You’ve managed to make holes all over it for the rain to get in. It’ll be ruined if we don’t get it under cover before a shower comes up. Your pa has enough to do, without this kind of a mess to take care of.”
Behind her, a snort of impatience announced Pete. “You just don’t want us to have any fun. You think we should just work all the time on your old farm.”
Johanna spun to face him. His jaw jutted forward as he completed his accusations, and his eyes squinted at her in the bright sunlight. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he stood spraddle-legged at the corner of the barn, defiance alive in his glare.
“Don’t you know better than to play in the straw, Pete?” Living on a farm all his life as he had, surely his father had warned him about ruining a stack of straw. Canvas was hard to come by, but once the pile was disturbed, the rain would not slide from its surface, and only the heavy fabric would keep the stack dry and usable.
“My pa always let us have fun back home,” the boy answered, his mouth drawn into a pout.
“I want you to have fun here,” Johanna said quickly. “But not at the expense—” She drew a deep breath. It was no use scolding any longer. She’d only succeeded in making the child angry as it was, and poor Timmy was crouched in a pile of straw, looking as if he were about to be scalped.
“I’m sorry to have shouted at you. What’s done is done.” Johanna reached one hand to Timmy, taking several steps to where he squatted, almost in the cave where she’d pitched out straw from the side of the stack. “It’s time for dinner. Come up to the house and get washed up,” she told him, waiting for him to take her hand.
With a quick look at his brother, Timmy nodded, standing and accepting the hand she offered. “We was just climbing the mountain,” he explained, his brow furrowing, his nose wrinkling as he sought to move a straw resting there.
Johanna swept her free hand through his dark hair, her fingers fluffing the stray yellow wisps from its silken length. Her heart went out to the child, his innocence shining from eyes so blue they reminded her of summer skies.
“We were just playin’, and my pa won’t like it that you yelled at us,” Pete announced stoutly.
“Your pa will have to find a piece of canvas and top off this stack before the afternoon’s over, and you’d better plan on helping him with the chore,” Johanna told him quietly, her aggravation under control.
From the orchard, a shrill whistle caught her ear, and she spun to face the direction where her apple trees stood in neat rows. The tall figure of Tate Montgomery strode through the section where she’d planted several lateripening northern spy trees, his head covered by a wide-brimmed hat. He lifted one arm in a wave, the other hand clasping a bucket laden with apples.
Her heartbeat quickened as she watched him stride through the tall grass, down the slope past the pasture fence and toward the house. His long legs carried him at a rapid pace, and a grin of satisfaction curled his mouth as he neared. So quickly he had found a place here on her farm. Just as rapidly, he’d managed to plant himself right smack in the middle of her every waking thought.
She shook her head, willing the small trickle of pleasure she felt to be subdued. The man was a sight to behold, but she hadn’t the right to…to what? Surely it did no harm to please herself by admiring his broad shoulders and longlegged stride.
That she’d ever considered the young Joseph Brittles to be a likely candidate for her husband those ten long years ago was more than she could fathom now. Now that she’d met Tate Montgomery. Her eyes were fixed upon him as he brushed a path through the near meadow toward her, like a colossus making his way across a field of battle.
“Brought you a bucket of the first Baldwins, Johanna. Thought you could bake some for dinner. Sure would taste good with some brown sugar and cinnamon sprinkled over the top.” He swung the heavy pail easily, as if the half bushel or so of apples weighed but a few ounces, instead of the twenty-five pounds she was certain it contained.
Tilting her head to one side as she considered his request, she nodded. “I can do that. Anybody who picks apples half the morning ought to get a little of the fruit of his labor, I always figure.”
His laugh was boyish in its cheerful exultation, as if he had not a care in the world. The bucket swung, the apples it held brimming over the top, and Johanna was struck by the masculine beauty of the man she’d married. His hair was blown by the breeze, probably tangled by apple branches while he’d poked amid them on the ladder. Sweat staining his shirt in a half circle beneath each arm and his hands soiled by the honest labor he’d done thus far today, he presented a picture she could only admire.
“I’ll carry these to the kitchen for you, Mrs. Montgomery,” he told her, a grin wreathing his face.
The somber man she first saw two weeks ago atop his wagon had been a far cry from the male specimen facing her now, she thought. Tate Montgomery thrived on hard work. Sunrise found him in the barn, milking and feeding the cows. Contrary to his joking appraisal of his skills, he was an accomplished farmer, she’d found. Whistling softly, cajoling the cows with gentle, coaxing praises, he made short work of the chores.
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