Her feet felt made of stone, so heavy and huge inside her boots, she feared she could not move one in front of the other. But she did, turning from him to make her way across the platform to where the wooden sidewalk led to the center of town. Ahead of her, on either side of the road, were the buildings making up the town of Belle Haven. The bank, the livery stable, the general store and the hotel. Assorted shops and businesses touched, side by side, shopkeepers and early customers visible without and within.
She made her way, slowly at first, then more quickly as she heard the bells on the harnesses of Tate's horses approaching behind her. He slowed, keeping to her pace.
"Get in, Johanna."
She shook her head. "I'll walk, thank you." Chin high, she stepped quickly, her feet lighter now, her gait fueled by the flame of her anger. He'd mortgaged her farm. Without one word, without the suggestion of a consultation with her, he'd put her farm in jeopardy. And he'd dared to do it without a mention of it in her presence.
The appearance of August Shrader in the general store on Monday took on new meaning now. And the way Tate had hustled him out the door to conduct his business only proved his intent to deceive her.
A mortgage. Like the sword of Damocles, the word hung over her head, and she was threatened by it. The man she had trusted with her property, her livelihood, her very self, had betrayed her. And then expected her to be overjoyed with the resulting proof of that betrayal!
Her feet stomped harder as she traveled the wooden sidewalk. Beside her, the front door of the Belle Haven Hotel was a glittering expanse of beveled glass and mahogany, but she gave it not a moment's notice. The barbershop, marked by a peppermint-striped pole out front, barely caught her eye as she stepped firmly past its entrance. Even the newspaper office, home of the Belle Haven Gazette, was ignored.
Not until she reached the door of the general store did she pause, and only then, as if she'd been aware all along of the wagon keeping pace with her rapid footsteps, did she acknowledge its presence. Her gaze took in the mammoth creature standing meekly at its rear, the nose ring almost a guarantee of his compliance. And just inches from where his lead rope was attached to the wagon were her baskets of eggs and butter.
"Will you be so good as to hand me my baskets and then unload the apples?" Though her words had resounded warm and cheery in his ears fifteen minutes ago, her request now smacked of icebergs and icicles.
Tate leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, the reins between his hands, and observed his wife glumly. "I reckon I could do that, Johanna." Behind him, the two boys huddled together next to the apples, looking for all the world as if they needed a blanket to cover them, more than did the fruit. Their faces were pinched and wary, their eyes bleak, as if their existence hovered on the edge of disaster.
And even that terrible sight could not pierce the flaming fury that drove her. She recognized their panic-stricken mood. It was one she'd survived only minutes past. When she saw the bull and first became aware of Tate's ownership of it.
Her gaze went beyond the two children, to where Tate was lifting the fruits of her labor from the wagon. She'd been in partnership with her chickens and cows for years, and considered their contribution to her existence to be a given. She fed the hens, and they in return gave her their eggs, albeit not with any amount of grace on some occasions. The cows were another matter. They were more than happy to rid themselves of the milk swelling their udders twice daily. In all, a most satisfactory method of earning money, to Johanna's way of thinking.
She took her baskets from Tate's grip, not allowing him the courtesy of carrying them into the store for her, and he gave in to her without argument. And then she stood in front of the door, both hands full, and suffered the indignity of waiting for him to turn the knob, allowing her to pass through the portals of the store.
"Mrs. Montgomery!" Joseph Turner approached from behind the counter, hands outstretched, his wary glance bouncing from Tate, empty-handed in the doorway, to Johanna, heavily laden as she stomped across the floor in his direction. "Let me take those from you!"
It seemed his every word was emphasized this morning, Johanna thought, her smile strained as she gave over the weighty burden she bore. Not that she hadn't carried heavier in other times, but between the thumping of her heart and the throbbing at her temples, she was becoming suddenly weary.
Tate stalked back to the wagon and, with not a backward glance, Johanna followed the storekeeper to the far counter. Mr. Turner began unloading her eggs and butter, with a considerable amount of his attention on Tate's silent figure, transferring the crates of apples to the sidewalk. She watched stoically as Mr. Turner counted the rounds of golden butter, marking the number on a piece of brown wrapping paper. The eggs he transferred to a crock. She counted with him, noting that his larger hands each held six at a time.
His pencil stub calculated swiftly, and he drew his account book forward, thumbing through the pages until he came to the one with her name on the first line. "Adding in the apples, your credit's good for another good bit, ma'am," he said quickly. "What can I get you today?"
Johanna thought of the short list she'd committed to memory that morning and shook her head. "Nothing today, Mr. Turner." Not for a moment longer than necessary would she stand here, with Tate's brooding gaze drilling a hole in her back. Better that she survive the next few days without a supply of tea and vanilla and the rest of her needs.
Besides, the road to the farm was two long miles, and she intended to walk every step. The less she had to carry, the better-off she'd be.
Mr. Turner's head bobbed his farewell as she turned from him and headed back to the double door, her eyes focusing on the sidewalk beyond, hardly noting the grip her husband took on her elbow as she passed him.
"Get in the wagon, Johanna." It was an order, delivered in a voice that brooked no argument on her part. His fingers gripped her elbow firmly, holding her through the fabric of her coat. Even in her anger, she knew a moment of pride as she looked up at the dark-haired splendor of her husband. His nostrils flaring, his lips narrowed and firm, the scar on his face white against the ruddy anger painting his cheeks, he was a magnificent specimen of manhood.
And yet she defied him. Digging in her heels, she stopped, gritting her teeth at the pain in her arm as he continued on his way, unaware in his own wrath that she had failed to keep up with his lengthy strides. And then he released her, turning on his heel as he recognized her defiance. He faced her with both hands propped on his hips, great puffs of air pushed from his lungs by the force of his breathing.
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" He challenged his wife, uncaring of the townsfolk who had stopped their everyday doings to watch the small melodrama being played out before their very eyes.
She lifted her chin just the faintest bit higher, wondering if her neck would take the strain as she met his gaze. Her lips twisted in a caricature of a smile as she tilted her head to one side. "Why, I'm going to walk home, Mr. Montgomery."
"Ma'am!" The doors of the general store opened behind her, and Mr. Turner burst through, waving Johanna's baskets in his hands. "You forgot your butter and egg baskets, Mrs. Montgomery." His eyes were avid as he neared. "Can I put them in the wagon for you?" For the first time, he caught sight of the enormous bull tethered to the rear of the vehicle, and his steps slowed.
"You get a new bull?" he asked Tate.
Tate's glance was condescending. "Yeah, you might say that," he drawled, moving a few steps in order to relieve the shopkeeper of the baskets he was gripping.
"Sure is a big one."
Selena Phillips's appearance at the door of the store caught Tate's attention, and he moved another few feet to speak to her. "Can you talk to Johanna?" A small note of desperation tinged his request
She shook her head. "I don't think she'd listen to me right now, Tate." Her look was pitying as she faced him, meeting his gaze head-on. "She's quite angry, isn't she?"
He nodded, his flush deepening. "You could say that."