Carolyn Davidson - The Forever Man

“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.

Her gaze swung to the man who stepped through the barn door. And for a moment, she wondered what it would feel like to have that tall, muscular body close to hers, those strong male arms holding her.

Her mouth tightened, and she turned from the window abruptly. “You’ve been that route, Johanna Patterson,” she said aloud to herself, “and what did it get you but a lot of heartache? Settle for what the man offered, and count yourself lucky.”

“I surely didn’t expect you’d be making your bedroom in the attic.”

Johanna’s breath caught in her throat as the deep voice cut into her thoughts. Her skirts swirling around her legs, she did an abrupt about-face, turning to seek out the man who was watching her. He was head and shoulders above floor level, his feet planted firmly on the attic stairs, one arm resting on the wide planking of the attic floor.

“Don’t creep up on me that way!” Johanna’s hand was at her throat, and her words were breathless, almost a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” Tate said softly. “I thought you’d have heard me calling you from the back door.”

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she answered, her hands sliding with measured nonchalance into her pockets.

His eyes slid from her to sweep the perimeters of the large, cluttered room, resting finally on the bedroom furniture that occupied one wall.

“What are you doing up here, Johanna?” he prodded, his forehead creasing into a frown.

“Moving things,” she said abruptly.

She’d begun by shifting an old dresser, and then, snagged by bittersweet memories, she’d opened one of the drawers. The clothing inside was neatly folded, just as she’d left it ten years ago, still smelling faintly of her mother’s scented sachets. She’d lifted a soft, worn petticoat to her face and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as they filled with unbidden tears, allowing the wistful thoughts to flood her being for just a moment.

Reluctantly she’d placed the garment back inside the drawer, her fingers lingering on the worn fabric as she set aside the remnants of her mother’s clothing. Wiping her eyes and blowing her nose ferociously, she’d gently closed the drawer.

And then Tate had interrupted her pondering with his blunt query, startling her into a rude reply. It was time to backtrack.