Soon she heard him coming up the stairs and toward his room, his feet sounding heavy against the hallway runner. His voice rumbled as he opened the third bedroom door and spoke his good-nights to the boys, admonishing them to go right to sleep. And then he opened the door across the hall from where she lay.
Her ears strained in the silence, her eyes closing as she sought to catch any sound he might utter, any step he might take.
The doorknob turned, and the door opened. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense the light from the big bedroom against her lids. And then she felt his hand, covering her own where it clutched at the quilts beneath her chin.
"Johanna. I'm only going to say this once. You will sleep in my bed. You're gonna get up and march your little butt across the hall to my room and get yourself into that bed. I don't give a damn how mad you are or how high you tilt that sassy chin of yours, you're still my wife, and you will not sleep anywhere else but with me."
His fingers gripped the quilts, and he tugged them from her grasp, throwing them back, exposing her huddled form to his view. He lifted her upright in a series of movements that brought her to sit before him in a matter of seconds.
"Now get up." It was an order from a man who would tolerate no quibbling to a woman who had found new food for her anger.
That he dared to invade her bedroom, putting his hands on her person and ordering her about as if he had a right was more than she would tolerate.
Her mouth opened to tell him so. And then closed abruptly as she thought of the two little boys, awake and probably listening, just one room removed from where she was confronting this man of huge proportions. Any dispute, verbal or physical, would be sure to be overheard, and causing those boys any more distress was the last thing Johanna wanted to do.
She struggled to rise, at a disadvantage with Tate right in front of her. He solved the problem neatly, as if he had only been waiting for her to show a semblance of obedience. His arms scooped her up, holding her to his chest, giving her no option but to cling to his greater strength as he carried her across the hallway, into his room.
There he placed her on his bed. Then he turned his back to turn out the lamp and undress. By the time he was down to his underwear, she was curled up at the very edge of the bed, covered and tucked tidily beneath the quilts.
His grunt of disapproval was accompanied by one long arm, snagging her and dragging her across the expanse of clean sheet until she was exactly where he wanted her-her bottom nestling against his loins, her back warmed by his chest and belly, her breast cradled by the palm of his hand.
Johanna took a shuddering breath.
"Don't say one word, Mrs. Montgomery. Just shut your mouth and close your eyes and go to sleep. I'm too tired and hungry to argue with you tonight."
The words he muttered in her ear were strangely comforting, she decided. He'd solved the problem neatly. Tomorrow she could be angry, when she was better fortified for the battle. For tonight she'd just let him think he'd settled her hash.
The darkness was filled with familiar sounds, his breathing, his small murmurs of satisfaction as he relaxed and shifted position, readying himself for sleep. And then the soft, subtle sounds of his snoring, the warm breath he expelled against her as he slept and the gentle squeezing of his hand against her breast.
It was going to be very difficult to hold her anger, she decided. In fact, for right now, she wouldn't even try.
Breakfast was a meal of monstrous proportions. Angry or not, she'd vowed to stick to her part of the bargain and she was determined to give him no more room to quibble over it. If Tate felt any amusement at Johanna's display of foodstuffs on the table, he hid it well. Murmuring a brief few words of grace over the meal, he set to with a calm purpose.
He ate four eggs, half a plate of bacon and six biscuits, covering them with two ladles of pale gravy before he settled down to his meal. There was a single biscuit left in the basket, and he took it, without even offering it in her direction.
"Any jam?" They were the first words he'd spoken to her since the night before. She jerked in her chair as he spit the question in her direction.
"Yes, of course." She felt Tate's eyes on her as she opened a fresh jar of raspberry preserves from the pantry shelf. Placing it before him, she backed away, conscious of his gaze resting on her. Aware that his need of her body had not been sated for several days, recognizing the flush that rode his cheekbones, the steely glint in those gray eyes that scanned her form, she trembled.
It didn't seem to matter to him that she was angry with him. And if she knew anything at all about the matter, he was not too happy with her, either. Still he watched her, his mouth biting into the biscuit, his tongue swiping at a bit of jam on his lip, his eyes never leaving her for a moment. He made a production of eating the two halves, finally licking a red dab from his thumb, his tongue again darting out to catch the last particle of sweetness.
"I'd like chicken for dinner," he announced, shoving back from the table.
Her mouth agape, she formed a protest. That he could think to order her to cook to his specifications was an insult not to be borne.
"Wow! Chicken? Fried chicken, Pa?" Timmy's awed response to his father's decree was spontaneous.
"We haven't had fried chicken for a long time," Pete added woefully, his eyes mournful as he aimed a look at Johanna.
"We had fried chicken for dinner on Sunday." Gathering up the plates, she set her mouth primly, her movements crisp and a bit more forceful than was usual. The heavy china clunked noisily in her hands, the silverware clattering to the tabletop.
"We'll have it again today," Tate said, rising and towering over her.
Pete and Timmy slid from their chairs, aware once more that the two adults in their lives were not behaving in their usual manner.
"Miss Johanna? Did you wash my old hat like you were gonna?" Timmy tugged at her skirt, his words quietly catching her attention.
Johanna looked down, her fit of pique set aside for the moment. "It's behind the stove, on the rack, Timmy. I rinsed it out yesterday morning."
He ducked his head, a gesture of thanks, and she rested her hand on him, aware of the distress she'd placed on that small, sloping shoulder. "I'll get it for you," she offered, lifting the plates she'd piled on the table and carrying them to the sink. Quickly she reached behind the stove, where assorted items of clothing hung across the wooden rack, and snatched up Timmy's hat. Knit of coarse wool, it showed signs of wear, and she determined to spend the next evening or so in making him a new one. Carrying it to where he waited, she met his gaze and smiled.
"How would you like a new hat? Maybe red, so I can see you easier out in the yard?" Her fingers were gentle as she tugged the cap into place on his dark head, tucking his hair beneath the edge.
"A new hat? This one is still good, Miss Johanna." As if the lessons of practicality had been taught him at an early age-and he barely four years old-he protested his need.
"A red one would be better," she countered, leaning to brush a quick kiss across his forehead.
Pete watched the proceedings from across the room, shoving his arms into his coat, searching in his pocket for the cap he'd thrust there the day before. He jerked it into place atop his head and glared at Timmy. "Mine has a hole in it, and I don't complain," he said angrily.
"Timmy didn't complain," Johanna told him. "And if you want a new hat, just say so and I'll knit one for you."
"My aunt Bessie made this one, and it's good enough." As if that were the last word on the subject, Pete turned, heading for the door.
"Don't be rude, Pete," his father reprimanded softly.
"Beg your pardon, ma'am," he muttered, his eyes averted as he obeyed Tate's unspoken order.
"I'd really like to make you a new hat, Pete," Johanna said quietly. "I have blue and green yarn left over. Would you like a striped one?"
The boy cast a glance at his father and pressed his lips together for a moment. "Yes, ma'am, that would be fine," he allowed, easing his way out the door.
Tate paused, drawing on his gloves, hunching his shoulders beneath the heavy coat he'd donned. "Do. you want me to catch a chicken and kill it before I go out back?"
Her look was far from benevolent as she slanted it in his direction. The softness she'd bestowed on Timmy, the understanding she'd offered Pete, had disappeared. Left for Tate Montgomery was the scornful look of a woman thwarted in her revenge. He'd hauled her from her chosen place last night, forcing her into his bed, and she'd found the process far from punishing. There was no other method whereby she could silently state her position.