"That's why I married you, Tate. Because a woman alone has nothing. No security, no clout in financial matters, no say-so when it comes to the bank or the mill or the stockyards." Her frustration had reached its peak, and she jerked her arms from his grip, uncaring of the bruises she would wear tomorrow or the stunned expression on his face.
"And that's all I mean to you? Security? Clout? A man to do your bidding and mind your orders? I'm not to make any decisions of my own?" He waited, unwilling to release her, holding her with the force of his body, his hands clenched at his sides.
She paused, absorbing the words he spoke, listening to his angry questions, realizing for the first time the unfair advantage she'd held. Her breathing was ragged, her mouth was dry, her lips were open as she caught her breath, vainly seeking release from his presence. She needed to think, she needed to consider what he had done, perhaps look at it from another point of view.
Most of all, she needed to catch a deep breath.
"Damn!" His hands slid beneath her arms, holding her erect. She'd gone all limp against him. He recognized the shuddering breaths she took, the way her head lolled to one side; Johanna was about to faint in his arms.
Quickly, he lifted her, carrying her to the table where he dropped into a chair, holding her on his lap. "Johanna!" It was a strained whisper, his mouth brushing over her forehead. She drew a shuddering breath, then another. "Here, take a swallow of my coffee," he said, holding the cup to her mouth. She obeyed, gulping the tepid brew.
"I'm all right," she said softly, struggling to rise from his lap.
But he held her fast. "Sit still! I mean it. You're upset and shaky. Just stay right here for a minute." He pressed the cup to her lips again, and she swallowed another mouthful.
"We're not going to talk about this anymore today," he told her firmly. "You're going to go up and take a rest, hear me? I want you on my bed, and I want you to stay there for at least an hour."
One arm held her, his fingers pressing against her hipbone, the other hand gripping hers, supporting and half lifting her as they climbed the stairs. In seconds, she was on his bed and he'd slid her shoes from her. Then, tossing the quilt over her, he tucked it beneath her feet. Her face was pinched, her lips colorless and her eyes wary.
"Stay here for a while, hear?" At her nod, he bent low to brush a kiss across her forehead. "I know you're still mad at me, and that's all right. But for now, just forget it and sleep awhile."
"Supper … " she began, but halted as he shook his head.
"You cooked enough chicken for a small army. We'll eat it cold, and between us we'll find enough to make a meal."
And if she didn't eat any more at supper than she had at the noon meal, he didn't think they'd have to scrape up much for her benefit. Johanna was pining, or ailing, or just off her feed for some reason. Whatever the reason, he didn't like the looks of her, all pale and shaky as she was.
Anyone would think she was in the throes of morning sickness or something.
His mind stopped its forward progress and beat a hasty retreat. Her reaction to the pie, her easy tears-for he'd seen the struggle she'd gone through to hide the evidence of her distress. The crankiness he'd never before associated with the woman he'd married.
Tate Montgomery looked down at his wife, and his eyes were thoughtful. Could it be? Of course, his sensible self replied. He'd been making love to her with regularity for over three months. If his seed hadn't taken root by this time, he'd have been surprised, now that he thought about it.
And yet, she didn't seem to have considered the idea. He tried to remember the past weeks. Had she had a monthly flow? His mind searched in vain. Not for at least two months, she hadn't. Maybe longer. And that pretty much solved the puzzle as far as he was concerned.
He looked down at her, noting the faint flush on her cheeks, her mouth, open just a little, the edges of her teeth showing, and the regular rise and fall of her breasts as she gave in to the weariness that had overtaken her. She was a sturdy little thing, his Johanna. His Johanna.
His Johanna was likely carrying his child.
It was more than he could contain, the sudden joy that swelled within his breast, and he turned from the bed, lest he allow a whoop of delight to awaken the woman sleeping on his pillow.
Chapter Sixteen
He'd been true to his word, working beside her as they put together a meal. She'd slept much longer than an hour, to find the sun fast heading for the horizon as she awoke. Tate and the boys were on their way in, hungry and ready for a meal, as she entered the kitchen and reached for the lamp.
By the time they gathered beneath the golden glow it cast, she'd gotten her wits together and tied her apron in place. A jar of green beans put on to heat and a pan of corn bread, mixed quickly and placed in the oven, were her contribution. Tate set the table and uncovered the plate of chicken left from dinner.
"I sure am glad you fried two chickens, Miss Johanna." Pete was willing to be amiable tonight, and for that she was grateful. He waited at the table, barely able to keep his eyes from the food as she found one thing, then another, to add to the assortment.
Do we have any syrup, Jo?" Tate asked from the pantry.
"Yes, of course." She dried her hands hurriedly and joined him in the narrow space, squinting in the dim light, seeking the metal tin. "It's here somewhere. We had some on pancakes while you were gone."
"Pancakes, without me?" he teased carefully, his dark gaze intent on her face.
"The boys asked for them." Her words were a mumble as she scooped the tin from the lower shelf and backed into the kitchen.
He followed, sensing her retreat She wasn't ready yet for a truce, and he sat down at the table, watching her as she moved around the kitchen. She was more like herself, it seemed, her color back to normal, the circles beneath her eyes gone for now. Maybe tonight … maybe they could come to an understanding.
But it was not to be, for when Tate finally left his desk and climbed the stairs to his room, it was to find Johanna sound asleep. He undressed and crawled beneath the covers in the dark, and his hands were gentle as he gathered her in his arms.
She mumbled a few words, his name interspersed among them, then settled against him with a sigh that smacked of contentment, if he was any judge. Perhaps in sleep she was able to be purged of the anger that had made her so unhappy during the past days. Maybe tomorrow would find them on better terms, with Johanna seeking him out, as was her wont. He'd missed her company all day, but at least she'd stopped glaring at him. And for that he would be grateful, he decided.
She'd been tolerant of him today. Tomorrow he'd try for friendly.
By the end of a week, he'd decided that tolerant was as good as it was going to get He was horny as hell, and even though he enjoyed her cuddling against him while she slept, he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep his hands to himself.
And Johanna was giving him no encouragement.
He moved his milking stool to the next cow, the pride of Johanna's herd, a small, gentle jersey. He'd done a powerful lot of thinking in his day, working with animals. Today was not any different. The rustling of hay in the manger, the swishing of the Jersey's tail and the warm scent of milk rising to his nostrils surrounded him as he worked, and he was comforted by the familiarity of the chore.
His eyes closed as he thought about Johanna. She'd kept to her part of their bargain. In fact, if anything, the meals she'd been cooking for the past days had surpassed his expectations. As if she were trying to make up for that one day of rebellion, she'd done her best to keep him well fed.
She was pleasant in front of the boys, sweet as pie to Esther Turner at the general store, and downright enthusiastic when she spoke to Selena Phillips.
She'd agreed, a bit grudgingly, to go to the social at the church hall on Saturday, and then spent the evening with the womenfolk. He'd asked her to join in a square with him when the fiddles tuned up and the caller got set up on the platform. She'd politely excused herself and helped with setting up the food tables instead.
He'd watched her for a while, then spent the rest of the time with the older ladies, dancing up a storm. Selena Phillips had accepted his invitation with good humor, and from there he'd gone on to Marjorie Jones and Esther Turner, swinging them with enthusiasm, sending their skirts flying.