They'd reached for and grasped intimacy with both hands. That thought pleased him. A tingling warmth invaded his body as he considered the woman he'd married.
She was as prim and proper as could be, all gussied up in her Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, covered head to toe in a hooded cape of fine alpaca, lined with wool from more common animals than those found in South America. He'd sent for it from a catalog at the general store, one Esther Turner had received from New York. She'd kept his secret from Johanna, her cheeks rosy as she shared his pleasure over the purchase.
It had been Johanna's Christmas gift, and his heart lifted as he remembered her sigh of delight as he'd placed it around her, wrapping her in its voluminous folds. He'd bent to kiss her, lifting the hood to rest upon her golden hair, still spread over her shoulders in early-morning disarray. She'd blushed, still unused to such displays of affection.
Now those pale tresses were properly plaited and pinned into place, but the memory of that day was one he'd tucked away. Their first Christmas-a series of small celebrations. The tree he'd found and dragged to the house, where they'd decorated it with ribbons and strings of popcorn and candles on the tips of each branch.
The gifts they'd ordered from the Sears catalog for the boys and wrapped late in the evening, hiding them beneath their bed, lest small eyes should seek out the Christmas surprises too soon. And, best of all, the late-night giving of that most precious gift, the loving they'd shared in the darkness, the soft whispers, the muffled laughter, the sighs of satisfaction and repletion.
Tate cleared his throat, aware suddenly of a telltale pressure in his groin, his thoughts running rampant as he savored the remembrance of bedding the woman he'd married.
"Tate?" She was watching him warily, sensitive to his shifting about on the seat. "Is something wrong?"
He slapped the reins against the backs of his team, aware he'd allowed them to slow to a walk as his mind wandered. "Nope! Everything's right as rain," he announced, his grin of delight a bewitchment in itself.
She responded with a faint smile, a blush rushing to color her cheeks. "Tate Montgomery! You're on your way to church. You might consider thinking about subjects more conducive to worship."
"Now how do you know what I've got in mind, Mrs. Montgomery?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. "I'm just enjoyin' this fine winter morning, riding to town with my family."
"I know that look," she announced primly, eyes once more on the road ahead, ever aware of the two small boys in the seat behind.
"Pa looks like that a lot, Miss Johanna," Pete offered innocently.
Johanna ducked her head, hiding the flush of pleasure the child's words gave her.
"Yeah, Miss Johanna," Tate whispered, reaching to take her hand. The gloves they wore were heavy, warm against the winter air, bulky covering for their fingers. Yet he sensed a yearning to communicate his need for her in this small way, their hands joining.
She shifted in the seat, easing closer, her skirt brushing against his warmly clad thigh, her shoulder pressing against his.
"Cold?" He slanted her a glance, taking in the warm, rosy hue of her cheeks, the half smile curving her lips.
She shook her head. "No."
"Thinking about things more conducive to worship?" he asked, his drawl stretching out the words as he teased her.
She jabbed him with her elbow. And then lifted her chin, her delight in the wintry sunshine, the man at her side and the memories he'd given her all awash in her mind.
"If being thankful for what I've got and dwelling on the blessings instead of the bad times is worshipful, then I suppose I'm about as ready for Sunday-morning church as I'll ever be."
Tate squeezed her hand, his throat full with a rush of emotion he could not put name to. "I'm not much of a praying man, Johanna. Never have been. But I'm thankful for what I have, most of all for what you've given me."
"Me? You've done most of the giving, Tate."
He shrugged. "Think so? Reckon I'd better give you a chance to catch up, then, hadn't I?" Releasing her hand, he placed it on his thigh and snapped the reins, the sharp crack ringing in the air. The mares responded, their shod hooves digging into the snow that had fallen during the night, the bells on their harness jingling apace.
Ahead, the church bells rang, and below the steeple a steady line of townspeople filed through the wide double doors. Tate Montgomery drew his surrey up to the hitching rail and tied his team in place. Then, quickly, lest they be late for the first hymn, he lifted Johanna to the ground and hustled his family through the fresh-fallen snow toward the church doors. Scooping his hat from his head, he felt the sun's rays warm him, and he glanced up at the blue January sky.
There was no doubt about it. Belle Haven on a Sunday morning was a fine place to be.
February brought a series of dark days and cold nights, sending Johanna on a trip to the attic to seek out extra quilts for the beds. She'd always dreaded this shortest month of the year, simply because it usually carried the nastiest weather with it. This year had been different, she realized. Life with Tate and the boys brought with it a share of happiness that no longer allowed the dreary days of winter to impinge on her spirits.
A sparse ray of February sunshine cast its beam across the kitchen floor as she ironed before the cookstove, and she moved the ironing board to catch the warmth. Through the window she caught a glimpse of the wagon, then heard Sheba's welcoming bark and the jingling of the bells Tate had put on the team's harness.
In less than a minute, fresh from town, where he'd left Johanna's eggs and butter at the general store, Tate burst through the back door, bringing a draft of cold air with him.
Waving an envelope in his hand, he stamped his feet, checking his boots for clinging snow. "Bessie wants to come visit She says she's lonesome for the boys." Empty egg basket in hand, he opened the pantry door, depositing the basket on the shelf before he sat down at the table, Bessie's letter in his hand.
Johanna stepped to the stove, exchanging her cooling iron for another from the hot surface, carefully transferring the flannel pad she held it with.
"Did you hear me, Jo? We got a letter from Bessie."
"Yes. She wants to come for a visit, you said." Her face was not visible from where he sat, but he'd warrant it was as sober as that of a hanging judge, if her tone of voice was any indication.
"Jo? Is something wrong?" His eyes swept her form-the straight back, where her apron was tied in a precise bow in the center of her spine, her narrow shoulders, squared and stiff. She hadn't even offered him a kiss in welcome. In fact, once she caught sight of Bessie's letter, she'd turned back to her ironing, quick as a wink. And now she was ignoring him, putting her weight behind the movement of her sadiron and shaking out his shirt with crisp movements as she shifted it on the board.
Something was wrong. And he'd be jiggered if he let her say any different. He stood, shedding his coat on the chair he'd vacated and took three steps to stand behind her.
Her head bent lower, and her iron took on a burst of speed. He bent and touched her cheek with cold lips.
"Hey, Mrs. Montgomery. Don't I get a kiss hello? After I sold your eggs and butter and brought you the latest news from town, and even remembered your green tea?"
Her sigh was almost silent as she nodded. Then, deliberately, she placed the iron on the stove and dropped her flannel cloth on the ironing board. Turning to face him, her arms lifted to curve around his neck.
"Of course you get a kiss, Mr. Montgomery. My mind was a million miles away, I guess." She rose on her toes and placed a damp salute upon his mouth. "That's for the green tea." Another kiss followed the first, and he was ready for this one.
He drew it out, teasing her with small, biting caresses, holding her against himself, lifting her with both arms around her waist. "What was that one for?" he asked, releasing her mouth with a loud smacking sound.
"Ummm … the safe delivery of my butter-and-egg money, I guess."
"You don't have it yet," he reminded her, lifting his eyebrow in a suggestive manner. "Let's try another little bribe here." Inhaling her sweetness, he bent his head to her again. It held him captive, this scent of freshness she wore. Like a blending of starch and soap, a savory mix of apple-blossom cologne and beef stew, it filled his senses and drew him into her orbit.