kerosene lamp above, its glow circling them with a suggestion of warmth. The boys stretched their plates toward her, and she helped them to the food before taking up her napkin to spread across her lap.
Timothy watched her carefully, then removed his own napkin to follow her example. She caught his eye as he glanced at her again, and smiled her approval. His small, perfect teeth flashed for a moment between his lips as he allowed a crooked grin to touch his mouth. Then he ducked his head and tended to the business at hand.
“I’ll bring you the letters after supper,” Tate Montgomery offered as he swallowed his first bite of potpie. “You cook a fine meal, Miss Johanna,” he said, as if compliments came easily to his lips. It was the second one he’d given her, and both in the space of a day. He was a gentleman, she decided. The fine woolen trousers had given way to farmer’s overalls, and the coat he’d worn earlier had been replaced by a heavy flannel shirt, but he ate with clean hands and good table manners.
“Can I have jam on my bread, Pa?” Pete had made away with over half his dinner already. She’d been right. The boys had been more than hungry. She’d have to be sure to offer them apples in the afternoon from now on. Or maybe…Her mind swirled with thoughts of tending to three male creatures, the work implicit in their well-being, the extra washing to do, the meals to cook.
And where would they sleep? Once she married their father, the boys would move into the house, perhaps share her old bedroom with its big double bed and hand-hewn dresser.
Where would she sleep then? In the attic? In her mother’s sewing room? Surely not in the big bedroom at the top of the stairs, where her parents had conducted a marriage for almost twenty years. That would be Tate Montgomery’s room. He deserved it, as the head of the family.
“I said, I wouldn’t mind another helping of that chicken pie, if you don’t mind, Miss Johanna.” His voice was quiet, sounding amused at her expense, as if he knew he’d caught her daydreaming. If such a thing could be, with night coming on. She’d done her share during daylight hours, that was for sure. But usually by this time of the day she was too tired to think of much else than setting the kitchen to rights and heading for her bed.
She spooned up another portion on his plate, and he murmured his thanks. His hands were deft as he spread jam on another slice of bread and handed it to Pete, then did the same for Timothy. He was used to looking out for them, she thought idly. It showed in his manner, in the way he watched them, unobtrusively but with vigilance, noting their behavior, nodding his head with approval or shaking it slightly as Timothy stuffed his mouth in his eagerness to eat the jam-laden bread.
“I’m glad your boys are good eaters,” she said. “Will they like oatmeal for breakfast? Or would sausage and eggs be better?” Folding her napkin beside her plate, she lifted her glass to drink from its foaming depths. The milk was cool, fresh from this morning’s milking. “Would you like more milk, Pete?” she asked, setting her glass on the table.
A glance at his father gained him permission, and Pete nodded his answer. He swallowed quickly and supported his unspoken request with a “Yes, ma’am.”
Johanna rose from the table and lifted the pitcher from the cupboard, filling both boys’ glasses, Timothy’s not quite to the brim, in deference to his youth and his smaller hands.
“I’d take a small tumbler of that milk, if you don’t mind,” their father said as she straightened from her task.
“Would you rather not have coffee? I assumed…My father always liked coffee with his supper.” She reached for another heavy glass from the shelf behind her and poured it full, placing it next to his plate as she spoke.
“I enjoy both sometimes. Coffee always, especially at breakfast. As for early morning, we take whatever’s available. Oatmeal and the rest will do fine.” he assured her. His gaze followed her as she moved across the kitchen. “Sit down, Miss Johanna. We need to speak for a few minutes.”
She complied, bringing with her a bowl of cookies she’d taken from the crock where she kept them for freshness’ sake. The boy’s eyes brightened as they tilted their chins to better see within the dish, and Timothy was hasty in his movements as he finished up the last of his supper. He licked a stray crumb of crust from his upper lip and edged his hand across the table to where the bowl sat.
“Ask first, son.” Though quietly spoken, it was a rebuke nonetheless, and the child nodded.
“Please, ma’am, may I?” he whispered, his dark gaze fixed on her face.
“You may have one of each, if your father says so,” she offered, sensing his indecision.
His smile flashing, the child accepted her offer.
“Ma’am?” the older boy asked, his question implicit
She tipped the bowl in the other direction, and the boy reached in.
Tate shoved his chair back from the table and stood. “I believe I’ll make a trip to the barn, Miss Johanna. You boys can eat your cookies and then get on outside. Stay away from the back of the barn, like I told you.”
They nodded simultaneously, their mouths full, Timmy’s feet swinging beneath the table. Johanna felt the brush of his small boots against her skirt as he kept time to an unheard beat. It was a foolishly comforting touch, and she sat unmoving until he’d eaten every last crumb of his cookies and drunk the last drop of milk.
“Go along now, boys,” she told them, gathering the plates and flatware. Intuitively she left the cup in front of Tate Montgomery’s place. He’d not had any dessert yet. He might want more coffee to go with it.
Her hands were plunged in the dishwater when she heard him come back in the door. A quick glance over her shoulder proved her right. He’d taken the coffeepot to the table and filled his cup. At his right hand was an envelope, fat with folded papers. He gestured at it as she watched.
“Here are the letters of recommendation I spoke of. You’ll find two from ministers in the town we lived in, and one from my banker, the owner of the general store, and my doctor.”
She flushed, embarrassed for a moment as she anticipated reading personal things about this man. Surely she had the right to know all she could about him, but the thought of learning it in this way was almost like…maybe windowpeeping, or reading another person’s mail.
Drying her hands on the towel, she walked back to the table and sat across from him once more, then reached for the envelope.
“Go ahead,” he told her. “It won’t take you long. It’s just information you’d expect to get from a doctor or banker. You’ll find that I’m healthy and fit, I’ve got a decent bank account, and I paid my debts at the general store on time and in full. My minister even noted the amount I gave toward the building fund for the new church last year.” His mouth was twisted wryly as he watched her, and she recognized his own slight embarrassment as he made light of the letters written in his behalf.
She held the envelope in her hand, squeezing the bulk of it and watching him closely. His eyes were dark, but not brown, as she’d thought at first. They were a deep, deep gray, with just a few blue flecks around the edges of the pupils. Sometimes they were flat, hard-looking, like when he’d gone to talk to the boys about the dog, earlier today. Now they were softer, more vulnerable, as if he were hesitant to lay his life out before her, all stuffed in a envelope and waiting for her perusal.
“I’d like to know a couple of things, Mr.
