The Truth About Tate

“I’ve got to get to work,” he said, pushing his chair back.

She popped to her feet, too. “Can I come with you?”

His gaze started at her shoulders and glided all the way down to her sandaled feet before sweeping up again. She would bet the partial payment she’d received on the book’s advance that he was doing nothing more than taking note of how inappropriate her dress was to a working ranch—which didn’t deter her one bit from finding the look…sensual. Heated. A threat to the professional detachment she always maintained with her interview subjects.

“You’re not exactly dressed to ride one of my horses,” he said at last. “Jordan should be back before long. Get settled in, and we’ll talk at dinner.”

She couldn’t even argue the point about riding. There was no way she could make it into the saddle in this dress, and there was one other minor problem in that she didn’t know how to ride. She’d lived thirty-one years without getting closer to a horse than when they’d cut across the yard on the way to her temporary quarters, and she was convinced she could happily keep her distance for the next sixty years.

After thanking him for lunch, she returned to Lucinda’s place, nudged the thermostat into a cooler range, then wandered into the living room. With the sun already on its afternoon slide into the west, she opened the blinds, then turned to study the room.

It was a little on the small side and decorated in a rather fussy manner. There were hand-crocheted doilies on the arms of the sofa and chairs, dried flower arrangements, a ruffled cloth on one round end table. More pictures of the three Rawlins boys hung on the walls, along with a couple of snapshots of Lucinda. The one that appeared most recent had been taken in the spring, with that old green truck and the weathered barn for a backdrop. The photographer’s shadow fell across lush green grass and stretched toward the feet of the family gathered there—Jordan, wearing crisp indigo jeans and a vertically striped rugby shirt, the heartthrob every high school should have for its own; J.T. in faded jeans and a white dress shirt and holding a cream-colored cowboy hat in his hands; the absent brother, Tate, five years older than J.T., several inches shorter, less handsome, less sexy, more forgettable; and Lucinda.

From the time the senator had told Natalie about his affair with Lucinda Rawlins and the illegitimate son it had produced, she’d wondered about the woman. Was she as pretty as Chaney remembered, as sly, deceitful and cunning as he claimed? Had she pursued him, seduced him and deliberately set out to trap him, or had it been just one more instance of the senator’s lack of self-control?

In the photograph with her sons and grandson, Lucinda didn’t look sly, deceitful or cunning. What she looked like, in fact, was the senator’s preferred type—slim, blond, pretty, delicate. She had a lovely smile and held herself with a certain grace, though her life certainly hadn’t been easy. According to the senator, her marriage to Tate’s father had ended when he’d found himself one girlfriend too many. She’d been left to raise two kids alone, with no help from either father, and she had apparently been very successful. Well, except for the fact that Tate had apparently repeated her mistake and wound up raising Jordan alone.

“Hey.”

She gave a start, then turned to face the subject of her last thought, standing in the kitchen doorway.

“I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear. I don’t know if—if Uncle J.T. told you, but the doorbell at the side door doesn’t work. We got hit by lightning in the last storm, and it fried the doorbell and Grandma’s cable and the telephone. We got the telephone fixed, but if you want to watch cable, you have to come over to our place, and Dad will fix the doorbell—” he swallowed hard, and his cheeks turned pink “—or—or maybe Uncle J.T. will. When he gets the time. Maybe.”

Natalie offered her warmest smile to put the boy at ease. “I appreciate your picking up my stuff for me. It was nice of your uncle to volunteer you.”

“They’re always doing that,” he said with a shrug that was an unconscious imitation of J.T.’s. “But I don’t mind. I just got my driver’s license a couple months ago. Your bags are by the door. Want me to put them in the guest room?”

“That’s okay. I’ll get them later. Do you have to get to work, or can you sit down and talk?”

He shifted uneasily. “I’ve got football practice in a little bit.”

“In this heat?”

“We just run some laps, and mostly work out in the weight room. It’s air-conditioned. And we drink a lot of water and Gatorade and stuff. We won’t spend a lot of time outside until week after next.”

“I saw the sign outside town that said you were the state champions last year.”

He seemed intent on dragging the toe of his boot back and forth across the seam where vinyl flooring met carpet. “Yeah, we did okay.”

“I bet you did better than okay.” He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, about 180 pounds of muscle—and acting as shy as a tongue-tied six-year-old. “Is football your only sport?”

“I play baseball, too. Pitcher, just like my dad. He was one of the best jocks Hickory Bluff ever saw. He was recruited by the OU Sooners and the Razorbacks his senior year.”

“What happened?”

Jordan stared at the floor for a moment. When he looked up, his brown eyes were dark with regret. “Me.”

“Oh.” Natalie’s smile felt forced. “Look at it this way—you probably saved him from a lifetime of aches and pains from too many injuries.”

“Yeah, I saved him a chance at the pros and making millions and retiring when he’s thirty-five.”

“Do you think he’d rather have the chance at the pros and making millions than you?”

Jordan raised his head and slowly smiled at her—the naturally perfect smile that she doubted she would get to see his uncle wearing. “Nope. My grandma says I’m the light of their lives.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said dryly. “What’s your favorite subject in school?”

They answered in unison. “Football.”

“What’s your favorite academic subject?”

“Algebra. I think after college I’ll teach math and be a coach.”

“And you’ll be the most popular math teacher the school has ever seen—with the girls, at least.” She hesitated, debated the wisdom of her next question, then asked anyway. “Your father’s not married, is he?”

“No.”

“And J.T. isn’t married, either, is he?”

“Nope. Are you?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

He looked like J.T., his mannerisms were like J.T.’s, and he was quick to ask questions like J.T. Kind of made her wonder just how much effort his father had put into raising him, and how much of the responsibility J.T. had shouldered.

With a sigh, she sat down in the nearest chair. Jordan took a seat on the sofa arm. “Why am I not married…. Nobody ever asked. I didn’t particularly want to get married. I haven’t had much time in the past year or so for dating.” Or much desire. In fact, the thing she’d wanted to do most in that time was hibernate. Disappear off the face of the earth. Find some way to turn back time and make right everything she’d done wrong.

“Take your pick, or make your own excuse.” She smiled tautly. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

A faint blush stained Jordan’s cheeks. “Sort of. We go out, but she sees other guys, too.”

“Are you free to see other girls?”

“Yeah, but who’s got the time?”

Or the desire, Natalie suspected. A faithful man—a rarity in her experience. She wondered—purely for the sake of the book—if his uncle shared that trait or took after the fidelity-challenged Chaneys.

“Her name is Shelley. Here’s a picture of her.” He passed over a brass frame from the end table. It held an eight-by-ten-inch photograph of a dozen or more teenagers. Jordan and a tiny blonde were front and center, looking like Ken and Barbie, Jr.

“She’s pretty,” Natalie said of Shelley, then pointed to another girl. “Who is she?”

“That’s Mike. She lives down the road a ways. Her real name is Michaela.” With a glance at his watch, he jumped to his feet. “I gotta go. See you later.”

While listening to his footsteps, then the slam of the door, Natalie continued to study the photo. The kids all looked so young, so fresh-faced and innocent, starting lives that were brimming with potential. It seemed she had always been the new kid in school, there and gone before she’d had the chance to make any lasting friendships. She envied the kids and hoped they enjoyed the camaraderie while they could.

Poor Mike didn’t look as if she was enjoying anything in the moment captured on film. She was taller than every girl and most of the boys in the shot, a brunette in a sea of blondes, her glasses unflattering and her clothes ill-fitting, and she was looking at Jordan as if he’d hung the moon. Unfortunately, Jordan was looking at Cheerleader Barbie’s Best Friend, Shelley, in exactly the same way.