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.
“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
