A Certain Kind of Hero (38 page)

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.” He gave a long, hollow sigh. “I remember it like it
was last night's dream. Real vivid, you know, but just beyond your grasp. Just past the point where you can turn it around and shake it up and make some sense out of it. All you can do is let it play itself out. You open your mouth to scream, and nothing comes out. You watch yourself slam on the brake, and you see the look on Oakie's face, and he's waving his arms. Is he saying go forward? Go back? And you get that awful, sick feeling all over again when you realize your brother's under the tire.”

He saw it all again in slow motion, for the umpteen-hundredth time. His hands were shaking, foiling his attempts to make the throttle work, to find the gear that would change the course of more than the tractor. He didn't see Oakie coming, and suddenly he was trying to turn a fall into a jump, then scrabbling out of the way. That was when he glimpsed Jesse's brown hair, and the outstretched hand, and the blood, just before he buried his own face in the alfalfa stubble and tasted dirt and bile and tears.

He felt untouchable, the way he always felt when he remembered, the way he had felt that day. He remembered thinking they would put him in jail, which was where he belonged. But instead, the sheriff had asked Oakie all the questions, sparing Tate a glance once in a while as Oakie had given the awful answers. “Is that right, son?” the sheriff kept saying. Tate didn't know; he'd just stared at his useless hands and nodded. His whole worthless body had gone numb. And no one had tried to touch him then.

But Amy touched him now. He wasn't sure what had happened to his drink, or what he'd said last. Suddenly Amy was holding both of his hands. He hated the way they were shaking. “One minute he was playing with a spotted pup Oakie had given him,” Tate said distantly. “The next he was underneath the damn tire.”

She bowed her head and pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. “You saw him, didn't you?” she whispered. “You found him broken and bleeding, the same way…”

The same way Kenny had been when she'd found him. Another shared intimacy. They knew the same nightmares.

“It wasn't your fault, Tate.”

“How do you know?”

“You were only twelve years old,” she reminded him. “Still a child yourself. You didn't kill your brother. It was a terrible—”

“Accident,” he recited. “Tragic accident, horrible accident. I hate the word. It grates on my ears like somebody grinding his teeth.” He watched the fire. “The sheriff said it was an accident. The neighbors, when they brought over their hot dishes and offered to help with the chores, they called it an accident. Oakie didn't say much of anything, not for a long time. Kids from school said, ‘Sorry about what happened, Tate' and that was that. Nobody talked about it much after we buried Jesse. Or if they did, they talked around it.”

“It's always in the back of your mind when you farm,” Amy said quietly as she rubbed her thumbs over the backs of his hands. “You like to think it's a good way to raise kids. And it is. You want them to take part in the work because it builds character, and they learn so much.”

She closed her eyes, and a lone tear slipped down her cheek. She shifted a little, hoping he hadn't seen it. “But there are the accidents. They happen, Tate. They happen more often than most people want to realize. They happen with adults at the controls. You were only—”

“A boy?” He shook his head. “I was doing a man's job. I was expected to act like a man. Stand up like a man. Own up to my mistakes like a man, meaning you don't make excuses
and you keep your blubbering to yourself.” He was quoting now, almost verbatim.

“You weren't allowed to—”

“Cry? No way. Not unless I wanted Oakie to, uh—” He recalled his stepfather's favorite warning. “Give me something to cry about. The only person I ever talked to about it was Kenny, and that was only after I'd had a few drinks, like now.” Still staring into the fire, he gave a humorless smile. “Ol' Kenny and me, we learned to act like men. Drank and smoked like men. Cussed and scrapped it out like men. Chased us some girls and had us some women, just like real men.”

With a groan she tried to be subtle about drying her cheek on her own shoulder. “Now you're beginning to sound like the other Tate.”

“What other Tate?” He took her chin in his hand and made her look at him. “There is only one Tate Harrison.”

“Maybe so.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “But he has an outside and an inside.”

“Just like everybody else.” He found the dampness on her cheek with his finger.

“You've worked hard at toughening up the outside. You've done a better job than anyone I know. But when the chips are down, you always come through. You'd go out drinking, and Kenny was always the one who got plastered. You were the one who brought him home. You were always watching out for him.”

His mouth quirked slightly as the knowing smile flashed in his eyes. “Hornin' in on your territory?”

“He was my husband.”

“Kenny had his head in the clouds most of the time, but he didn't worry much since he had us both watchin' out for him.” He raised one brow. “Trouble is, he got away from us
one night. And you've been thinkin' you should've gotten to him sooner, while I've been thinkin' I should've been here.”

“Crazy, isn't it?”

“It'll drive you crazy. Believe me, I know.”

“I want Jody to be…different. I don't want him to
act
like a man. I want him to
be
a man. Independent. Responsible.”

“Like his mom?” She was all set to take exception, but he laid a finger against her lips. “Relax a little. Let him be a boy first. I told you about Jesse because…” The name came hard, as always, but this time he had Amy's hand in his, and her acceptance. “Because of Jody.”

Which wasn't the whole of it, and she knew that as well as he did, but it was easier to advocate for the boy. “He watches you with the baby,” he said, remembering, looking down at their clasped hands, now lying in her lap. “I told him how the baby wasn't going to be much fun for a while, and he's trying hard to understand all that, but he needs—” She looked up, and he looked into her eyes and said almost inaudibly, “He needs you to hold him.”

“I can do that,” she said gently. He leaned closer, and she put her arms around him and laid her cheek against his chest.

A man's need to touch a woman was a given, but the need to be touched by her was something else. He felt the need so strongly, he was almost afraid to return the gesture, afraid he would give himself away.

They wouldn't touch him. He'd done an awful thing, and nobody wanted to touch him.

“This isn't what I learned about acting like a man,” he said as he slid his arms around her. He closed his eyes and nestled his face in her hair. “Hangin' on to you for dear life like this.”

“Is that what you're doing?”

He didn't think he could hold her close enough, but she found a way to surround him with more warmth than the fire in the hearth radiated. He breathed deeply of the sweet strawberry-and-smoke scent of her. “I feel like the kid who got lost in the woods. It sure was dark out there.”

“Could you use a kiss, too?”

“Not the kind you'd give to a kid.”

She slid her fingers into his thick hair and pulled his face down to hers, kissing him as hungrily, as greedily, as fervently, as he'd ever been kissed. He'd never wanted anything more desperately than he craved her touch right now, but not if he had to ask. And he didn't. Suddenly her hands were all over him under the robe, caressing his hair-spattered chest, his shoulders, his flat nipples. He sucked in a deep breath and offered her access to his belly. He was on his way to heaven when she touched him there.

He untied the sash and drew the robe back, trying to shrug out of it without changing her course. “This thing smells like somebody else, Amy.” Her fingertips curled into his waist, and she went still. He dropped his head back against the sofa. “Is that what you want?” he demanded quietly. “You want me to be somebody else?”

“No.” She pressed her forehead against his chest and breathed soft words on his skin. “God help me, no.”

“I want you so bad. You know that, don't you?” She nodded against him. “But I'm not Kenny. I don't own a robe and slippers. I don't wear pajamas. I'm not—” He couldn't be, not even if he had the heart to try, and she had to accept that. “I don't ever want you to call me by the wrong name.”

She sighed. “Tate, I know who you are.” She lifted her head and met his gaze. “I'm beginning to, anyway. You're the man who delivered my baby, the man who fixed my son's broomstick horse, the man who—”

He touched his finger to her lips. He didn't want her gratitude. “I want to make love to you.”

“It's too soon.”

“Because of the baby?” He searched the depths of her eyes for her answer. “Or because of Kenny?”

“Both,” she admitted. She closed her eyes against the disappointment she saw in his. “Both.”

He nodded and withdrew.

“That doesn't mean we can't give each other—” She extended her hand to him quickly, then closed it on a second thought. “I started to say ‘what
we've
been giving.' But you've been giving, and I've been taking.”

“It hasn't been easy, has it?” She looked at him, perplexed. “Taking help from Tate Harrison.”

“Oh, Tate,” she said as she took him back in her arms.

It had been
too
easy. Too quickly she had come to rely on him. Too readily she had let him lay claim to a too-large piece of her heart. She'd made it all too obvious. She hugged him, but she gave him no more of an answer. At least she could try not to show him
how
readily and
how
easily and
how
much.

He kissed the top of her hair and held her close. “It hasn't been easy givin' it, either.”

T
hanksgiving seemed to creep up overnight, but it did not pass without a traditional dinner. Tate was invited to carve the turkey and sit at the head of the table. He obliged. Even though he hardly considered himself a jack of the turkey-carving trade, he figured it out without asking for any pointers. Sitting in Kenny's chair at feast time felt a lot like wearing Kenny's robe and slippers, which Tate had quietly returned to the bedroom closet and never worn again. The prospect of an opportunity to play Santa Claus would have held considerable appeal except for the idea of filling someone else's boots again. Tate had his own boots. They were broken in nicely and fitted him just fine.

Amy hadn't been into town since the horse sale. The roads were icy, and she was glad when Tate volunteered to drive her in for the requisite six-week checkup. She had to take Jody along for a throat culture, and he and the baby were both fussy. The waiting room at the rural clinic was packed with
whining children and cranky mothers. Tate excused himself to do some errands and promised to meet Amy and the kids at the Big Cup Café, two doors down the street.

It bothered her to find him sitting at a booth with her sister-in-law and Patsy Drexel. Marianne was working her way through a club sandwich, and Tate and Patsy were sharing a laugh and a cigarette. She was just passing it back to him, and he was about to take a drag when he saw Amy. One quick puff and, to his credit, he put it out before she brought the children to the table.

Patsy eyed the ashtray regretfully, as though she hadn't gotten her fill. Too bad, Amy thought.

“You guys ready for lunch?” Tate tipped his hat back and smiled. “I've been waitin' to order.”

Amy shook her head. “We can wait 'til we get home. I have plenty of—”

“Mom, can I have a hamburger?” Jody pleaded.

“You can sit right up here with me and have anything you want, partner.” Tate reached over the backrest and nabbed a booster seat from the empty booth on the other side. “We're too hungry to wait, aren't we? How's your throat?”

“They stuck a stick down it.” Jody demonstrated with his forefinger. “Yech!”

“What you need is a big, fat hamburger and maybe some hot—” Tate glanced at Amy “—soup? Some orange juice?”

A little late to be asking my opinion, Amy thought. Jody had already scrambled into the booster seat, which Tate had pulled close to his side. She sighed and nodded, eyeing the remaining space on the horn of the half-moon booth. “Whatever he orders will be hard for him to swallow, and it's coming out of your wages, Harrison.”

“That's all right,” he said, chuckling as he signaled waitress
Madge Jensen. “I've been meaning to suggest a pay cut, anyway. The seconds are killing my boyish figure.”

Marianne offered to hold the baby, and Patsy spared the bundle a cursory glance as Amy wearily took a seat. She felt as though she'd just been to the doctor for anemia and he'd prescribed leeches. The bill—like all bills these days—had been higher than she'd expected. It worried her that she hadn't been able to pay it in full. She needed the cup of tea Tate suggested. She
wanted
the lunch he offered that she wouldn't have to prepare herself.

“We need anything from the store?” Tate asked.

The question surprised her. Tate had been picking up milk and eggs when he went to town, and he knew how well stocked her freezer and pantry were with her own produce. Now that she was doing the cooking again, she made everything from scratch. No more canned soup.

“Thought maybe I could take you grocery shopping.” He sipped his coffee, then offered a teasing grin. “Wouldn't that be fun?”

Compared to what? Amy wondered. Delivering babies? All the fun things he could do with Patsy?

“I don't have my coupons with me.” She glared at him.
How do you like that for mundane?

“Amy and her coupons.” Marianne chortled. “Bill, Sr., never had to bother with coupons and weekly specials until Amy moved in and started talking it up. But since our store is a franchise…” She smiled sweetly. “Well, we went along with it, so everything's up-to-date in Overo now. I just don't see where you find the time to mess with all that stuff, Amy. Clipping coupons and watching for bargains.”

“I'm organized,” Amy said dryly. A quick glance at Tate forced her to add, “Usually. And I don't buy what I don't need.”

“What do you need for lunch?” Tate's nod turned her attention to the waitress, who was standing near Amy's shoulder, pencil and pad ready.

“Just a glass of water, please, Madge.”

“You are the stubbornest woman I've ever known,” Tate grumbled under his breath after he and Jody had put in their orders.

“I'll have to agree with that,” Marianne put in. “Have you given any more thought to having a geological survey done? Tobart Mining is still interested.”

Tate tucked his cigarettes into his jacket pocket. “They've approached me, too.”

“What are
you
going to do?” Marianne asked.

“I don't know.” He picked up his coffee cup. “I've been thinking about selling out altogether. If I do, I guess I'll hang on to the mineral rights.”

“So in a year or two I'm likely to be looking at a strip mine right down the road,” Amy surmised with blatant disgust.

“Just because you let them take core samples doesn't mean you're asking for strip mining.”

“Really?” The look she gave him was cold enough to freeze beer. “What do you think they'll find in our basin, Tate? Gold nuggets?”

“Well, there could be oil, natural gas. There could be a lot of things.” He dismissed the possibilities with a disinterested shrug. “They reclaim the land.”

“We're ranchers.” Amy turned to her husband's sister. “That was all Ken ever wanted. A working ranch.”

“I think you mean a working
wife,
” Marianne said. She shifted the baby to her shoulder. “Ranches don't work.
People
work. And you work too hard, Amy.”

That was her choice. “Your father left Ken his land and you his money.”
Mine gave me a strong back.

“I also own half the mineral rights.”

“Which are useless to you unless I agree to exploration. The land is Ken's legacy to his children,” Amy said firmly. “It won't be mined. Now, can we talk about something else, please?” She offered a tight smile as Madge appeared with coffee refills. “I believe I will have a cup of tea and a BLT, Madge. Are you ready for Christmas, Marianne? How about you, Patsy? Have you done all your shopping?”

“I've done some,” Patsy drawled. She glanced Tate's way and sighed. “Seems like I'm always shopping around.”

 

Amy had turned the heat down before she left, and the house was cold. Almost as chilly as the attitude she had given him since they'd left the café, Tate thought. It couldn't have been over the comment about stopping at the store. Hadn't she been the one wishing aloud for some fresh fruit just the other day? Besides apples, she'd said. She had apples in the pantry.

He wasn't just sure what he'd done, but he figured it had to do with Patsy Drexel. If that were the case, he could afford to feel a little smug, considering his innocence. He went about his business, feeding the livestock, mending a hasp on one of the gates and sneaking his morning's purchases down to his room when everyone was napping. He was feeling pretty damned organized, too, now that he'd done some Christmas shopping. He'd never wrapped a Christmas present in his life, and he'd thought about leaving the stuff with Marianne or Patsy, along with a hint that he hadn't used a pair of scissors since he was in grade school. But he'd missed his chance.

The gun cabinet had obviously been one of Kenny's places for secreting things. Since Amy hadn't disturbed Kenny's whiskey stash or checked the guns, Tate took the cabinet to be property left untended, now that its owner was gone. It
wouldn't hold everything he'd bought, but there was plenty of room for the things he didn't want Amy to find. He heard her footsteps on the stairs just in time to shut the door and lock it.

“Another drink to warm up?”

He didn't know why the question stung him. He'd thought about it himself, actually, but he'd changed his mind. He didn't like the way she was standing in the shadows at the foot of the stairs and looking at him like he was some kid who ought to know better. Maybe he'd just change his mind back again.

She wagged her head and sighed disgustedly. “Ken always thought he was so clever. If you insist on having it in the house, you might as well keep it in the kitchen and use a glass.”

“What's left from Ken's stock
is
in the kitchen. I just needed a place to stash a few things under lock and key.” Working hard to keep his cool, he bounced the key in his hand for her benefit. “The lock doesn't do much good with the key sittin' right in it.”

Slowly she walked over to the gun cabinet, stared at the glass door for a moment, then ran her hand over the carved molding. “It's been a slow process, dealing with Ken's things—his drawers, his side of the closet, his boxes and boxes of keepsakes. He never threw anything away.” Her hand dropped to her side. “I haven't gotten to this yet, but the guns aren't loaded.”

“The .22 pistol had two rounds in the clip.”

“Oh, Ken.” She drew a deep breath and cast her glance heavenward. “Why were you always so…?” With a quick shake of her head, she took the blame herself. “I should have thought to check. I should have been more careful.”

“Everything's unloaded now. If you don't have any use for them, you could probably get a good price for some of them. Maybe keep one around for—”

“They're Jody's.” She folded her arms and turned away from the cabinet. “They will be when he's old enough. Some of them belonged to Ken's father. One was his grandfather's.” She stepped closer to Tate, distancing herself from the Becker family heirlooms. “Otherwise, I wouldn't have them around.”

He wondered whether she'd ever told Kenny any of this. He remembered that the cabinet itself had been in Kenny's family forever, as had the love of guns. Tate owned a couple of hunting rifles, too. He figured most guys did.

“Out here alone, you've got predators to worry about, maybe prowlers.” No surprise to her, he thought. If Kenny had been good for nothing else, he'd been capable of protecting what was his. “If you don't know how to use a gun, I can sure teach you.”

“You're going to sell your land, aren't you, Tate?” The question came out of left field. He missed the catch, so she pitched her charge again. “You're just going to sell out to the highest bidder.”

Was she kidding? For years the bidding had been closed to anyone but Kenny. “I've only kept it this long because Kenny wanted it. When you guys dropped the lease, I kinda figured—”

“It's been in your family. It belonged to your father.”

“Yeah, well, he died young because he worked too damn hard. He had a bad heart. This is no life for a man with a weak heart.” He thought better of adding,
Or a woman with two little kids.
“That's about all I know about him, too. He died when I was even younger than Jody.”

Damn, he was at it again, spilling personal history like a leaky washtub.

“Jody won't remember much about his father, either, but he'll have the home his father left him.”

“Forever and ever, amen?”

“A home is important.” She jabbed his shirt button with her forefinger. “Roots, Tate. Roots are important. They give you a strong sense of who you are.”

“You have a strong sense of who
you
are.” He closed his hand around hers. “You've only lived here since you married Kenny. Where are your roots?”

“They're here. They grew fast, once they had fertile ground.”

“Like the tree you fed from your own womb?” He didn't realize he was going to take her shoulders in his hands until he felt their slightness. “Aren't you afraid this land might suck the life right out of you, maybe through those roots you put down?”

“No,” she said, standing her ground without pushing him away, as he might have expected. “I've brought new life here. I've made a home. A permanent home. You sold your family's house, and now you're going to sell the land it sat on.”

“I don't have any use for it.”

“They'll rape it, Tate. The speculators, the investors, the miners. They'll strip it down and violate it.”

A caustic comeback sprang to the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite spit it out. He couldn't accuse her of being melodramatic, not with that look on her face and the image that the word
rape
brought to his mind. It was more than a risk to the land. It was a threat to Amy, to her power to make life flourish, to the essence of her femininity. In her eyes he revisited her pain and her triumph in the moment she'd given birth.

“You want it?” he demanded flippantly. The life force burned so strongly in her eyes that he was forced to turn away. “Take it,” he said, his bravado deflating. “Christmas present, free and clear. I'll sign over the title.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she tossed back.

He turned like a cornered gunfighter, the words piercing him as sharply as any bullet could have. “You've said that to me before, Amy. Remember?”
Remember the night I drove you home? You made your choice that night.
“‘Don't be ridiculous, Tate.'”

She stared, frowning slightly, trying to dredge up some recollection of the details in her mind. Clearly it wasn't an easy task for her. Maybe it wasn't much of a memory for anybody but Tate.

“There was no way I was gonna hang around this town after you married Kenny and set up your
permanent
housekeeping with him.
That
would have been ridiculous.”