The Forever Man(45)

"Unreasonable! You think it's unreasonable for me to express an interest in your spendthrift ideas?"

"Now, hold on for just a minute," he blurted out, rising to his feet as if he must be on equal ground.

She stepped back, tripping over a wrinkle in the carpet and losing her  balance. His hand came out swiftly, automatically, grasping her arm,  holding her until she caught her balance. And then she cast his help  aside, her look scornful.

"Don't touch me, Tate. You think you can coax me by your sweet talk and  your niceties, but it isn't going to work. I just can't believe you'd go  behind my back and put my farm in jeopardy. I lived with not knowing  whether I was about to lose this place or not after my father died. The  whole reason we got married was so I'd never have to worry about such a  thing happening again."

"And you don't trust me to make the payments?"

She drew in a shuddering breath. "So what! You can't even trust me  enough to tell me about-" Her lips clamped shut, forming a mutinous  line.

"Tell you about what?" he roared.

"About that scar you've got! About what happened with your wife!"

"You're my wife! Belinda is in the past," he growled, lowering his tone as he cast a glance toward the open door.

"You know what I'm talking about, Tate!" She gritted her teeth at his  bullheadedness. "Then I guess there isn't much else to say, is there?"  she said quietly. "You've got an answer for everything. I told you all  there was to know about me and … and-" Her voice broke as she groped for  words, and she shook her head, unwilling to continue.

"I'm going up to bed, Tate," she told him, turning away.

"I'll be up in a minute," he said. "Leave the chair. I'll put it away when I'm done."

Sensing his eyes upon her, she escaped the small room he'd made his own  over the winter months. She climbed the stairs, thinking of his presence  in that room of her father's. Tate's account book was neatly placed in  the center of the desk, accessible should she care to open the cover.  His pens and pencils were in the desk drawer, the spectacles he used  when he did close work in a leather case beside them.

His books were lined up between heavy brass bookends. Books dealing with  the care of animals, periodicals from far-off places with pictures of  cows and bulls gracing their pages. Her Sears catalog had been brought  to his desk, and she'd seen it open tonight to a page of women's  clothing, catching only a glimpse before he swept it from her view,  placing it on the far corner of the desk. The room was clean-she'd swept  the carpet herself this morning and dusted the desk, careful not to  disturb his papers.

Her days of being denied entry to that male sanctuary were gone. The  door remained open now, Tate frequently leaning back in his chair to  hold one or the other of his sons on his lap while they told him of  their day's doings. It was a different household since Tate Montgomery  had come into her life. A better place to be.

She climbed the stairs slowly, her thoughts confused as she sought  vainly to sustain the anger she'd felt for the past week. Perhaps he'd  been right to buy the bull. If only he'd told her first, asked her about  the new mortgage. But would she have told him to go ahead with it?

She paused at the doorway to their bedroom. No, she probably would have  backed from the suggestion, her fear of being indebted to the bank a  strong deterrent to such an idea. But he should have told her.  Stubbornly she clung to the thought. He'd gone behind her back and  mortgaged the farm. Once more she was at the mercy of the bank.                       
       
           



       

She undressed slowly and crawled beneath the quilts, her pillow drawn as  close to the side of the bed as she could get it. She'd been awakening  every morning in his arms, and for the life of her she could never  figure out how she'd gotten there. He made no excuses, releasing her  reluctantly as she pushed away from his warmth in the early-morning  darkness, and she shivered as she thought of the promise of pleasure  those strong arms held.

His footsteps were almost silent as he came up the stairs and down the  hallway. She'd left the lamp burning, a low flame that sputtered as it  struggled to stay lit. In the faint glow, she watched from beneath  lowered eyelids as Tate slid his suspenders from his shoulders and  opened the front of his trousers. As if he welcomed her scrutiny, he  undressed in front of her, sitting to remove his stockings, shedding his  shirt to the floor and stripping off his trousers with one swift  movement.

She knew he'd seen her watching, had caught the quick flicker of his  eyelids as he glanced toward the bed. And yet she could not look away.  He went to the dresser and turned the wick on the lamp, until only the  moonlight from the window lit the room. Then, clothed in his underwear,  he walked from her view, to the foot of the bed and around behind her.

The mattress gave when he sat on it, the cool air rushing beneath the  covers when he lifted them. His big body filled the other side of the  bed as he stretched his long legs to press against the foot board.

As surely as if she were facing him, she could see him there, looking up  at the ceiling, arms bent, his hands stacked beneath his head. And then  she turned over, tugging impatiently at her nightgown as it twisted  about her legs.

He tilted his head, looking at her, his eyes barely discernible in the  darkness, and the need for his touch rose within her like the bubbles in  a kettle coming to a full boil.

She swallowed, her throat constricting. "Tate? I'm sorry I've-" Her  voice failed her, the words she had thought to say seeming to be lodged  in her chest.

"Sorry?" His movement was rapid and almost overwhelming as he turned  onto his side, blocking the light from the window behind him.

She tried again, moistening her lips and closing her eyes, as if not  seeing him loom over her might make it easier to speak. "I mean … I  haven't been a wife to you for a while, since before you went to  Chicago."

"Well, that's true enough," he said dryly. He shifted, lifting himself  to his elbow, leaning closer. "Are you offering to make love with me,  Jo? 'Cause if you are, I won't refuse. And if you're not, you'd better  scoot back over and hug that mattress before I get any more ideas than  I've already got about the matter."

"You've got ideas?" Her voice trembled, and her eyes opened wide, as she  grasped the last thing he'd said, repeating it as if at a loss to speak  a thought of her own. Her brain befuddled at his nearness, her only  thought was to reach out, to touch him, to feel those big, strong hands  against her flesh.

She was close to weeping as she considered a future without Tate  Montgomery. Even one more day without him holding her and giving her the  gift of himself was almost more than she could bear.

"Johanna? If you don't want me to do this, you'd better back off right  now, because I've stayed clear of you about as long as I can."

His hoarse whisper was a warning, one she could not heed. Her heart was  beating with a strange thumping rhythm, her ears were ringing, her eyes  were blurring with tears that would not be denied, no matter how hard  she blinked.

Her body was limber, forming to his as she rolled against him, her arms  clutching him in a frenzy of despair. "I need you, Tate," she cried  against his shoulder, unknowingly echoing his own urgent cry in the  springhouse in the early-morning hours. Her sobs were harsh as she clung  to him, her fingers digging without mercy into his shoulders, sliding  to his arms, then reaching for a frantic hold against his back.

"Tate?" Her cry muffled against his throat, she thrust her body upward  against him, seeking the union     of flesh, only to be frustrated by the  layers of clothing that separated them.                       
       
           



       

"Johanna … Here, baby, sit up for me." He spoke in her ear, his voice  harsh, as he tugged at her nightgown, pulling it up and over her head.  It caught, the buttons half-undone, and his big fingers struggled to  work at them. He finally tore at the fabric before he managed to free  her from the voluminous garment.

Kneeling beside her, he lifted her to face him and she knelt, too,  swaying as his head bent to her breasts. He cupped them in his hands,  holding them before him as if he would feast on their bounty, his mouth  open against the firm flesh. Whimpering, she stroked his fingers, the  backs of his hands, squeezing with her lesser strength as he molded her  to suit his purpose. His lips were hot and hungry against her, and his  tongue was urgent as he suckled, and she cried out, a high, keening  sound, her head falling back, her eyes closing.