Her mouth pinched, her eyes flashing, she faced him. "I caught and killed chickens before you ever set foot on my farm, Tate Montgomery. Just go out there and take care of your bull, and I'll tend to fixing the dinner you ordered."
A shutter seemed to fall behind his eyes, darkening the gray to a steely black, and his jaw clenched, a visible response to her smarting reply. "You just do that very thing, Mrs. Montgomery," he told her coldly. "I'll be back in at noon. Have it ready."
She closed her eyes, hearing the door shut quietly. He was too angry with her to even relieve some of the pressure by slamming the door, she thought. She'd never seen quite that degree of icy calm in Tate before. Perhaps she'd gone too far. He'd been willing to make amends of a sort, if her instincts were to be relied upon. He'd enjoyed his breakfast. If only he hadn't ordered up his dinner as if he were eating at the hotel dining room in town.
She dumped hot water from the stove on the dishes, adding a handful of soap from beneath the sink, sloshing it around to form suds. The silverware followed, disappearing beneath the surface. She poured the residue of coffee from her cup and then lifted Tate's to her mouth, sipping the last of the cooled coffee into her mouth. She imagined it bore the faintest trace of the taste of his mouth-utter foolishness, she decided, plopping the empty cup into the dishpan.
Snatching her hatchet from the pantry, where she kept it hung between two nails, she headed for the back door. The air was cold, but the sun was warm against her back as she stalked to the henhouse. There were two young roosters left from last spring's hatchings, and they needed to be caught up and gotten out of the way before she readied the brooding area for spring.
Today would take care of them, and with a vengeance fired by her confrontation with Tate she headed for the two unwary creatures she'd settled upon, her hatchet at the ready.
"Did you mail the letter to Bessie?" Tate wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back. The chicken had been fried to a fare-thee-well, the potatoes creamy, the vegetables flavored with bacon grease and onions and cooked all morning on the back of the stove. He'd enjoyed every bite, savoring the crisp coating Johanna used on her chicken, relishing the pale gravy she'd placed before his plate. Now came the moment of truth. He'd told her to write the letter, given her three days to accomplish the deed.
"I took it along to town yesterday, but I forgot to mail it," she said, only now remembering the presence of the envelope in her reticule. "We can do it Monday."
He nodded, aware that the anger between them had no doubt chased all thought of the letter from her mind. Johanna was an honest woman. If she said she'd forgotten, then that was what had happened. Devious, she was not.
"The chicken was good, Johanna. Thank you." His gaze traveled to the countertop. "Is that a pie?"
"Yes." She pushed back from the table, leaving her plate half-full of food, eyeing it with distaste. That Tate had so thoroughly enjoyed her cooking, while it stuck in her craw like so many bites of dry bread, was a fact that irked her mightily. The sense of disquiet she'd lived with all day had blunted the edge of her appetite, and even the dried-apple pie she'd baked held little appeal.
Her knife was quick as she sliced it into eight equal pieces, lifting one to place on a small plate for Tate. She served it, her left hand taking his dinner plate, even as she substituted the pie for it. The apples oozed from the crust, the thick juice dripping to settle on the plate, the spicy scent of cinnamon rising to tempt her nostrils.
A spasm of nausea rose in her throat, and she swallowed against it, blinking as she recognized its recurrence. The same thing had happened yesterday, and one day last week. Sweets simply were not agreeing with her these days, and she frowned at the thought. Apple pie was her favorite, and suddenly she had no appetite for it.
"Pete? Timmy? Do you want pie, too?" Turning away from Tate, she made her offer, and the boys responded with nodding heads, Timmy still chewing on a chicken leg as he craned his neck to catch sight of the pie.
"Yes, ma'am," Pete said quickly, as if he remembered the chastisement earlier and was intent on a polite reply before his father should take note.
Johanna brought them their dessert and then picked up the coffeepot. "Tate?"
He held his cup toward her. "Yes, please." Then watched as she filled it. "Are you feeling all right?"
Her look in his direction was quick. "Yes, of course." But she wasn't, and the falsehood made her blush. She fussed at the stove, moving the coffeepot about, lifting a burner lid to check on the fire inside, her fingers testing the temperature of the water in the reservoir. Hot to the touch, it gave her an excuse, and she took it, reaching for a pan and filling it. She carried it to the sink, splashing it in the dishpan, adding soap and readying for the dishwashing.
Tate came to stand behind her, his footsteps almost silent, only the warmth of his body behind her making her aware of his nearness. "Jo?" One large hand rested on her shoulder, and he pressed his fingers against her, their movement sending a cascading shiver down her spine.
Her eyes closed and she gritted her teeth against the unwanted reaction. So easily he was able to affect her, her body so ready to lean to his bidding that she was barely able to resist turning to him.
"Jo! Look at me." Reaching past her, he took the pan from her hand, dropping it with a clatter on the drainboard. His hands turned her to face him and she was pinned against the sink, her heart thumping in the her throat. Sliding from her shoulder to her face, his palm cupped her chin, lifting and coaxing until she bent to his will.
"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Like puffs of wind blown by a spring breeze, the words burst from her lips. She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting to keep from shedding the tears that had formed without her knowing. If only his hands were not so warm, his eyes not so filled with concern. If only …
Tate's voice was low and carefully controlled. "Boys? Pete, take your brother into the parlor. Find your books and tell Timmy about the pictures, will you?"
"Yes, Pa." His tones subdued, Pete eyed the last bite of pie on his plate and scooped it onto his fork. "Come on, Timmy." Tugging at his young brother's arm, he set off for the parlor.
"Tate, let me go." Johanna lifted her hands to push against his broad chest. But he would not be moved. Blinking rapidly, she looked at his shirt, focusing on the fourth button, unwilling to meet his gaze. "Please, Tate." She tried again, testing his strength, and finally, with a groan of despair, allowed her head to drop against his chest.
"Jo … " It was a whisper, a pleading, needful sound that was almost her undoing. "Jo? I can't stand to see you this way. I know you're angry with me, but I need to set things right between us."
"You put a mortgage on my farm. It doesn't matter what you say to me, Tate. You can't deny what you've already done. Paying off my land and my house … those were the terms of our marriage. And now you've gone behind my back and … "
"You don't trust me to pay it off?" His whisper was harsh, unbelieving, in her ear. "You think I'm not capable of making the payment when it's due?" He shook her, firmly and quickly, and she looked up, startled.
"Do you have any idea what a new bull will do for your herd? Have you any idea how much that purebred shorthorn will be worth to this place?"
"No! Of course I haven't! How could I know? You went off to Chicago … Or is that where you really went? Anyway, wherever you went, you bought a bull and brought him back and never even talked to me about it first!"
He was stunned, his eyes registering the disbelief he felt. "It was a surprise! And .beyond that, handling the stock and the buying and selling is my end of the bargain. I wouldn't think of questioning you about your share of this deal. You do as you please about the house, the buying at the general store, the use of your butter-and-egg money. Not once have I asked you to account for anything, have I?"
She shook her head. "No, you haven't. But then, I haven't taken it upon myself to borrow money at the bank to finance my plans, either."
"Mr. Shrader wouldn't lend it to you, anyway." His voice was grumpy, almost sullen, as he stared at her, exasperated by her reply.