The Forever Man(41)

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.