Free Carolyn Davidson by The Forever Man

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 tiredof 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