scrub board hung on the wall, dry as a bone, unused for well over a month, ever since the day Tate had brought the new washer home on the wagon. Some washdays it made her feel downright lazy, Johanna thought with just a flicker of guilt-guilt she suppressed with hardly a twinge of effort. Yet the new machine still required a considerable amount of muscle to run, given the instructions that came with it.
She must turn the crank ten or twelve minutes for each load, which was a deterrent to doing the breakfast dishes or gathering the eggs. But she'd found a woman could do a powerful lot of thinking during a ten minute period.
Like wondering how she'd come to be so attached to a man in such a short time.
That Tate was a good husband could not be denied. That she was fast becoming addicted to his brand of loving was also true, and her mouth curled at the thought. He'd managed to coax her and beguile her in ways she'd never imagined in her wildest dreams. That those dreams had been limited by her lack of knowledge was a fact. But that was no longer the case, she admitted to herself, aware of the warmth she'd generated by her industrious cranking, not to mention the memories stirred by her thoughts of Tate.
Rising from the low stool he'd made for her to use, she opened the washing machine and viewed her load of laundry. Suds rode the top of the water like a flotilla of sailing ships, and she burst a series of bubbles as she reached beneath the surface for the clean clothes. The Seroco ball bearing wringer Tate had clamped on the rim of the washer accepted a small pair of drawers, nudged by her gradual turn of the handle, and she watched with satisfaction as the soapy water was wrung from the cotton fabric, running back into the machine.
She'd filled her washtub with cold water and within minutes it contained the contents of the new washing machine. Johanna loaded the new appliance with Tate's shirts and her own dresses and turned the crank several times to churn them into the depths of the soapy water. She'd let them soak for a few minutes, while she rinsed and readied the underwear for the clothes rack.
On a graduated series of wooden rungs, it held a considerable amount of washing, one layer hung only inches from the next. The heat from the stove dried it readily, a vast improvement over the lines Johanna had strung in the washroom and across the kitchen in other years.
"You've left your mark on my house, Tate Montgomery," she whispered, spreading the small pieces across the wooden dowel rods. And in my heart, she added silently. In a matter of a few months, he'd taken over the Patterson farm and turned it into the Montgomery place.
The banker in Belle Haven, August Shrader, even tipped his hat in a most gratifying manner when he caught sight of Johanna on the street these days. Always polite, he had become almost friendly since Tate Montgomery placed his affairs in the hands of the Belle Haven Bank.
That she had no notion of the state of Tate's bank account was immaterial to Johanna. He had paid off the mortgage and given her free rein at the general store, not to mention a generous hand when it came to the Sears catalog.
She headed back to the washing machine with a light step, pausing only a moment to stir the thick soup she was cooking for the noon meal.
"Miss Johanna?" Timmy's call from the porch nudged her from her daydreams, and she hastened her pace.
"What is it, Timmy?" The chill air had her reaching for her shawl as she opened the door.
"We're leavin' for town. Pa wants to know if you need anything at the store." Shifting from one foot to another, the child cast a worried glance at the wagon in the yard, where his father and brother waited.
"They won't leave without you, Timmy," she assured him, reaching to tug his cap over his ears for greater warmth.
His earnest look accompanied by a quick nod, he agreed. "I know. Pa said he'd wait while you make up a list."
Atop the wagon, Tate's steady gaze lured her, and she stepped onto the porch, disregarding the cold wind whipping around the corner of the house.
Half running, she headed in his direction, Timmy scampering ahead. "Maybe my order from the catalog is in, Tate," she said breathlessly, her eyes seeking his, her hair a glittering golden circlet atop her head in the wintry sunshine. And once more, she met his eyes, caught in the dark, silent seduction of his allure.
"You'll take a chill, Jo." His frown encompassed her, and she grinned, willing its disappearance.
"I come from sturdy stock." But her shiver denied the claim, and he swung down from the wagon.
"Hold the reins, Pete. I'll be right back." Reaching her side in several long strides, Tate turned her around, leading her back to the shelter of the house. One long arm around her shoulder, he hustled her along, her feet fairly flying over the frozen ground.
On the porch, he opened the back door, stepping inside, pushing her ahead of himself. There he halted, only to tug her nearer, lifting her chin with his gloved finger.
"I ought to give you a good talkin'-to, Johanna Montgomery," he growled, his eyes narrowed to steely gray slits as they slid from her face to the rounded lines of her bosom. "You're some fine example to those young'ns out there, running around without your coat on, getting chilled to the bone. Look how cold you are!" His hand moved to cup and lift one breast, emphasizing the effect that lured his gaze.
She laughed-a low, seductive sound-and his eyes made a slow journey to her mouth. Even as he watched, it formed a pouting moue, and then his head dipped, his cold lips taking abrupt possession. "You are the most distracting female I've ever encountered."
"Complaining?" she asked, her eyes opening slowly as she caught her breath.
He shook his head. "After last night? Hardly, sweetheart."
Her blush was immediate, and he grinned his delight. "I can't believe you still get all hot and bothered when I … "
"Tate!" she wailed, punching at his chest with her fists. "Go on now. Get those eggs to town before they freeze. Did you get the last of the spies out of the fruit cellar for Mr. Turner? They're pretty well wrinkled, but he said he wanted them anyway. People are still asking for apples."
"I've got everything under control, Mrs. Montgomery. Except my wife, it appears."
Johanna laughed aloud. "Her, most of all, it seems to me. Up to her elbows in wash water, while you go gallivanting off to town."
"I asked you at the breakfast table if you wanted to go," he reminded her, "and you said you had too much to do."
She nodded. "Just check the catalog order, and don't forget the coffee and lard. That's all I need."
His hands releasing her reluctantly, he nodded. "We won't be long, Jo. That soup smells good. We'll be hungry when we get back."
She watched as he crossed the yard. He climbed to his seat, lifted the reins from Pete's hands and slapped them against the backs of his team of mares. They were gone quickly, as if the promise of dinner urged their pace.
She closed the door, returning her shawl to the peg in the washroom before she settled down on her stool once more. Her hand clutching the handle, she resumed the steady motion required by her new washing machine. Still aware of the damp remnants of Tate's kiss, she touched her tongue to her lip, as if she could taste his coffee-scented breath.
And smiled when she found just a trace of him there.
Chapter Thirteen
There was an underlying current of seduction these days in every encounter between Johanna and him, Tate decided. Whether it be his decision that she should sit next to him at the kitchen table from now on, instead of across the wide bleached boards that made up that piece of furniture, or the casual placement of her hand on his shoulder as she poured his coffee at the supper table. Or the hasty decision he'd made one wintry day last week, hustling her into the house for an intimate farewell kiss, while his sons waited for him on the wagon seat.
Or even the meeting of their eyes now, as they rode in companionable silence to church this wintry Sunday morning.