"I think you're the one needs to talk to her." Selena turned and went back inside the store, pulling her shawl tightly around herself, as if the chill in Tate's eyes had totally negated the warmth of the sunshine.
Johanna was several hundred feet ahead of him by the time Tate lifted the reins and cracked them in midair over the backs of his team of horses. The wagon rolled down the street, the bull keeping pace behind, and Tate held the reins in one hand, aware of the glances he was accumulating as he followed the woman he'd married.
She moved along at a smart pace until she came to the end of the sidewalk. Then the going was a little tougher, the choice between staying in the ruts or moving to walk in the stubble beside the road. Johanna chose the easier route, her boots stomping their way over the bumpy ground, still covered with a scattering of snow. She stumbled once or twice, almost going to her knees, and Tate caught his breath when she tripped.
If the blasted woman would only watch where she was going, he wouldn't be so worried. But her head was high and her eyes were straight ahead, never veering to check out the bumpy ground she traveled. He drove his team at a slow pace, their lumbering walk a travesty of the usual quick trot he demanded of them. But nothing would make him drive on home, leaving Johanna to follow. Only the thought of a physical confrontation in front of his sons kept him from climbing from the seat and forcing her to ride beside him.
It was going to be a long two miles, he decided. The acquisition of the bull had seemed to be a highlight of his life, one short day ago. The thought of Johanna's pleasure in the purchase had filled him with anticipation on the long, tiresome train ride. He'd sat up all night in the coach, striving for a few hours' sleep amid the noise of clanking rails and the total discomfort of the seat he struggled to fit his big body into.
And then he'd found that his wife did not share his longrange view of prosperity, guaranteed by the purchase of a bull who would over the next few years fill their pastures with a finer breed of cattle than had ever graced the Patterson farm. He'd dreamed of improving her herd. He'd planned this trip, on which he'd thought to show her his blueprint for success. Damn, the farm was theirs, not hers. He'd paid the not-inconsiderable mortgage her father had taken, two years ago.
He'd brought new life to the orchard, pruning and planting. He'd mended fences, hunted down recalcitrant cattle with the aid of Sheba, gathering her herd into a manageable group for the winter. He'd repaired and mended and attended to a farm that had been well on its way to collapse.
And for what? The very first time he asserted his share of ownership, taking out a small mortgage, instead of using the dwindling capital he'd banked in a savings account, she blew sky-high. Her anger was monumental, her fit of rage far out of proportion, as far as he could tell.
Let the woman walk! Maybe she'd get shed of some of her high-handedness by the time she made it home. It would serve her right if he just drove on past with the wagon and left her follow at her own pace.
His hands lifted, his muscles poised to snap the reins once more, touching the backs of his team to urge them to a faster pace.
"Miss Johanna sure is mad, Pa," Pete whispered in his ear.
"Don't she love us anymore?" Timmy wailed from his spot behind Tate.
"Of course she does," Tate growled beneath his breath, relaxing his hold on the reins, his jaw tightening as he recognized his inability to leave her to fend for herself on the frozen ground with his sons fretting over the quarrel.
Certainly she was able to make it home by herself. She'd walked it alone before. But not lately. Not since her name was Montgomery, and he'd be jiggered if she'd ever walk it alone again. With a weary tilt to his shoulders, he drew his team to a halt, tying the reins to the post and jumping from the seat to the ground.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her stiffened spine as she stepped up her pace, tripping again over a tuft of frozen weeds. And then he walked forward, grasping the harness of his gentle mares, leading them with his hand gripping the leather.
Just ahead, Johanna moved to the road, choosing to walk the fairly even path between the ruts. Behind her, he followed, walking apace, leading his mares, the bull behind.
Chapter Fifteen
She'd planned to cook a big meal, welcoming Tate home. Instead, she'd put together a pitiful excuse for dinner that almost made her ashamed of herself. Cold leftovers from Wednesday night's supper, along with a pot of potato soup, had made up the meal, and Tate's look of disbelief had almost done her in. He'd managed to wrap pieces of yesterday's pot roast in a slice of bread and eat it, along with a bowl of applesauce and one of soup, before he excused himself to head for the barn.
Probably out there building a fancy place to stick his bull, she thought angrily. And if what Timmy had to say held any water, he had been. Not satisfied with a corral built from poles, he'd reinforced it with barbed wire, then added a lean-to, protecting his purchase from the weather.
She'd cooked up another pot of oatmeal for supper, opening a can of peaches and frying a panful of apples. Tate had cheerfully explained to the boys about fruit and oatmeal, coaxing them to sample both peaches and fried apples atop their bowls of oatmeal. Timmy had complained that oatmeal was for breakfast, but subsided when his father's glance of disapproval was aimed in his direction.
Tate had filled up on bread, once his bowl of oatmeal had disappeared, and for a moment she'd felt an over-whelming sense of shame as she repented her foolish stubbornness. She should have made him a meal. The man had worked hard all day, and she'd offered him a kettle of porridge.
To his credit, he hadn't made any noises she could classify as an objection. Just tucked into his supper and put away every living bite of food he could find. Her hands stilled in the dishwater. She might be mad, but she was obliged to uphold the terms of their bargain. And part of that included cooking good meals.
Tomorrow would be another story, she determined.
Her feet were heavy as she trudged up the stairs. Shod in stockings, she made no noise against the worn treads, but the weariness that had struck her following the walk home this forenoon had not left in the hours since. His disappointment in her weighed heavily on her shoulders, and only the knowledge that she had been right sustained her anger.
He'd brought that big red-and-white-spotted creature here and built him a fortress out back. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he'd decided to breed her cows this year to a highfalutin big-city bull bought on money borrowed against her farm. The insult was too great to be borne.
Her feet stomped on the top step, jarring her slender frame, but she ignored the soreness of aching muscles. He'd left her to run the place for three days-make that two, a sense of fairness amended. For this angry moment, she ignored the help he'd arranged for her. She'd cared for his boys and washed his clothes. In the washing machine he'd bought, without a murmur of reproach for the money spent, her honest heart reminded her silently.
She opened the door of her mother's sewing room. Even in the weeks she slept there, she had not claimed it as her own. She'd spent hours, wide awake and aware of the man just across the hallway, there in that bed. She'd looked out the window her mother had gazed from, stored her clothing in the small chest her mother had cherished.
It was still her mother's sewing room, no matter how many nights she'd spent there. And tonight would add to that number. No more would she curl against that masculine frame and soak up the warmth of his body. No more would those long arms enclose her in their embrace, holding the darkness at bay, easing her into a dreamless sleep as his hands touched her with the knowledgeable skill she'd come to crave.
She shook her head, closing the sewing room door behind her. Such nonsense. She'd slept alone for years. In no time, she'd have forgotten those nights in his bed. Johanna jerked her nightgown from its hook inside the wardrobe and spread it on the bed. Her fingers flew as she unbuttoned and untied the fastenings on her dress and underthings. The gown enveloped her as she shed her clothing beneath its folds and kicked them to one side.
Tomorrow was soon enough to be neat. Tonight, she was cold, and the quilts beckoned. With one swoop, she threw back the covers and slid between the cold sheets. Shivering, she pulled the quilts over her, burrowing beneath their weight.