She reached to grab for them, clutching the cotton fabric in her fist, holding it against her belly. "Tate!"
"I'll keep you warm." His mouth whispered the words, a seductive promise she could not fail to recognize, and she shook her head.
"I can't do this, Tate. I want my nightgown."
"I'll turn out the lamp, Jo," he said, his smile willing her to comply, coaxing her gently.
She looked down at him, and her flush deepened. Her fingers twined in the material she clutched, and she bit at her lip.
Tate swung his legs over the side of the bed and settled her between his knees. He leaned forward, his face pressed against her waist, and he lifted the edge of her chemise, allowing his mouth to touch the bare skin beneath it. His breath was warm, and she shivered, shifting against his legs.
"Reach over to the table and turn out the lamp, Johanna." He'd released her wrist, allowing both of his hands access to her body, and he held her close as he gently pushed the loosened drawers down over her hips.
Recognizing the precarious threat to her modesty, she reached quickly to twist the knob on the kerosene lamp, turning down the wick and casting the room into darkness.
"Feel better now?" His words teased her as his hands swept the white garment down her legs, his fingers agile as he loosened her stockings and pushed them to her ankles.
"Lift your foot, sweetheart," he told her, easing the stocking from one foot as she obeyed. And then the other, as she complied with his nudging fingers.
His mouth was on her again, following the hem of her chemise as he lifted it, over the fullness of her breasts and to her armpits. "Raise your arms. Let's get this off you."
Obediently she did as he asked, aware only of the male strength of the man before her, her senses attuned to him, knowing he was set on a course with only one possible destination.
And she could not refuse him. It had been a day of pure happiness. From dawn till dusk, Tate had given her his attention, gifting her with smiles and sidelong glances, sharing with her the simple pleasure he found with his children. The quarrel between them held in abeyance, they had allowed the tension of their dissent to be forgotten for this moment. By mutual consent, they had put it aside from their time together as a family.
And now he asked for this, seeking her compliance. Not without recompense, though, for she knew what route this path would take. His arms would cradle her, and his hands would be gentle against her skin. The brush of his mouth against her breast was a promise of pleasures to come and his whispers were breathless vows he would fulfill, should she bend to his wooing.
Lowering her arms, she watched her chemise fall to the floor at her feet. Her hands on Tate's shoulders, she bent her head forward, resting her cheek against his dark hair. His mouth on her skin was gentle, his lips nuzzling at her flesh, and she shivered as he suckled, paying homage to her with tender touches.
"Lie down with me, Jo, please." He tilted his head back, his words offering her the choice, and she responded, her arms circling his neck, bending to find his mouth with her own.
Chapter Eighteen
The letter from Bessie arrived less than a week before the lady herself stepped off the train in Belle Haven. The usual cluster of townsfolk waited for the Tuesday-morning express out of Grand Rapids, among them Selena Phillips, with mailbag in hand, talking with Mr. Turner at the end of the platform.
Jacob Nelson, the barber, had been notified that his second chair would be arriving this morning, and his excitement was contagious, spreading to include Leah Ibsen and her group of schoolchildren. They were to be allowed inside the mail car for ten minutes, each of them having chosen someone far off with whom to correspond. Those who had no relatives or friends outside of Belle Haven had been given names of schoolchildren in Miss Ibsen's hometown of Dearborn, a town near the city of Detroit Already, the youngest were estimating the time they must allow before their reply would be brought by this very train.
Jacob Nelson's interest in Miss Ibsen was apparent this morning as he inspected himself in the streaked window of the railroad station. His collar was stiff, his tie straight and every hair on his head pomaded into place as he sidled into her group.
Johanna watched the goings-on from the surrey, feeling detached, as if she were waiting for a fatal blow to befall her. Her mind had been filled with the advent of Bessie's visit for seven days, and with good reason. Pete and Timmy had spoken of little else for the past week, their excitement reaching fever pitch by this morning.
Racing through their chores and breakfast, they'd been waiting on the porch an hour before Tate was ready to leave. And he was little better, Johanna thought miserably. The woman must be a saint, what with all the talk of Aunt Bessie this and Aunt Bessie that.
Johanna had decided Bessie must be the most comfortable example of womanhood on the North American continent, what with all the variety of cookies and cakes she had baked and served to Pete and Timmy. She'd imagined her as Belinda's older sister, probably stout and graying and grandmotherly. The boys truly loved their aunt, and Johanna was trying hard to be thankful for the good woman's concern for her nephews.
Tate had been no better. He'd hoped Bessie would be comfortable in the sewing room, since she was used to a larger bed. Johanna had set her jaw and refused to comment on that remark, which she considered a veiled criticism of her home.
Now, waiting for the woman to arrive, only the hopeful thought that she was younger and probably slimmer-in most places, anyway-than the wonderful Bessie Swenson, kept her from setting off for the farm afoot.
The train tracks ran in an absolutely straight line, and by standing on the platform and looking due south a person could see the engine and the smoke it produced from several miles away. Pete was the first to spy the cowcatcher gleaming in the distance this morning. His call to attention brought Tate from the station house door to stand near his sons on the platform.
August Shrader appeared at the far corner of the station, making a beeline for Selena, doffing his hat and standing as close to her as etiquette would allow. Selena's face took on a rosy hue, and even from where she sat in the surrey, Johanna could see the postmistress flutter her eyelashes at the banker. A wedding was likely in the near future, Johanna thought, chagrined as she realized she had spent little time of late with Selena.
Timmy was barely able to keep his feet on the ground by the time the train came to a screeching halt. Pete bounded back and forth, peering in the windows of the coach and almost running full tilt into the conductor as he placed a stool on the platform for his. passengers' use. A lady took his hand as she departed the train, carefully placing her black side-buttoned shoes so as not to mar their gleaming finish.
Johanna's heart missed a beat. Surely this was not the Aunt Bessie she'd heard about for the past seven days without ceasing. This tall, slender, dark-haired woman, fashionably garbed in a striped taffeta dress, carrying a parasol that looked to be straight from New York City. Her hair, done up in a series of ringlets and piled upon her head, was adorned with a hat consisting of feathers and veiling that had to have cost a small fortune.
Johanna's mouth fell open in stunned surprise. Herb Swenson was dead a matter of weeks, and his widow was dressed like an illustration from a Chicago newspaper. She'd seen only a few such ads from the big-city stores, but she was certain that what Bessie wore could in no way be construed as mourning.
The woman's smile was warm and her arms were outstretched as two small boys vaulted in her direction. She scooped them up, straightening and hugging them to her bosom, accepting their cries of welcome and adding her own soft words to their greetings. Even Tate was included in the joyous reunion , being saluted with a brush of her cheek against his as he bent to place his hand on her shoulder.
Johanna looked down at her plain everyday muslin dress. It was not only not striped taffeta, it wasn't even flowered dimity. It was a common, ordinary farm woman's go-totown dress, bought from the shelves of the general store three years ago come summer. Neat and tidy was about all she could offer, Johanna thought glumly, lifting one hand to smooth a wispy lock that had slipped from her carefully pinned braids. Wound in a circle atop her head, they were prim and presentable, a far cry from gleaming dark curls beneath a fancy milliner's delight.