The Forever Man(40)

       

"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.