The Truth About Tate

Young love. Young heartache.

Natalie’s only experience with heartache had been of a nonromantic nature. She’d been betrayed by her only best friend ever, and she couldn’t imagine a lover’s betrayal could hurt any worse. She didn’t intend to find out, though. In the foreseeable future, her life was going to revolve around work—the book on Senator Chaney, undoing the mistakes of the past, righting the wrongs, winning back her father’s respect.

Like Jordan, she had no time or desire for anything more.

Chapter Three

It was after six when Tate returned to the house with only two things on his mind—a long, cool shower and a quiet, peaceful evening sacked out on the couch in front of the TV. The instant he saw the Mustang parked under the tree, though, the hope for a quiet evening went right out of his mind. He had to spend the evening with the woman of a thousand questions. He’d have no peace tonight.

As he reined in his horse, then swung from the saddle, he smiled without humor. He had to spend the evening with Natalie Grant. When was the last time he’d spent three whole hours with a beautiful woman and complained about it? Hell, he couldn’t remember his last date. Sometime last winter, he thought, with one of Jordan’s teachers. The kid had been mortified and had done all but beg him not to make a second date.

Tate hadn’t. Ms. Blythe, the English teacher, had been about as interesting as the subject she taught, and she’d spoken to him as if he were one of her students…at least until she’d sucked the oxygen right out of his lungs.

He didn’t think he had to worry about anything like that with Natalie—though given a choice, he’d rather kiss her than lie to her.

Damn, given the choice, he’d rather kiss Ms. Blythe than lie to Natalie. He just wasn’t cut out for deception and dishonesty.

He’d just finished tending his horse and tack and was heading for the house when he saw Natalie come out next door and start toward her car. When she saw him, she angled toward him, strolling across the yard as if she belonged there. The rays from the evening sun made her burnished hair glow and gave her creamy skin a golden gleam. She’d removed the ribbon that contained her hair in a ponytail, and now it hung wild and unrestrained down her back, so thick and electric that touching it, he thought, might send out sparks.

Burying his hands in it might generate more heat than he could bear.

“Hey,” she said, turning and falling into step beside him. “Long day.”

“The usual.” He removed his hat and drew his arm across his forehead. His sleeve came away wet and grimy. He was dripping with sweat, coated with dust and stank to high heaven…but he would swear he could smell the subtle fragrance of her perfume. Sweet. Clean. Light. “Did Jordan get back okay with your stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Did he take it inside for you?”

“Yes, he did. Then he left for football practice. Isn’t it way too hot for that?”

“If life stopped around here for the heat and the drought, we’d be shut down part of July, all of August and most of September every year. The kids are used to it, and the coaches keep an eye on them.”

“I know you played football in high school because I saw the picture. Any other sports?”

“Baseball. I was a pitcher.”

“You, too?” At his questioning glance, she shrugged. “Jordan said he’s a pitcher, and so was his dad. So all three Rawlins boys have a good arm.”

Through sheer will, Tate kept his grimace inside. This damned charade offered a million chances to screw up, and he’d just taken one. Truth was, Josh couldn’t hit the barn with a rock unless he was standing within spittin’ distance. He’d rodeoed and chased girls, and that was it.

He climbed the steps to the back door, then turned to find her following. Deliberately he blocked her way. “Yeah…well…” Brilliant observations, but all he could think of at the moment. Then he turned the conversation back on her. “I know Jordan didn’t say, ‘Here’s your luggage and, by the way, did you know my dad and I both pitched for the Wildcats?’”

“No, of course not. We were talking, and I asked—” She broke off and backed down a step, then another. Because she realized she’d already broken their agreement? Or because he was scowling at her? “I wasn’t questioning him. We were talking. He asked me if I was married. I asked him if he played anything besides football. It was just idle conversation.”

Like father, like son. Under better circumstances, whether she was married would be one of his first questions, too. It was too late for that now, but… “Are you? Married, I mean?”

Confusion shadowed her blue eyes momentarily, then cleared. “No. I’m not.”

It was an unimportant detail. She might as well be, for all it mattered. She was still a reporter snooping into his family’s lives. He was still lying to her with every breath he took. He couldn’t summon any respect for her or her job, and at the moment he was fresh out of it for himself, too.

Even so, it seemed harder to break her gaze than it should be. He managed by digging out his keys and turning to unlock the door. “Give me half an hour to clean up, then we’ll eat supper.”

“I can fix something—”

“It’s taken care of.” Leaving her at the foot of the steps, he went inside, closed and locked the door, then drew a deep breath. He needed a date. Soon.

He left his boots by the door, put a pan of Lucinda’s lasagna in the oven, tossed his clothes into the hamper, then stepped into the shower under a stream of cool water. Once his body temperature dropped below steaming, he warmed the water, then scrubbed away layers of grime. He also, for reasons he didn’t look at too closely, shaved before he got out.

With a towel wrapped around his middle, he went into his bedroom…and stopped a fair distance back from the south window. There he had a clear view of the big old blackjack and the Mustang—and Natalie and Jordan. She was removing items from the trunk—Tate recognized a laptop-computer carrying case slung over one shoulder—while Jordan walked in an admiring circle around the car. When she closed the trunk, he picked up a box of the type used to store files, and they started toward the house, talking easily. Of course, she was a reporter, paid for getting people to open up, and Jordan had never met a stranger in his life.

As they disappeared from sight, the phone beside the bed rang. Tate got it on the third ring, bracing it between his ear and shoulder while he started dressing. “Hello.”

It was Josh. “How’s it going?”

“So far, so good. How’s Grandpop?”

“Not feeling too hot. So far, he’s found fault with everything I’ve done—and he’s not even out of the hospital yet.”

Tate chuckled at the aggrieved tone of his brother’s voice. “I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. I’d rather have Grandpop griping at me than Ms. Alabama following me around with all her questions.”

“I think for once I got the lesser of two evils. What’s the lady reporter like?”

“About what we expected,” Tate replied with a twinge of guilt. She was persistent and stubborn, as they’d known she would be. But she was also so much more.

“What’s the plan?”

His plan was to avoid any slipups, to be as truthful with Natalie as possible while pretending to be someone else, to not tell her too much and to not notice any more than necessary how pretty she was…how good she smelled…how he was a sucker for leggy redheads and Southern drawls.

“I’m not sure,” he hedged. “She’s coming over for dinner in a few minutes. I guess I’ll find out then. Tell Mom I love her, and Gran and Grandpop, too.”

“Sure. Tate…? Thanks.”

“Hey, Rawlinses stick together, right? See you.” Tate hung up, pulled on a T-shirt and combed his fingers through his hair, then headed for the kitchen. He was buttering a loaf of French bread when Jordan came in from the office. Natalie was two steps behind him.

“How was practice?”

“Okay.” Jordan took a carton of milk from the refrigerator, gave it a shake, then drained it straight from the carton.

It was a habit Lucinda had tried to break, but since it was one Tate shared, he let it slide, except for a comment for Natalie’s benefit. “We don’t drink out of the carton unless we know we’re going to finish it, do we, son?”

Too late—when Jordan’s gaze jerked to him—Tate remembered. A glance at Natalie, though, showed no reason to worry. Men called boys son. She obviously thought nothing of it.

“Hey, uh, Uncle J.T., can I get online until supper’s ready?” Jordan asked.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Once he was gone from the room, Natalie came closer, leaning against the counter a few feet away. “Does he have any chores besides tinkering with old engines?”