by the rangiest, most worn-out bull he’d seen in a month of Sundays.
“We may be strangers, Johanna, but we’re married. We need to talk about a few things.” Beneath the genial words lay a tone of voice that had caused people to sit up and take notice over the years. He wasn’t surprised to see her shoulders straighten and her spine stiffen. She’d gotten the message. Tate Montgomery was ready to set this marriage in motion. He would not suffer her silence any longer.
Johanna placed the pork roast on the table, careful to put it squarely on the hot pad that would protect her wooden tabletop. He watched as her gaze flicked over each bowl and plate, aware that she was assuring herself that her meal was ready for consumption and that each plate and fork and napkin was squarely in place.
And still that pair of blue eyes avoided his. Staring at the second button of his white shirt, she told him dinner was ready, her voice low and controlled, her unease apparent only in the pulse that fluttered in her throat.
He took pity on her. Johanna Patterson was having second thoughts, and his masculine presence in her kitchen had not helped matters any. His flat demand for a conversation had not set too well with her, either, if he was any judge. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, she was about to bolt And that he couldn’t allow.
“Jo.”
Her eyes widened, sweeping from the middle of his chest to his face, as if the diminutive of her given name had shocked her. She blinked, her attention on him fully for the first time since they’d left the church.
“I’m not pushing for any intimacies between us. I just want us to talk and act like families act within the walls of their home. Can’t you just pretend I’m your brother or your uncle for the next hour or so? Talk to me like you would a man you’ve known for years, like you and your pa used to talk at mealtimes.” He watched her closely, noting the faint flush that rose from her high-collared neckline.
“Pa and I didn’t talk much, Tate. We didn’t have a whole lot to say. Pa wasn’t the same after my mother died.” She spoke slowly, the words halting, as if she hesitated to admit the lack of closeness she’d felt with her father.
“You don’t have any relations hereabouts? You didn’t have folks in for Sunday dinner?”
She shook her head. “I fed the thrashers. Out in the yard, under the trees. Once Selena Phillips came out to see me, right after my mother died. Pa told her we didn’t take to having folks hanging around. She didn’t come back.”
A wave of sympathy for the woman he’d married hit Tate with the force of an afternoon storm. She’d been alone here for years, living with her father, but as solitary as any human could be. Suddenly the wall of bristling, cutting words she’d thrown up between them at their first meeting made sense. Johanna Patterson was more than a lonely woman. She was hurting, and wary of any advances.
“Is it time to eat?” Timmy’s treble voice through the screen door broke the silence that had fallen in the kitchen. His nose pushing up against the wire mesh, he squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside.
“Come in, boys.” Johanna smiled at them, welcoming their presence. She could cope with them, talk with them, serve their food and get through this meal with a minimum of contact with their father. She watched as Pete pulled the door open, stretching the spring as far as he could, waiting for his brother to step inside, then allowing the door to slam behind him. His eyes lit with a degree of satisfaction as he darted a look in her direction.
“Don’t let the door slam next time, Pete,” his father said firmly.
“Yessir,” the boy replied, ducking his head deliberately as he spoke.
“Your hands clean?” Tate asked, frowning at his eldest son.
“I washed mine, Pa,” Timmy volunteered, holding up the items in question, his palms still wet and glistening.
“Pete?”
“They’re clean, Pa,” the boy mumbled. “We used the pump outside.”
Johanna pulled out the chair to the right of her own. “Sit here, won’t you, Timmy? Take the chair across from your brother, Pete.” She clasped her hands before her, watching as the boys did her bidding, aware of the man who stood across the table, his own hands clasping the back of his chair. Finally she felt herself snagged by the strange warmth of his gray eyes.
“Sit down, Johanna. Everything looks fine. We need to eat before it gets cold.” He waited for her to take her place, not allowing her to attempt retreat.
And the thought had passed fleetingly through her mind. Only the presence of the two children made it feasible for her to eat with any pretense of ease and affability. She waited while Tate bowed his head and asked a brief blessing on the food, then busied herself with fixing Timmy’s plate, cutting his meat and watching as he took the first bite. As she’d noticed yesterday, his chin came only inches above the tabletop. Now he tilted it to ease the passage of his potato-laden fork as he aimed it toward his mouth.
“Would he do better with a pillow under him?” Johanna asked.
“I thought maybe a chunk or two of firewood would work,” Tate said with a grin.
“I can kneel, Pa,” Timmy volunteered cheerfully. Depositing his fork on the table, he scrambled to his knees and leaned back on his heels. “This will work good,” he announced, setting to with renewed energy, now that he could reach his food more readily. “I was hungry, Miss Johanna.”
For the first time in days, Johanna’s mouth curled in genuine humor. The child’s glee was infectious. “I’m glad you’re hungry, Timmy. I like to cook for hungry men.”
Across the table, Pete ate slowly, as if he begrudged every bite passing his lips. His eyes were downcast, his fork held in his fist like a weapon, his whole demeanor morose.
Johanna watched the older boy from beneath her lashes as she ate, wanting desperately to speak his name, to have him look up at her with open, cheerful good humor, yet knowing she must not infringe on his mood. His was about as far from a good mood as east was from west, and she wasn’t about to get him in trouble with his father.
“Did you bring in everything from the barn, Pete?” Tate’s query was pleasant, as if his son’s ill will were not apparent.
“Yessir, it’s on the porch like you told me.” Green beans disappeared between his teeth, and he chewed diligently.
“Me too, Pa. I brung my stuff, my pillow and everything.” Timmy’s grin encompassed the table and all three of his companions. “When can we bring in the beds and stuff we brought?”
Johanna’s head lifted, her gaze meeting Tate’s abruptly. “You brought furniture with you?”
He nodded. “Some. I wasn’t sure what we’d need. I didn’t even know where we were going. I brought a supply of tools, too, some I didn’t figure I’d want to have to replace. The boys wanted their beds and the feather ticks their aunt Bessie made for them, and some trunks I made them.”
“You didn’t tell me,” she said, thinking of the big double bed she’d outfitted with clean sheets in her old bedroom. “We could have brought their things in last night.”
“We had enough to do last night, what
