The Forever Man

“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 with getting your mother’s room all fixed up for you.”

“Well, I’m sure we can get the boys’ things into the house after dinner and get them settled in. They’ll want to put their clothes away in the wardrobe and dresser.”

“Most of my stuff is dirty. Pa has to wash it,” Pete said gruffly. “We didn’t stop to do the washing for a long time.”

Tate’s smile was teasing. “I wasn’t going to tell Miss Johanna about that till tomorrow, son. There wasn’t any sense in scaring her off the first day. It’ll take half the morning to scrub out the pile of things we’ve managed to accumulate.”

“I’m used to laundry. My scrub board works real well,” Johanna said obligingly. “Bring your things on in and put them in the washroom.”

“You wash indoors year-round?” Tate asked.

“Pretty much. It gets cold here early on. We’re not far from the big lake, and when that west wind blows, I don’t enjoy being out in it, up to my elbows in wash water. My father built a washroom for Mama when he built this house. It’s bad enough I have to hang things outside in the winter. Mama used to carry them up to the attic sometimes, when the weather got real bad, and string a line to put them on.”

“What’s wrong with a rack behind the stove?” Tate eyed the space between the cookstove and the wall, measuring it in his mind.

“I never thought of that. I didn’t know they made such things,” Johanna said.

“I can put one together for you. It won’t hold everything at once, but things dry pretty good. Beats standing out in a cold wind, with a wet sheet flappin’ in your face.”

“Pa! Can we have pie now?” Timmy was plainly tired of the talk of laundry day, and his voice was querulous as he attempted to change the subject. His plate was empty of food, his fork still held upright in his hand, and his eyes were glued to the apple pie sitting on Johanna’s kitchen cupboard.

She scooted her chair back from the table. “Let me clear these things off first. Hold your fork tight, Timmy. You’ll need it for the pie.”

“I like mine in a bowl with cream over it,” Tate said with a grin. “So does Pete.”

“My aunt Bessie makes good pie,” Pete offered stoutly.

Johanna’s gaze met Tate’s. It was easier this time. “Did you have apple trees on your place?”

He shook his head. “No, Bessie got them in town at the general store. She used to dry them to use in the winter. The boys spent some time with her…. She liked to fuss over them.”

“We could have stayed there, Pa. Aunt Bessie said we could, remember?” Pete reminded him.

“It wasn’t a good idea, son.” Tate’s firm words dismissed the idea, and the boy sighed loudly, eliciting another stern look from his father.

The wedding had changed him, Johanna thought sadly. The cheerful child of the night before had vanished, and she mourned his departure. It would take some doing to bring him back, she feared. Rising from the table, she quickly took up the plates, bringing the pie back with her. The pitcher of cream she’d poured for their coffee was still over half-full—probably enough for Tate’s pie, too, she thought She watched as he poured it over the slice she cut for him, watched as he lifted the first bite to his mouth, watched as his lips closed over the forkful of crust and filling. And felt a small bubble of rejoicing within her as his smile pronounced it good.

“It’s as good as your aunt Bessie’s, isn’t it, Pete?”

The boy was silent, eating slowly, as if unwilling to allow any enthusiasm to creep forth.

Timmy had no qualms about expressing his approval. “You’re a good cooker, Miss Johanna.” It was high praise indeed, delivered with a flourish of his fork, crumbs surrounding his mouth, his eyes shining with glee.

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” his father agreed.

Johanna felt a blush paint her cheeks. She’d had more compliments during the past two days than she’d had in years. Tate Montgomery would fix himself a place in her life with his courtly manners and his gentle smiles, if nothing else.

The sun had gone down in a burst of splendor, leaving an autumn chill. Johanna had brought her shawl from the parlor, where it was usually draped over her mother’s overstuffed chair, awaiting her use on cool evenings. Now she stood on the porch, watching warily as Tate carried another load of his things from the barn. He was truly moving into her house, and she felt a moment of apprehension as she considered that thought.

“This is the last of it,” he said, resting one foot on the bottom step. He looked up at her, his eyes measuring. “What is it, Johanna? Are you fearful that I’ll forget my bargain with you? That I’ll forget which parts of the house I’m welcome in and which part is off-limits to me?”

She hadn’t expected it, his ability to know her mind, and she clutched the shawl closer, as if the wind had sent a chill through her. “No, I’m not afraid of you, Tate. I told you that already. I’ve seen that you’re a gentleman. I’m sure you’ll hold up your end of the bargain.”

He climbed the three steps to the porch. “Open the door for me, will you? I really loaded myself down this trip. I wanted to get all of it.”

Johanna eyed the three boxes he carried. “Those look heavy. Can I help?”

“No.” He shook his head. “They’re mostly books. Some papers, too, and the contents of my desk. It’s a big thing—probably foolish of me to pack it on the wagon, but I hated to leave it behind. I kept my records in it, and all the paperwork it takes to run a farm and family in one place, back in Ohio.”

“There’s a small room off the dining room you can have if you like,” Johanna offered. Her face grew pensive as she thought of the evenings she’d spent by herself over the past ten years, wondering what her father did in that small room, while she sat by herself in the kitchen or in the parlor.

“Is it furnished?”

“Somewhat. You may as well bring those things on in here,” Johanna said, leading the way. She went through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, which had been used so seldom that she kept the table and buffet covered with sheets. Across from the three wide windows was a door, and it was there that she headed. Turning the knob, she stepped within.

“It’s dark in here,” she called over her shoulder. “But there’s not much to trip over. My father only kept a chair and ottoman by the window, and a table for his lamp and account books.”

Tate looked around in the shadowed interior of the small room. An air of musty disuse assailed him, and he wrinkled his nose. “We need to open the windows in the morning and let in some fresh air and sunshine,” he told her, bending to deposit his boxes on the floor against one wall.

“I haven’t been in here since he died,” Johanna admitted quietly. “It was his room. I guess I didn’t feel welcome, even after he was gone.”

“You’ll be welcome, once it’s mine.” As a statement of fact, it couldn’t have been any plainer. Tate would harbor no secrets from his wife. She doubted he would leave his bedroom door ajar for her to peek inside, but this room would be a part of the house once more.

Maybe she’d even remove the coverings from the dining room furniture and use the room for Sunday dining, as they had when her mother was alive. The thought cheered her.

“This is still your home, Johanna. When I pay off your mortgage this next week, it will be in my name along with yours, but the house is still whatever you want it to be.”