The Forever Man(44)

Lifting his forehead from where he'd rested it against a brown flank  while he milked the last cow, he drew a deep breath. They needed to  talk. Not just "Pass the milk," and "Is it warmer out today?" It was  time for Johanna to have her eyes opened to a few things. She needed to  know his reasons for what he had done.

He was about ready to sit his wife down and give her a quick tour  through her father's desk. He'd never seen such a mishmash of  record-keeping as Fred Patterson had left behind. Tate's evenings spent  trying to make head or tails of the mess had been most frustrating. The  old man had about reached the end of his financial rope by the time he  died, as far as Tate could tell.

The herd of cows had been let go almost beyond redemption, except for  the new milkers Johanna had apparently insisted on, the Jersey and a  spotted guernsey. There was no way to tell just how old that scrawny  bull out there in the far pasture was, but it was for sure that he was  past his prime. Not worth much, no matter how you sliced it. He'd  decided right off that new blood was in order, and to his way of  thinking, the purchase of the shorthorn was the best move he'd made yet.  Within a couple of years, the calves that bull produced would bring in  more money than Tate had spent on the animal. The steers he sired would  be heavier, the heifers would produce more milk, and the calves would be  stronger.

And that was worth a heap, Tate decided, carrying the last pails of milk  across the yard toward the springhouse. The door was propped open,  Sheba sitting just outside, as if she were standing guard over her  mistress. Within, he caught sight of Johanna, the churn between her  knees as she lifted the lid, checking out her progress. The  early-morning sun was caught and reflected by her golden hair. She'd  twisted it atop her head, not taking time to braid it, then haphazardly  pierced the gleaming mass with large bone hairpins to keep it out of her  way.

"You're churning early. Is it done?" Pausing in the doorway, he rested for a moment.

She nodded. "Yes. I thought it felt about right." She pushed the churn  aside and rose from her chair. Reaching for an empty pail, she tilted  the churn, ready to drain off the skim.

"I'll take that out to the pigs for you," Tate offered, depositing his  burden on the low table. He bent to where she worked and took the weight  of the churn from her, careful to hold the lid in place, so as not to  lose any of the butter.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide at his nearness. "I can take care of it, Tate."

He shrugged. "I know you can. I just wanted to help. I'd as soon you didn't lift the heavy pails, anyway."

Her laugh was strained. "I've been lugging heavier than this for years.  Getting married didn't take away any of my strength. I'm a strong farm  woman, Tate."

His gaze swept over her, easing its way from her face down the length of  her body; his lips thin, and his nostrils flaring. Her dress was snug  across her breasts, outlining them for his viewing, and he paused there  in his survey. The woman did have a fine figure, and unless he missed  his guess, she was filling out that dress even more than usual.

How could she not know? He swung his gaze back to her face and smiled.  "Yeah, you sure do look strong and healthy to me, ma'am. Fact is, I'd  say you're a prime piece of womanhood."

Her flush was instantaneous, sweeping up from her throat to cover her  cheeks with a rosy hue. Her eyes sparkled-perhaps with aggravation, he  thought, but shiny and tempting nevertheless. It was more than he could  resist, the privacy gained by the small building, the look of her,  dampened curls at her temples from the hard work she'd accomplished, and  the neat, rounded figure so near.                       
       
           



       

He lowered the churn to the floor and wiped his palms against his pant  legs, his eyes never leaving her face. And then he reached for her, his  hands at her waist, lifting her against him until they were eye-to-eye.

"Tate! Put me down!" She reached to balance herself, her hands gripping his shoulders.

"I need you, Johanna." It was a primitive response to her nearness, his  body reacting quickly, his thighs taut with the tension of his arousal,  his feet apart as he braced himself. The scar on his face was livid  against the ruddy hue of his cheekbones, his eyes darkening as he spoke  the challenge aloud.

"Tate! Put me down!" she repeated, whispering now, as if she sensed the  tension he could no longer suppress. Her eyes were frantic as she looked  past him at the open doorway. "The boys will see you, Tate."

"Kiss me, Johanna." As if her words had gone unheard, he growled the  command, his fingers tightening against her resilient flesh.

A shiver passed through her body, and she shook her head. "No, not here."

"Just a kiss." He nudged her, his mouth hot against her cheek as she turned her face from him.

Her breath was indrawn, a shuddering sound as she inhaled through her mouth. "Put me down first"

His muscles quivered as he lowered her to the floor, and his hands slid  to cover her back. "Now." Giving her no quarter, he bent to her, his  mouth opening over hers, claiming the caress he'd demanded as his due.

She was stiff in his embrace, but only for a moment, and then she  softened, leaning against him, tilting her head to better receive him.  Her woman's need rose within her, the temptation of his arms and hands,  the heated, damp pressure of his mouth adding to her yearning. She'd  learned well the lessons he'd taught through the long night hours, and  her body responded to the familiarity of his touch.

"Johanna!" It was a soft cry of torment, and he buried his face in her  throat, as if the temptation of her mouth were more than he'd bargained  for. And then he released her, his fingers sliding reluctantly from her  back.

He reached down for the pail of skim milk, afloat with small globules of  butter. "I'll take this out to the pigpen," he said, his voice  roughened by emotion.

"Breakfast is ready, Tate. I left it warming in the oven before I came out here."

His nod accepted her announcement, and he turned from her. "We need to  talk, Johanna. There's a lot you need to understand, about the farm and  your father's way of doing things."

"After breakfast?"

He shook his head. "I've got too much to do this morning. Let's make it tonight, after supper, when the boys go to bed."

"All right. After supper."





"We need to settle this between us." Tate sat at the desk, Johanna  beside him in a chair he'd brought from the dining room. "Have you ever  gone through your father's records? Looked through his books?"

She shook her head. "No. He took care of the money. I only knew that his  bankbook was in the drawer, and when I saw how little he had in his  savings account, I figured the farm hadn't done well for a while."

Tate nodded. "He'd run his herd into the ground, Jo. That bull out there  is about petered out. He should have gotten rid of him a long time ago.  The cattle he was selling to the stockyards weren't bringing in enough  to support the place. That's why he got a mortgage a couple years back.  He'd been getting along on the money ever since, and not making any  headway."

Her frown deepened. "What can we do?" The knowledge that her father had  neglected the farm came as no surprise. She'd known that the fences and  outbuildings had fallen into disrepair, but maintaining the house and  garden had kept her busy. Besides, Fred Patterson had not welcomed  anyone else's ideas about his place, least of all those of the daughter  he'd almost totally ignored over the past ten years.

"I've already done it, Johanna. That bull was about the best idea I  could come up with. The herd needs new blood. He'll produce bigger  steers, and the new heifers will make better milkers. You need to get  rid of four of your old ones, anyway. They'd be better off producing  calves after we get some new milkers out of the shorthorn."                       
       
           



       

"So, why didn't you talk to me about it first?" Her mouth was set in a  stubborn line and she glared at him, the old argument still unsettled,  as far as she was concerned.

"We've already had this conversation, Johanna. I did what I thought was best, and I'll not apologize for that."

She rose from the chair, hands rising to rest against her hips. "What  conversation? The one where I ask for an answer and you give me the same  old story? It's down to what you decide, isn't it? Like I'm not  supposed to have anything to say about this place."

He looked up at her and gave a sigh that bespoke extreme tolerance.  "Look, I know you're not feeling well, but there's no need for you to  get so unreasonable."