The Forever Man(42)

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.