A Certain Kind of Hero (32 page)

“Check with some of the oil companies,” Marianne advised. “There are about half a dozen speculators looking to take core samples, but some of these old ranchers around here refuse to poke anything but a posthole through the sod. And you know damn well there's money down there somewhere.”

Patsy leaned closer. “I can't see you as the sentimental type when it comes to poking holes wherever it suits you, Tate.” Her smile was as suggestive as the beat of the music. “Whenever there's a need.”

“Leave it to a woman to fancy she can see right through a man's skin,” he said smoothly.

“It's in your eyes, sugar. You've got a need.”

“Just a simple itch, honey.”
Honey.
Damn. He adjusted the brim of his hat, which covered his bandage even while it punished him with a dull headache. He signaled the server for another round of drinks. “Alcohol works wonders.”

“Where does it itch? I just had a manicure.” Patsy ran her nails up and down his back. “How does that feel? Tell me when I hit on the spot that's bothering you, sugar.” Smiling
lasciviously, she discovered her favorite thigh. “Am I getting warm?”

“You aren't even close, Patsy.” He couldn't believe he was actually moving her hand, patting it apologetically as he settled it in her own lap. Damn his eyes, maybe he
was
getting sentimental in his old age, but he didn't feel much like poking around Patsy or vice versa. “Even if you were, it'd be no use. The itch just keeps on coming back.”

“That's because
you
keep coming back.”

“So do you.” He nodded across the table. “So do
you,
Marianne. Remember when you lit out with that bull rider? Kenny and me had to do some fancy talkin' to keep your dad from headin' into Billings with a shotgun.”

“Those were my wilder days.” Marianne turned to her husband, who was only half listening. “Can you believe I was ever that wild, honey?”

Bill, Sr., a dubious honey at best, responded with a grunt in the negative.

“We were all born to be wild,” Patsy said, cheerfully resigning herself to Tate's rebuff. “That's how I look at it.” Then she sang it, pounding on the table for added emphasis. “'Course, if
I
was born to be wild, what about my kids? God, I
dread
having teenagers.”

“How many kids do you have?” Tate remembered hearing about one, but Patsy never talked about her children.

“Three. One for each of my two ex's, and one for this guy I used to work for. Thank God Sally's old enough to watch the other two once in a while.”

“How old is she?” He was asking for the kind of details he'd always considered none of his business.

“Eleven,” Patsy reported without the slightest show of emotion. “Almost twelve. Almost a teenager. Now
her
father was the one I should have kept around if I wanted to be
married, but back then the grass looked greener in my boss's bed. Which it was for a while. Then I met the guitar player.” She planted her elbow on the table and sank her chin into her hand. “One of these days I'm going to pack up and move to Denver.”

“You think you'd like the grass down there better?”

“I don't know. I've just always wanted to live in Denver. Mile-high pie and all that.”

“Denver's just like any other place,” Tate said as the server appeared with a tray of drinks. “Take my word for it.”

“The voice of experience,” Patsy quipped sarcastically.

“That's right.” Tate wanted to laugh, but he would be laughing
at
her, and he had no right. He was no better. In fact, she was his flip side. She had her experience, he had his.

“I suppose you've spent enough time there to really know.”

“As much as I've spent anywhere.” There was a dose of sympathy for each of them in his sad smile. “I really
do
know.”

“Then you're lucky,” Patsy insisted. “Do yourself a favor and don't settle down in any one spot for too long. Before you know it, things'll start to get sticky. You'll have all kinds of baggage and bills, ex-spouses and kids. That stickiness turns out to be glue, Tate. Before you know it—”

“For heaven's sake, Patsy, I try to fix you up with somebody, and you get morbid.” Marianne's laughter lightened the mood. “If you can't have a good time with Tate Harrison, then you're over the hill, because, according to my brother, Tate always did know how to have a good time.”

“I can vouch for Tate.” Patsy gave him a wistful smile. “Even though it's been a long time.”

“A long time for what?” Tate figured he could still party,
even if he wasn't interested in finding somebody to take him home. “We were dancing just a minute ago.”

“You're a great dancer.”

“Well, then, let's dance.” With a gallant flourish he assisted Patsy with her chair. “Let's just bop 'til we drop, and the hell with all the bills and the baggage.”

 

It didn't do him a damn bit of good to tear up the dance floor with Patsy Johnson Drexel. The way she kept crowding him made slow dancing impossible. He favored a heel-kicking “Cotton-Eyed Joe” or a twirling “Cowboy Two-Step.” When his eyes started playing tricks on him and blue-eyed Patsy suddenly went brown-eyed on him, he knew he was beyond dance-dizzy. He decided it was time to quit going through the motions and call it a night.

He was looking forward to falling into bed and spinning himself to sleep, although he realized as he shut off the pickup's engine that there wasn't much night left.

He found Amy standing in the middle of the kitchen, barefoot and dressed only in a pink cotton nightgown. She didn't seem to want to let go of the edge of the sink as she turned to him. Backlit by the light above the kitchen window, the curves of her fecund body made a lovely silhouette beneath the opaque gown. In that instant, Tate knew for certain that God was a woman. A man-God wouldn't have tortured him this way, like making him stand outside a bakery window during Lent.

“Are you just getting up, or just going to bed?” He didn't like the wounded-animal look in her eyes. He wanted to see fiery judgment, so he could say,
Back at you, baby.
But she just stood there while he hung his sheepskin jacket and his hat on the hooks in the back entry. “You weren't waiting up for me, were you?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. She turned away from him as she tightened her grip on the edge of the sink. “I wouldn't do a foo-fooooolish thinglikethat.”

“What's going on?” He crossed the floor in two strides and took her slight shoulders in his hands. “You okay?”

“I could use a top hand.” Her shoulders were shaking. She struggled with words and shallow breaths. “You know of one who's not too…too busy? Oh, dear…”

“It's not time yet, is it?” Her whole body went stiff as she nodded vigorously. He pried her hand away from the sink and draped her arm over his shoulder. “We gotta sit you down. You mean, now?”

She pressed her face against his neck and let him lower her into a chair. His mind was spinning. One thing at a time, he told himself. “You hold on. I'll get you some clothes. I'll get Jody.”

“I'm hoping he'll sleep.”

“Sleep?” This was no time to argue with her, but it was definitely time to take charge. “Amy, we can't leave him here alone.”

“I don't know about you, but I'm not going—” she held on to the seat of the chair as though she were preparing for a bumpy ride “—anywhere. Especially not with you driving.”

“I'm fine—wide-awake. I got home all right, didn't I?” Damn right, he was home.
Home,
where he was needed, where it was all up to him now. “I can get you to—”

Her shoulders started to shake again as she dropped her head back. Holy God in heaven, he couldn't take her out on the road like this. The thing was, he had to stay calm. He had to do something quick, and it had to be the right thing. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and the phone on the wall caught his eye.

“You're right, honey. We'll call someone to—Amy!” She
groaned softly and pressed the side of her face against his arm. He could feel her hurting. He felt like a powerless lump of male flesh, afraid to step away from her, scared to death not to.

“The first thing to do is get help.” He took a step, reached for the phone, pointed a finger at the dial. “Who to call, who to call, who's close, nobody's close…”

“Tate.” He hadn't heard her move, but she was leaning against his back now, her hands on his shoulders, just the way he had held her moments ago. “Tate, there's no one else right now. Just you.”

“You mean it's coming right
now?
We have to tell them to come.” He closed his eyes. His head was devoid of numbers. “Ambulance…police…”

“Right
here,
Tate.” She laid her cheek against his back. He hung up the phone and turned to take her in his arms. “Having the baby…right here, right—”

“Not on the kitchen floor, honey, let's get you—” He lifted her easily as the answers started to come to him. Make her comfortable first,
then
call. “Okay, let's get you to bed, and I'll call—”

“I've called…the midwife…I've been seeing for prenatal exams. Left a message.”

“Midwife? What is that, some sort of—”

“She'll be here.” He laid her on her bed, which she'd apparently prepared in advance with a rubberized sheet. He wasn't sure what to make of all this, or of Amy's soft babbling. “Soon. She'll be here. It came on so f-fassst.”

“What if…” A
midwife?
It sounded to him like something out of the Dark Ages. “I'm calling an ambulance.”

“No,” Amy insisted. She grabbed his arm and with amazing strength pulled him down close to her. “Now, listen to me,
Tate, there's no time, and women have been having babies since time began, and they don't…”

He shook his head and tried to pull away, but even as another contraction started, she was having none of his resistance. “I don't have any health insurance, and I don't want any more bills I can't p-p—” She held his arm while he looked on in terror, gripping her shoulders. When it was over, she smiled bravely. “That was a good one.”

“It didn't look good.”

“Think of it as pulling…as calving out a…no,
easier
than a first-calf heifer, Tate. I'm on my second.” Her eyes pleaded with him as she fought to control her breathing. “Tate, I'm afraid you're going to have to do this for me.”

“Not me, for God's sake, I'm just as—” Just as what? Scared? Stupid? Weak-kneed as a new foal was the way he felt, but he tried to return that brave smile of hers. He brushed her damp hair back from her forehead. “I don't know anything about this, honey. We need a doctor. Hell, if I make a mistake, you might sue me, like—”

“No, it's not funny. I have to be able to count on you. You have to deliver—”

“No, it's not safe. I might… Let me get you a doctor, honey. When the pain comes, let me just hold your hand until it—”

“Wash yours, damn it!” Then the pain seized her, along with all the anguish and frustration and anger that came with birthing. “Damn damn damn you, Tate! Look at me!”

“Hey, I wasn't anywhere near—” It didn't matter. The technicality wedged itself in his throat, and it occurred to him that there was no excuse for him. He was a man. Watching Amy suffer made him feel like a worm.

“I'm sorry, honey. I'm sorry.” He smoothed her hair back again, kissed her hot temple and whispered, “Kenny's sorry, too.”

“You smell like smoke—” She grabbed his hand and squeezed for all she was worth “—and beer, and you…and you…and you…”

“Shhhh, what can I do?”

“I don't wanna shhhh!”

“Yell, then, what can I do?”

“Oooh, oooh—” Pant. Pant. “I think you should wash your hands, and I put all the stuff Mrs…. midwife…” She waved her free hand toward the supplies she'd set out on a white towel on the dresser, then groaned. “Scissors and surgical thread…alcohol… Hurry, Tate, hurry—oooooh…”

Crossing the room in a single stride, Tate tore open his cuff and started rolling up his sleeve, but by the time he'd reached the bathroom sink, he'd stripped the shirt off entirely. He washed his hands and his arms up to his T-shirt sleeves. God help him, he was covered with germs and dirt and sin. He grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and doused his hands in it. They seemed relatively steady, even though he felt like he'd swallowed a cement mixer.

“Tate!” Amy called, straining to control her voice. And then, “Taaaate!” She screamed his name as though things were coming apart and he was supposed to be able to put them back together. Like pulling a calf?
Pulling?
Oh, God, why did she have to say
that?
He took a deep breath and a big step.

“Tate!” Eyes wild with terror, Jody stood in the middle of the hallway. “Tate, my mama! Don't let my mama die, Tate!”

“M
y mom can't die of this, can she?”

That had been Tate's question, too. Even in the best of times his stepfather had been a man of few words, but after his mother had gotten sick, no words had been forthcoming from Oakie Bain. No comfort. No counsel. Tate's questions went unanswered until the day Myron Olson's wife, Joan, had come to take him out of school. “Get your jacket,” Joan had said, and he'd stared at the denim thing hanging on a coat hook in the hallway. It hadn't been washed since his mother had gone away to the hospital.

He remembered the sound of Joan's boots clopping down the hallway toward Jesse's classroom. There was his answer, in the sound of a woman's retreating footsteps. Never again would he hear the quiet voice that had willingly given him what answers she'd had. No more would he see the light of approval in his mother's eyes. The terrible reality had fallen
over him like a weighted net. He'd felt hot-faced and sick to his stomach, and he'd barely made it to the boys' bathroom.

 

“Tate?” Jody's brown eyes were as big as basketballs.

Tate took a deep breath. “Your mom's having the baby. It's kinda like lambing. Have you seen a lamb get born?”

“Once,” Jody said. “But Mama's screamin' a lot worse than a ewe.”

“It hurts her pretty bad right now, but after the baby comes out, it'll stop hurting. It just takes a little while.”

He knelt like a supplicant before the boy, holding his arms out awkwardly. “We're going to help her. I'm going to keep the door open, and you're going to sit right outside in the hallway and be ready to run and get me something if I need it, okay?”

Jody nodded hesitantly.

“We can't shake on it, because I have to keep my hands real clean, so put your arms around my neck and give me a hug.” The little boy's arms gave him a shot of encouragement. His angel-hair curls clung to the stubble on Tate's jaw. “Thanks, partner.”

Amy's breathy pain-ride suddenly sounded less threatening. Clear-eyed confidence took a firm grip on his insides. She needed him, and he was there. The rest would follow in due course.

She was between contractions.

“Do we need to anchor your legs somehow?”

She grimaced and shook her head.

He offered her a sympathetic smile. “Is this it, then? You gonna take this lyin' down, boss lady?”

She nodded again and lifted her chin, returning a tightly drawn, stiff-upper-lipped expression. “There's hardly any letup
now.” Her voice was stretched thin. “The pains are so bad…won't let me have an-nnnnunhhhh…”

She gripped the brass rails of the headboard as she gathered her forces at her middle. Her stamina amazed him. Unable to touch her, Tate stood watch over her labor.

Anxious eyes peered at him from the dim hallway. Jody was sitting there tight-lipped, clutching his knees, trusting Tate to do whatever needed to be done. Amy rolled her head to the side and saw him there. “Oh, Jody…” Her voice was weak, but her tone took exception to the child's presence.

“Jody's lookin' out for you, too,” Tate said softly.

“But I don't want him to see me like thhhhhiii—”

Tate gave a nod. “Jody, I want you to stand guard right by the door, okay? Just like a soldier. And tell me if you hear anyone at the back door.”

“Mama, are you gonna die?”

“No!” She turned her head away. “Oh no, oh no, oh no…”

Tate nodded again, and Jody scrambled for his assigned post on the other side of the doorjamb.

“He's scared, honey.” He looked down into Amy's eyes, begging her indulgence. He knew she was up to it. He couldn't fathom the extent of her pain, but he could see how strong she was. “We can't shut him out. If you can just tell him you'll be okay…”

“I'm okay, Jody.” She was getting hoarse. “I'm okay, I'm okay I'm okay—” She closed her eyes through the next contraction. A gush of water flooded the bed beneath her hips.

“Tate, I think it's time for you to—” Amy pulled her nightgown over her distended belly and spread her knees apart “—check…things….”

This was no time for modesty, and no time for him to back down from a woman's invitation to get personal. Not
when a soggy thatch of baby hair was presenting itself at life's door. After the next contraction, Tate quickly swabbed Amy with rubbing alcohol. He'd barely managed to set the bottle aside when she gave a long, deep, terrible groan and pushed. Everything, including his eyes, widened. The tiny head was expelled.

“Good job, Amy!” He felt like a cheerleader in the playoffs—overstimulated and underuseful. “Can you do that again?”

“I can't
not
do it,” she barked between gasps. “I can't—ohhhhh…”

“Mama?”

“She's doing fine,” Tate said excitedly. His whole being was attuned to the sound of her doglike panting, the smell of life-producing blood and the sight of her body transforming itself in the most miraculous way. “You're doing great, honey. Just one more time.”

“Jody, don't…”

“Jody, run get me some more towels,” Tate ordered. Jody sprang from his post like a sprinter.

“Ohohohohoh…”

“And peek out the window to see if anyone's coming,” Tate called out.

The baby's head turned to the side. Tate cleared its mouth with his big forefinger. Amy whimpered a little as she braced herself for the next onslaught. Tate braced himself against the sound of her pain, which erupted with a fury this time as the baby whooshed into Tate's waiting hands like a tot on a water slide. She bawled the minute he caught her.

“A little girl!”

She was all pink and petite and perfect, and he was actually holding her in his own two hands. A squirming, wrinkled female connected to her mother by a coiled cord, like the
receiver on a telephone. Only
Tate
was the receiver. He bore the good news.

“Amy, she's here. Your little girl just made her debut.”

“Is she okay?”

“Can't you hear her?” Grinning from ear to ear, he put the slippery prize on Amy's belly. Amy lifted her head, trying to get a peek. Her face was pale and slick with sweat. He took her cool hand in his slippery one and guided it to the baby's head. “She sounds just like you. All pretty and mad.”

“Like me?” Chest heaving, Amy dropped her head back. “Not mad,” she gasped. “Hardly pretty. But strong. I did it.”

“Damn right, you did it. Hold on to her while I do the rest.”

He hoped he was doing it right. In some ways it wasn't so different from the nonhuman births he'd attended. His hands were rock steady, and his heart was singing like a meadowlark as he snipped the cord between tiny tourniquets he'd made of surgical thread. “You're on your own now, little girl.”

He was wrapping the baby in a white flannel blanket when Amy was seized by another contraction. All she had to do was point to the towels on the nightstand and he understood. They were a team now. He slid one towel in place beneath her, tucked the squalling bundle in the crook of his arm and massaged Amy's belly with the heel of his free hand. “You'll be all done in a New York minute, honey. Just one more good—”

“Awwwwfullll!”

“One more awful pain. God, I could never be a woman. You're amazing, Amy.” In both will and body, he thought as she expelled the afterbirth. He rubbed hard. Her belly felt like rubber on the outside and rock underneath. “You made a miracle. I saw it with my own eyes.”

The baby squawked angrily as Tate cradled her against his
chest. “That's right, little darlin'. Take charge, just like your mama.”

But it was Tate who was in charge. He folded the towel around the afterbirth and set it aside. Then he tucked another towel between Amy's legs and covered her with a sheet. She needed a moment to catch her breath.

“Tate?”

He turned, and Jody offered up several towels. “Thanks, partner. Look what we've got.” Jody lifted his chin for a peek. Tate chuckled, knowing the crinkled red face hardly met the little boy's expectations.

He sat on the bed and leaned close to Amy. “Soon as I get this little gal acquainted with her mother's face, maybe she won't be quite so…”

The bawling subsided to a whimper when Amy took the baby in her arms. Weary as she was, her pale face lit up like a firefly in a jar.

“That's better,” he said. “She wasn't expecting to see my fuzzy face first thing.”

“She's glad you were there,” Amy said, her eyes smiling up at him. “So am I.”

“I never thought I'd…” He shook his head as all words failed him. They looked so pretty together, triumphant mother and tiny daughter. Tate knew damn well he was blushing head to toe. “I'd better clean things up a little.”

“Things?”

“You and her.” He wasn't sure what to do for Amy now. He knew she might need stitches. The sooner he put in a call for medical help, the better. Then he was going to dispose of the contents of the towel….

“We have to save that,” Amy said, reading his intentions. Baffled, he figured the pain had taken its toll on her senses.
“It goes in the freezer downstairs, and then into the ground next spring when I plant the baby's tree.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“Jody has a tree. Don't you, Jody?” Jody nodded, gratified to hear his name. “Come here and say hello to your new sister. I'm fine now, see? I'm just fine.”

The back door opened, and a woman's voice called out, “Anybody home?”

“Mrs. Massey,” Amy explained.

The bespectacled woman appeared in the bedroom doorway. Curiously, Tate heard no great flood of relief in Amy's greeting. “You just missed it, Mrs. Massey.”

“I can see that.” The stocky, middle-aged woman took account, acknowledging Tate with a nod as she removed her red quilted jacket. “My, my, my. Did you steal my job away?”

“I hope I didn't do anything…I mean, I hope I didn't make any mistakes.”

“You didn't,” Amy said happily. “You were wonderful. I don't know what I would have done if—”

“I should have been here earlier.”

“I think that's my line,” Mrs. Massey said. “But there are some little details I can attend to. I'm going to scrub up while you put that floor lamp right there next to the bed.” She chucked Jody under the chin on her way back out the door. “What do you think, Jody? A brand-new baby. Isn't it fun?”

“Fun?” Hell of a way to spend Saturday night, Tate thought. Then he realized the sun had dawned somewhere along the line and it was actually Sunday morning. He shared a conspiratorial smile with Amy. “How are you feeling? Having fun yet? Can I bring you anything?”

“Mrs. Massey will tie up the loose ends, so to speak.”

“I tied one up myself.” He was grinning like a kid who'd hit a grand slam.

“Yes, you did. Thank you.”

“You sure have a hell of a way of soberin' a guy up, lady.” He couldn't understand how he could be steady as a rock and still feeling so high. “Both of you ladies. Look at her. She's sucking on her little hand.”

Amy's hand went to the buttons on her nightgown. “Maybe I ought to—”

“Before you do that, let me do my little job,” Mrs. Massey instructed as she swooped back into the room.

Tate leaned out of her way, but he was in no hurry to relinquish his post. He wasn't sure he liked the way the midwife took over on the baby, peeling the blanket back to scrutinize her.

“Oh, look at her color. Just what we like to see. Nothing old, nothing new, nothing borrowed, and especially nothing too blue.”

Mrs. Massey gave the baby her first test and announced that her score was outstanding. Tate's suspicions fell away as he suppressed the urge to applaud. The woman recognized a perfect kid when she saw one. He was surprised when she bundled the baby back up in the flannel blanket and handed her to him.

“Now, if you and Jody would like to clean the little one up a bit while I tend to Amy…”

“She's so little.” And she didn't want a bath. He could tell by the scrunched-up look in her face. “You mean just wash her with ordinary water?”

“Body temperature,” Mrs. Massey instructed. “Water will comfort her. You can handle it. You've done fine so far.”

He looked down at the tiny prunelike face nestled in the blanket, then glanced at Amy. She looked exhausted,
but she nodded, her eyes bright with approval. Even now it amazed him to think she trusted him to take the precious bundle in his big, clumsy hands and leave the room. Instead of pleading incompetence he heard himself promise, “I'll be real careful.”

“Jody knows where her clothes are,” Amy said. “Jody, remember which drawer has the baby clothes?” Jody bobbed his head. “Will you pick out a little shirt like the one Tate's wearing and a little tiny sleeper like yours?”

“And a baby diaper?”

“Yes.”

“And get the baby bath stuff?” He was out the door, sliding down the hallway on slick pajama feet. “I know where the baby bath stuff is, Tate. We have a baby towel, too.”

Tate followed him to the third bedroom, which had been decorated in white and soft pastels for the long-awaited occupant. Jody opened the third bureau drawer and took out a white sleeper with a row of pink lambs marching across the yoke. “This brand-new one,” he decided and held it up for Tate's review.

“Your mother will definitely approve.”

“And here's the shirt, and these baby pants to keep her clothes dry and a—”

“What do you think, Jody? I say we turn the heat up a little and treat her just like a newborn calf that maybe took a chill, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You're just lucky there was an experienced cowhand in the house tonight, baby girl. And a little broomstick cowboy in training.” He might have plopped a calf into the washtub downstairs, but he figured the kitchen sink would work better for this job. He closed the blind against the morning sunlight
streaming through the window. Too much shock for a little person fresh out of the womb.