The Forever Man(49)

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.