She held the envelope in her hand, squeezing the bulk of it and watching him closely. His eyes were dark, but not brown, as she'd thought at first. They were a deep, deep gray, with just a few blue flecks around the edges of the pupils. Sometimes they were flat, hard-looking, like when he'd gone to talk to the boys about the dog, earlier today. Now they were softer, more vulnerable, as if he were hesitant to lay his life out before her, all stuffed in a envelope and waiting for her perusal.
"I'd like to know a couple of things, Mr. Montgomery." She squeezed the papers, hearing the faint crackling of the crisp envelope.
"Do you think you could call me Tate after we're married?" he asked quietly. "In fact, maybe you could start now."
She bit against her top lip. "It's unseemly for me to use your given name."
"Try." His eyes entreated her, and she looked away, settling her gaze on his folded hands instead. They were good hands. Strong and well formed, clean, with a tracing of soft curls across the back. She'd warrant his forearms were covered with the same brown hair. Her eyes closed as she recognized the drift of her thoughts. What was covered by his shirtsleeves was none of her business.
"Try, Miss Johanna," he repeated, and she sighed, aware that he wasn't about to give in on this matter.
"All right. I want to know how long your wife's been dead, Tate."
"A year and a half. She drowned in a spring flood."
It was more than she'd asked, and somehow the thought of the unknown woman being swept away by rushing waters made her want to cry. She gritted her teeth against the feeling and looked up at him. "It must have hard on your boys, losing their mother that way."
"They'd been staying with her sister for a few days when it happened. Didn't seem to cause much of a fuss over it, to tell the truth. But then, they were close to Bessie. That was her sister's name, and she kept them for another week after it happened."
Johanna felt a hollow spot in her middle expand and grow chill with his words. "Why were they with their aunt? Didn't their mother want them home with her?"
He unfolded his hands, and her eyes were drawn to the movement. He'd formed them into two fists, and his knuckles were whitened, so hard had he curled his fingers into his palms. "My wife hadn't been herself, hadn't been feeling well."
"She was sickly?"
He shook his head, and his gaze bored into her, impelling her eyes to sweep up the length of his chest, up his throat and chin, over his flared nostrils, and jam smack against the hard, cold look he offered her. "She had problems. She was unhappy with her life, and sometimes the boys bore the brunt of it Her sister … well, her sister understood, and when things got touchy, she'd come and get Pete and Timmy and take them home with her."
"Was she mental?"
His mouth thinned, his teeth gritting together, and he moved his hands to the edge of the table, shoving his chair back and rising swiftly to his feet. "Do we need to discuss this now? I'd think it was sufficient for you to know that she wasn't herself sometimes."
Johanna shook her head. "No, I guess we don't have to talk about it any more. I just wondered … "
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just not my favorite memory. It happened, and it changed our lives. My boys need a mother. To tell the truth, I decided when I first laid eyes on you that you were strong and had a clear mind and your eyes were honest and kind. And that's what I was looking for for my boys."
"You knew all that by seeing me out there by your wagon?"
He nodded. "I knew all that when I saw you come hotfootin' it across the field between here and your orchard. Any woman who planned on hauling all those apples to the house had to be strong. A woman who's been able to keep this place going obviously has a clear mind. And you've got the bluest, sharpest eyes I've ever seen on a person in my life. When you looked at my boys, the kindness just sort of shone through over your mad. Then, when you called me back, I knew it was because you'd seen how tired and antsy they were, riding on the wagon."
"I like your children, Tate." It had come easier this time, saying his name.
"You're a born mother, unless I miss my guess. You should have been married with a bunch of young ones of your own before now."
She stiffened, feeling the rigid length of her backbone as if it had been turned into ice within her. "I told you, I never planned on being married."
"I won't make you sorry you changed your mind, Miss Johanna."
The words were spoken like a promise. Almost as if they might be a preface to the wedding vows they'd be taking before long. "I'll not make you wait till tomorrow for my answer, Tate," she said, her voice coming out strained and harsh-sounding, as if it belonged to somebody else.
He stilled, reminding her of a deer at the edge of the woods. She heard his indrawn breath, and then he let it out in a silent sigh. "You haven't read the letters, Miss Johanna."
Her movements were abrupt as she handed the envelope back across the table. "I don't need to read them. Theodore Hughes read them and passed his approval. That's good enough for me. If we don't start this out with a measure of trust between us, we'll have a hard time later on. Maybe someday I'll want to read them, but I think the fact that you offered without holding back is good enough for me."
"You'll marry me?"
"You've got a strong body and clean hands, Tate. You treat your boys well, and you come highly recommended, if my minister is to be believed. You told me I'd have my own room to sleep in, and I'm not afraid of you." She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, eyeing him squarely. "I'm not afraid of hard work, either, but I'm mighty sick of it. I'll tell you right now, I've toted the last crate of apples I'm going to. You can unload that wagon of yours tomorrow and go out to the orchard and do the honors. It'll be fine to have a horse and wagon on the place again."
"When can we marry, Miss Johanna?" His words were harsh, as if he were holding back a measure of emotion he wasn't comfortable with.
"Sunday morning, after service, if that suits you." She bit at her lip, suddenly aware of the step she was taking.
His hand snaked across the table and grasped hers, enveloping it within his. It was warm and a bit rough, callused across the palm. She was still, her fingers touching his warm flesh, unmoving, as if she were fearful of brushing his skin with her own. It was the first time she'd touched a man's flesh in years. Except for when she'd helped to lay her Pa out in his Sunday suit for burying.
She felt the squeeze of his hand as he brushed his thumb over her knuckles, and she closed her eyes at the sensation of prickling heat the touch aroused within her.
"Miss Johanna, I'd ask that you treat me nicely when we're around other folks. You know, like we're really married. And if I touch you, or act friendly, you could … " He faltered as he searched for words.
"Act like this is a real love match? You don't want people to think we're not married in … in fact? Is that what you mean?" Her cheeks bore a faint flush as she provided the words he'd sought. "That's fine with me, Tate. I don't think it's anyone's business what we arrange between us. I'll take your arm when we go into church."
He nodded. "I won't ask for more than I told you this afternoon." He released her hand and stood. "This is Friday night, Johanna. I'll ride to town in the morning and tell your preacher he'll be having a wedding in his church come day after tomorrow."
"Good. You can take the eggs and butter into the general store for me while you're at it, if you don't mind. It'd save Mr. Turner a trip out if you'd take a couple crates of apples along for him to sell over the counter, too."
He nodded his assent and turned to the doorway. "I'll go settle down in the barn, then. It's getting late enough for those boys to be in bed. We'll wash up out back."
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard a muted shout of childish laughter. She'd crossed her bedroom to the window when the sound reached her ears again. The two boys were in front of the barn, Timothy on the ground with the dog. Sheba's tail was wagging to beat the band, and the boy's hands were buried deeply in her ruff.
Johanna's heart lurched in her chest as she watched, and the doubts she'd entertained throughout the evening vanished with the setting sun. It would be worth it to move to the sewing room, or even up to the attic. More than worth it to scrub a man's work-soiled clothes again and cook three full meals a day for his consumption. She'd have children; finally, she'd know the feel of a soft, warm body and small arms around her neck. Timothy was young enough to need hugs.