The Forever Man(33)

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.