A Certain Kind of Hero (37 page)

“He remembers the last time I called the sheriff,” she said absently. She was staring. Tate's chest seemed so much bigger now that it was bare.

“So now he knows it doesn't always end up like that.” He unbuckled his belt and gave her a crooked smile. “You wanna stick around and wash my back?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep…” It wasn't easy to tear her eyes away. “I want to get some hot food in you, and this is one time I wish I had some liquor in the house.”

She supposed she had that sinister-sounding chuckle coming.

He supposed turnabout chest-ogling was fair play.

“I think there's a bottle downstairs with a genie named Jack inside who could grant you that wish.” His favorite brand. He hadn't brought it in, but she didn't need to know that. He figured Kenny had left it right where Tate would find it, in a
drawer in the gun cabinet, alongside the liniment and the Ace bandages.

“Then we'll break the seal and let the genie out.” She waltzed out the door, adding cheerfully, “For medicinal purposes, of course.”

“Of course.”

The water burned like hell at first, even though he knew it wasn't that hot. But he closed his eyes and rubbed it over him, letting it do its work. He didn't see any sign of frostbite, which was good, but restoring his circulation was a painful process.

“Tate?” It was Amy's voice, calling out just above a whisper. “I brought you something to put on. Ken's things. Is that okay?”

“Sure. The door's unlocked.” He slid the shower door closed. “There. I'm behind glass. Just set it inside.”

But she came into the room. “I found your genie, too.”

“The one in the gun cabinet?”

“You and Ken must think alike. I mean, the two of you must
have thought
…”

“Like two pups in a basket, in some ways.” Through the opaque glass he could see her, an obscure shape in a white robe, hanging some sort of reddish stuff on a hook on the back of the door. “Maybe we're still on the same wavelength. I knew right where to look.”

“So did I.” She gave a small laugh as she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

After he toweled off, he debated with himself about putting his own clothes back on. It bothered him that the maroon terry-cloth robe smelled like somebody else's shaving lotion. And plaid flannel pajamas. He never wore pajamas. He figured for the sake of decency he ought to put on the pants, but the hell with that shirt. He couldn't believe Kenny had worn such
a thing to bed. The sheepskin slippers were pretty dudish, too, but they were warm.

Tate tied the belt on the robe and checked himself out in the mirror. He needed a shave, but his razor was downstairs, and he didn't want to use the shaving cream in the medicine cabinet. He didn't like the smell of that, either. It wasn't his brand.

He shuffled into the kitchen and enjoyed having Amy wait on him at such a late hour. Beef stew and homemade bread warmed his shivering insides. Her robe was similar to his—or Kenny's—but hers was long and white. He wanted her to sit down with him without having to ask her to, but she kept bouncing in and out of the room.

Then he heard a crackling sound in the living room, and he turned to find her standing in the doorway and looking strangely hesitant. “Would you like to sit by the fire for a while?”

“Not alone.”

“No.” She watched him wash his soup bowl. “I'll have to feed the baby soon anyway.”

He glanced at the clock.

“A couple of hours,” she amended.

“A shot of whiskey and a warm fire would do me just fine, then.”

He pushed the sofa closer to the fire. She poured him a shot of whiskey. She even warmed it over a flame before she handed it to him. “Dr. Jack,” he said as he raised his glass to the fire.

“Was there water in the stock tank?” she wondered as she joined him on the sofa.

“I ran the pump.”

“And how about the barn? And did you open the door to the shed in the far pen, in case—”

“I opened the door.”

“I should have put fresh straw—”

“I put down fresh straw.” He glanced askance at her. She was back to testing him. “I took care of it, Amy.”

“I wasn't sure you'd think of—”

“I damn near froze my tail off getting your sheep back to the fold, lady. You think I'm gonna leave the job half done?”

“No.”

She turned quietly to watch the fire, and he watched the firelight burnish her face while the flames danced in her eyes. He sipped his drink and toyed with the thought of going to bed with her. Not seducing her. Just getting up off the sofa when the time came and going to bed with her, as if he were her man.

“You think nobody else can do it quite as good as Amy can,” he observed flatly.

“I couldn't have…” The words got stuck in her throat.

“Go on.” He waited, then coaxed with a gesture. “You couldn't have what?”

“Well, I probably couldn't have—”

“Uh-uh, it was better the other way.” He smiled, enjoying her struggle. “Come on, now, I worked hard for this.”

“I couldn't have done any better myself.”

“Damn right you couldn't have. I froze my—”

“I know, and I do appreciate that special sacrifice.”

“I fed them and watered them and tucked them in for the night. I was gonna sing to them, but they said not to bother. They'd heard enough of that on the way home. On the way
back.
” He drained his glass, and she poured him a refill in what he figured to be her bottom-line show of appreciation. “Hell, I don't even like sheep, and here I am, treatin' 'em like—”

“Children?”

“Cattle.” He had half a mind to push his luck and light up a cigarette. “I'm a cowboy, remember?”

“I remember.” She set the bottle on the hearth and studied it for a moment. “And I remember how I used to treat you after I married Ken.”

“You always invited me to stay for supper. I always knew I could bunk in here for a night or two as long as I wasn't raisin' any hell.” He smiled, remembering. “If Kenny and me went out and tied one on, I knew better than to set foot in your kitchen. I didn't blame you for that.”

“You always saw that he got home.”

“This was where he belonged. He had somebody waitin' for him.”

“In most ways he was a very good husband. He didn't spend much time in the bars, except…”

“Except when I was around. Right?” She didn't have to answer. She was still staring at the bottle. “You know why married women are always tryin' to fix the single guys up and get 'em married off?” She shook her head. “They think their husbands envy our freedom. And maybe they do sometimes.”

“They probably do.”

“But it works both ways. We envy them, too, sometimes. Like when it's time to go home.” He laid his arm along the back of the sofa and leaned closer, changing his mind about the cigarette. He liked the fresh scent of her hair. “How come you never tried to fix me up with somebody, Amy? Why weren't you introducing me to your sister? 'Fraid I'd ruin her?”

“My sister is older,” she said evasively. “She was already married.”

“A friend, then. Somebody just like you.”

“It wouldn't be fair. You only want a home
sometimes,
Tate. Like when you're cold and tired.”

He wasn't listening. “You don't have any friends just like you.” He touched the softly curling ends of her hair. “There aren't any more like you, Amy. I've looked.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Where?”

“Church socials. PTA meetings. Choir concerts.”

“Don't you mean truck stops, rodeos and bars?”

He grinned lazily. “Don't tell me I'm lookin' for love in the wrong places.”

“Don't tell me you're looking for love.”

“Just lookin' for comfort tonight,” he said lightly. “A warm fire and a hot meal.” He sipped his whiskey, thinking maybe there was some kind of love to be found somewhere in the whole combination.

The baby's soft cry from the back room made him smile again. “Sounds like I'm not the only one.” He caught Amy's hand as she started away. “You comin' back?”

“I'll bring her in here.”

He poured himself another drink, resettled himself on the sofa and watched the sparks sail up the flue while he waited.

“I had to change her completely,” Amy explained when she came back with the baby. “She was soaked through.”

“Thought maybe you'd gone shy on me and decided to stay in the bedroom.”

Baring her breast, she held his gaze with eyes that said she kept her promises. She'd promised to sit next to him while he warmed himself with fire and whiskey. And now she warmed him with a special intimacy.

“I like to watch you feed her. I haven't spent much time around babies. Or mothers feeding babies this way.” He set
his glass down and leaned over Amy's shoulder to watch the busy little mouth. “Not human mothers, anyway.”

A feeling of possessiveness surged through him, and he wanted to physically become a shelter around this little family so that he could keep it safe from the cold night. He cupped his big weather-roughened hand over the baby's tiny head. Her downy hair felt precious and delicate against his palm. He remembered his first glimpse of it, what a wet, sticky, welcome and glorious sight the top of this little head had been, and it occurred to him that he'd put the cart before the horse. He had never made love to Amy, but in a sense he'd given her this child. He hadn't planted the seed, but he'd delivered the baby into her arms.

Little Karen drank herself to sleep, which was what Tate thought he would do, right there in front of the fire, after Amy took the baby back to bed. But Amy came back and sat beside him, as though it were her place. He tried not to think about the fact that he was wearing Kenny's robe, which smelled like Kenny's after-shave.

“You have a wonderful way with Jody,” she told him. “I don't know whether I've mentioned that.”

“No, you haven't.”

“You seem to know all the right things to say. He's had to grow up a lot these past few months. He's been my strong little man.”

“He still needs time to be your little boy. I'm not sayin' you don't do right by him, because you do. And you've had a lot on your mind. It's just that—” He shook his head. He knew he had to be half-shot if he was coming up with advice about raising kids. But she was looking at him as though she thought
he
thought she'd done something wrong, so he had to explain. “Sometimes when you get a new baby in the house,
the older kid gets to feelin' like a milk bucket sittin' under a he-goat.”

“While the mean old nanny—”

“Now, I didn't say that at all.” He drew a deep breath and sighed. “And I don't wanna be buttin' into your business. I especially don't wanna be buttin' heads with you right now. I might crack.”

“So enough about goats?”

“Enough about goats,” he agreed. He dropped his hand on his thigh and rubbed his palm against the terry cloth. “I've got no right to talk, anyway, after the way I got after the little fella the day I was unloading hay.”

Amy touched the back of his hand. “How old were you when your mother died, Tate?”

“Ten.” He wasn't sure where that question had come from, but her touch would be his undoing. He could tell that right now. “She had some kind of routine surgery—gall bladder, I think—and there were complications. But I was almost grown. It wasn't like Jody, losing his dad before he even had a chance to—”

“Ten is hardly almost grown.”

“When you live on a ranch, it is. The gospel according to Oakie Bain says that twelve is old enough to do a man's work.” He turned his palm to hers, and their fingers seemed to lace together of their own accord. “All I'm saying is, just don't rush it. It'll happen soon enough. Once you give him a man's responsibilities, he won't be a boy anymore. And there's no such thing as a
little
man.”

“You had a younger brother, didn't you?” He turned his face to the fire. “Ken told me.”

“He told you what happened?”

“He said that your brother was killed in a farm accident
when he was quite young. That's what you're thinking about, isn't it?”

“I'm talking about Jody.” He tried to shrug it off. “Just making a simple observation. Take a look at it, or leave it alone.”

“I'll take a hard look at it, Tate. It's a lot more than a simple observation.” She paused, but it was too late to step back. “What was his name?”

“Jesse.” His voice became distant, alien, drifting in desolation. “My brother's name was Jesse. Half brother. Oakie was his father, not mine.” That was enough, he told himself. She'd only asked for his name. But his mouth wouldn't be still. “Jesse was only nine years old. By anybody's standards, that's still a boy.”

“What happened?”

“I backed over him with the tractor.” Damn the whiskey and damn his thick tongue. “Ran a 4020 just like yours right over his…right over him.” He heard the catch in her breath. She didn't need any more details. “I figured Kenny must've told you the whole story.”

“No.” She squeezed his hand, and he could feel the pressure in the pit of his stomach. “Can
you
tell me?”

“I just did. I killed him. That's all she wrote.”

“But it was an accident,” she assured him softly.

“It was a crazed tractor,” he countered. “One like you read about in a horror novel.” With a look, she questioned his judgment. He studied the contents of his glass as he recalled some of his best recriminations. “Or else it could have been a booby trap that some prowler set to trip Jesse up. Or an earthquake sort of threw us both off balance. Anything but an accident. Accidents happen when people get careless.”