Carolyn Davidson - The Forever Man

“I’m deciding about this bed.” She folded her arms about her waist, nodding toward the headboard she’d leaned against the dresser.

His eyes followed her direction. “What’s the problem? It looks to me like it’ll fit down that stairway just fine.”

A spark of defiance lit her eyes. “You don’t think the attic would be a proper bedroom for me?”

“I think I’d feel better about it if you slept downstairs with the rest of us.” His frown had somehow vanished as he spoke, a glimmer of amusement taking its place, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes.

“It’s just that it’s my mother’s sewing room I was thinking of using,” she answered obliquely, her hackles rising to meet his arbitrary reasoning.

He tilted his head, his smile gentle. “Your mother’s been gone a long time, Johanna. I doubt she’d want you to make a shrine out of her workroom.” He climbed the remaining stairs and walked toward her. “I’ll help you carry the headboard down if you’d like me to.”

“I know exactly how long my mother’s been dead, Mr. Montgomery. And if I want the bed taken down, I’ll do it myself, the same way I got it up here.” She’d stiffened at his approach, and now her head tilted back, allowing her gaze to clash with his.

He was stooped just a bit beneath the lowering eaves, a tall man, used to allowing for his height. Now he reached out to lay a warm hand on her shoulder, bending even closer, until she could see the shadows beneath his eyes. “You don’t have to move furniture while I’m here, Johanna. If I’m to be the man of the house, I’ll do the heavy work.”

She held her ground, aware of his bulk, the masculine weight of his hand against her more fragile bones. Flexing the muscles beneath that pressure, she shrugged, as if to rid herself of his touch. It wasn’t worth the fuss.

“Suit yourself,” she said, dropping her gaze from his, her mind retaining the memory of his eyes and the shadows they contained. Perhaps he hadn’t slept well out there in her barn. Maybe his nights, like hers, were occasionally prey to demons that stole sleep.

“Will you need help making room for us in the house today?” he asked, releasing her and reaching for the heavy wooden headboard. “The boys are anxious to see where they’ll be sleeping. I think they’ve lost their appetite for roughing it.”

“They’ll be usin’ my old bedroom. It has a big bed in it. I suppose they can bring in their belongings as soon as I empty my things from the dresser and the wardrobe.”

“They’re pretty easy young’ns,” he said with a trace of pride. “They’ll be happy most anywhere, long as there’s something softer than the ground to sleep on.”

Johanna stepped aside, watching him lift the headboard with ease, carrying it down the stairs as if it were no heavier than a length of two-by-four. She followed him, her steps light, her house shoes silent against the uncarpeted stairs.

“Which room am I headed for?” he asked over his shoulder, shifting his burden to accommodate the corner at the foot of the attic stairs.

“The end of the hallway, on the right,” she told him, closing the attic door behind herself as she followed him down the wide corridor. She scurried past him quickly, opening the door to her mother’s sewing room, making way for him to follow.

He halted in the doorway and whistled softly. “Not a whole lot of space, is there?”

A paisley shawl caught his eye, its folds draped gracefully over a sewing machine in one corner. The black iron treadle below was angled, as if a feminine foot had left it only moments ago.

A wardrobe filled another corner, its doors closed snugly. A small dresser was tight against the wall near the door, a daintily crocheted scarf centered on its surface. Beneath the window, a worktable lay empty, not so much as a pincushion remaining in view. Obviously Johanna had not made regular use of her mother’s room. Either that or she was the neatest woman he’d ever met.

A faint scent, perhaps that of rose petals, caught his attention, and for a moment he felt another presence, as if the woman who had been the possessor of this space lingered still. And then the notion vanished as Johanna moved across the floor, her gaze measuring the walls and floor space.

“I think there will be room enough once the worktable and sewing machine are taken upstairs.” She turned to him expectantly, as if she awaited his opinion.

“Whatever you think, Johanna.” He’d already decided to be as obliging as he could. The house was her domain. The lines would be drawn soon enough when it came to the running of the farm.

“I’ll move most everything upstairs.” She spoke softly, one hand brushing at a speck of dust on the dresser. “This chest will be large enough for my things.”

“I’ll take care of the heavy stuff. Where do you want the bed to go?”

She started abruptly. “Oh! Here, put it against the wall. We’ll have to move the sewing machine and the worktable out first, won’t we?” Her fingers lingered on the surface of the dresser as she spoke. “I’ll empty out these drawers after a while.”

Tate leaned the heavy headboard against the wall and straightened. “Tell me how this table comes apart. I’ll carry it upstairs and bring down the rest of the bed.”

Johanna watched as he put one knee to the floor, leaning to peer beneath the table where long bolts held the legs in place. “My father built it for her,” she told him, moving to his side and crouching next to him. “He made it just like the one her mother had, back in the city. Shall I get the tools from the kitchen for you to use?”

He’d shifted to both knees, his hands already busy with the heavy nuts holding the bolts in place. “Your pa did a good job, I’d say. These things are tighter than an old-”

Johanna’s eyebrows lifted as he paused. “An old maid’s pucker?” she asked.

He ducked his head, backing out from beneath the table, a grin twisting his mouth. “Yeah, that’s what I was about to say. Then thought better of it.”

“I am an old maid, Mr. Montgomery. And not ashamed of it.”

“But not for long, Miss Patterson,” he reminded her, his grin fading as he took note of her somber expression. His jaw tightened as he recognized the faint uneasiness she sought to hide. Her hands were buried in the folds of her apron, her fingers no doubt clenched tight. Johanna Patterson was taking a big chance marrying a stranger, and it would behoove him to treat her with kid gloves, at least till the deed was done.

“If you’ll collect those tools for me, this won’t take long,” he said quietly. “I’ll be taking that ride into town as soon as I move these things for you. I’m sure the preacher’s looking for me to stop in to let him know what we’ve decided to do. It wouldn’t look right for me to be staying here without making our arrangement legal.” Rising, he reached one hand to where she crouched beside him, silently offering his assistance.

Deliberately, carefully, she placed her fingers across his, watching as he enclosed them in the warmth of his wide palm, then tugged her with gentle strength to stand before him.

“You haven’t had second thoughts, have you?” His grasp on her fingers had not lessened, and now he raised them to rest against his chest.

Her eyes widened at the gesture, her heartbeat quickening just a bit. Tate Montgomery was a tall man, a big man, standing head and shoulders over her. He could have been intimidating, had he chosen to do so, but the hand that held her own was gentle.

She shook her head. “No, no second thoughts. And yes, if we expect him to marry us tomorrow, I agree that you need to deliver a message to Reverend Hughes right away.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “I don’t want to have the town talking. Heaven knows we’ll be giving them enough to gossip about tomorrow as it is. I’m not sure they’d even approve wholeheartedly of your staying here last night.”