The Forever Man(57)

"Spring-cleaning?" he asked, tipping his hat back with one finger.

Johanna shook her head. "Just trying to get this room cleaned up and aired out."

"Why don't we take that rug out to the clothesline and I'll beat it for you?" Tate offered.

Johanna looked up at him. "Far be it from me to turn down an offer like that. It could use a good dose of fresh air, anyway."

Tate's lips curved in a knowing grin. "I'd forgotten about Bessie and  her perfume. Smells good for a while, but over the long run I'm kinda  partial to that soap you use."

Johanna flushed at his backhanded compliment. Since the encounter in the  hayloft, she'd sensed a new awareness in Tate's glances, an element of  intimacy in his remarks. Almost as if he were gifting her with the  courting she'd never received from his hand, he'd teased her, touching  her with a gentle hand as he encountered her in the house. His fingers  had caressed her shoulder, rested against her waist, brushed a wayward  strand of hair from her cheek.

He'd told her the chicken soup was tasty and backed up the claim by  eating two bowls of it at supper Monday evening. He'd watched her ready  herself for bed and told her that her hair looked like sunlight shining  through clover honey. She'd paused in her brushing to turn an  incredulous look in his direction, gaining a chuckle of glee for her  effort. He'd kissed her with decorum and curled against her back through  the long night hours, leaving her to wonder at his restraint.

In all, he'd managed to set her mind in a whirl, filling her thoughts  with small touches of his caring, allowing his lazy little compliments  to surround her over the past two days.

Now he stepped within the room, filling its limited space with his  presence, taking the broom from Johanna's hands and leaning it against  the wall. "I'm going to lift the end of the bed, and I want you to roll  the rug, Jo. Then we're gonna haul it to the yard and maybe set Pete to  work with the rug beater."                       
       
           



       

"Thought you offered to do it," she reminded him.

He shrugged, flexing the powerful muscles of his shoulders. "Might do  Pete good to lend a hand. Build him some muscles." He bent, lifting the  weight of the bed with an easy movement, waiting as she did his bidding,  stepping high to allow her access to the rug beneath his feet. She  straightened, nudging the rolled carpet with her foot.

"Think you can handle it by yourself, Mr. Montgomery?" she asked. "Or shall I give you a hand?"

"I can manage, ma'am. What else do you need done up here?"

She looked around. "I'll strip off the bed and wash the bedding and  polish the furniture. The floor could use a mopping before you put the  rug back down, I suppose." She tossed him a questioning look. "Don't you  have any work to do today?"

"There's always something to do on a farm, Johanna. You know that. We've  got six or seven new calves in the pasture since Bessie came, and a few  more of those cows look like they're about due to drop. I need to take a  ride over to Jonas Cooney's place to ask him to give me a hand right  soon. Before the end of the week I'll give the springhouse a coat of  whitewash, and the corncrib has a couple of broken slats on the far wall  I need to replace."

Johanna measured him with a wary eye. "Then why on earth are you in  here, messing with my work, when you've got a pile of your own to tend  to?"

His grin was provocative as he lifted the rolled-up carpet to his  shoulder. "Maybe I just like the way you smell, Mrs. Montgomery." He  leaned to sniff loudly and appreciatively at her neck, nudging her  against the wall. The carpet whacked loudly against the open door, and  Johanna pushed at Tate, palms against his chest.

"Get that thing out of here before you knock everything helter-skelter."  Her eyes shining with delight at his foolishness, she followed him out  into the hallway. "Send Timmy up, will you? He can drag the bedding down  to the washroom for me."

"Yes, ma'am." He was down the stairs and heading for the back door as  she watched, and her gaze softened as she allowed it the liberty of  feasting on Tate Montgomery's backside. He was a fine figure of a man,  all long, ropy muscles and firm flesh, a man in the prime of life.

"And he's all mine, Bessie Swenson," Johanna said softly. "All mine!"





The new calves were enchanting, scampering about the pasture with long  legs aspraddle, leaning at odd angles to nurse from their patient  mothers, exhibiting a penchant for suckling on unwary fingers, should a  human hand be held temptingly near. That particular tendency was going  to be a lifeline for one small black-and-white heifer, Johanna thought,  coaxing the stubborn creature toward the bucket she held between her  knees.

The calf had been abandoned in the pasture when her mother didn't  survive the birthing, something that just happened once in a while,  according to Johanna's father. A tight-lipped Tate had brought the  newborn to the barn and wiped her clean, delivering her into Johanna's  hands for feeding. Now Pete urged the baby forward, helping to hold the  stubborn calf in place.

Johanna coaxed her with soft entreaties, pushing the hard head into the  pail of milk, holding her fingers beneath the surface for the heifer to  encounter. A warm mouth enveloped her index finger, and Johanna grinned.

"That's the way, baby. You've got it now."

The calf snorted and jerked back, milk running from her mouth and nose.  Then a long tongue lapped at the residue of milk, and the calf perked  up.

Johanna repeated the process, and once more the heifer suckled her  finger, managing to swallow a good portion of the creamy offering in the  effort.

"I didn't know that's how you did it," Pete exclaimed, fascinated by the process. "You're a good mama, even for the baby cows."

Johanna's laughter rang out "I'm afraid I'm not much of a mama at all,  Pete. This little gal won't need me for long. She'll catch on fast."

Pete's chin stuck out defensively. "You're our mama. Me and Timmy  already told Aunt Bessie you were. And Pa promised us a long time ago  you were gonna be our new mother."                       
       
           



       

Johanna straightened on the milking stool, her expression a blend of wonder and disbelief. "You told Aunt Bessie … "

Pete nodded. "Yeah, we did. She was kinda poutin' the other night when she had to fix our supper."

"And you told her I was your mama," Johanna repeated slowly.

Pete looked up quickly. "That was all right, wasn't it? Me and Timmy think you're a good mama for us."

"Oh, yes!" Johanna's fingers rubbed against the broad forehead of the  calf. The newborn was dipping her head repeatedly into the pail,  sniffling and snorting at the contents and Johanna took pity on her,  reminding the creature again how to suckle the milk. She bent low,  brushing her face against the animal's head. "Oh, yes," she repeated,  her heart filling with joy as she savored Pete's declaration.





"You sure cleaned the bejabbers out of that bedroom, Jo." Tate slid his  suspenders over his shoulders, his fingers busy at the buttons of his  shirt as he watched his wife remove her stockings.

She glanced up at him from her perch on the side of the bed. "You may  have set a dangerous precedent, helping me with it," she told him. "I  thought I'd tackle the parlor next."

"Not tomorrow. I've got a dozen things lined up outdoors." Turning to  the washstand, Tate soaped his hands, then scrubbed at his face and  neck. He rinsed off quickly, then soaped up a washrag and ran it under  his arms and down their length to his wrists, a nightly ritual Johanna  enjoyed watching.

"I can do most all of it alone," she said, rising from the bed, ridding  herself of the dress she'd worn all day. She piled it in a basket atop  the rest of her soiled clothing behind the screen and remained there,  stripping off her underclothes, adding them to the pile.

"Pete says I'm his mama." Unbidden, the words fell in a rush from her  lips. She waited for his reply, clutching her nightgown to her bosom in  the shelter of the screen.

"Pete said that?" Hushed and surprised, his words were accompanied by  the man himself, lifting the flimsy barrier of the screen to one side as  he faced her in the dim light. His gaze was intent on her face. A towel  dangling from one hand, the other holding the edge of the screen, lest  it topple over.

She nodded. "He and Timmy told Bessie I was their mama."

"They did?" Tate smiled broadly. "How about that!"

"Tate! I'm getting undressed," Johanna protested, waving with one hand to shoo him from her private corner of the room.