A Certain Kind of Hero (27 page)

She wouldn't let herself think about where the money had come from until after she had put Jody to bed and her feet up on two feather pillows and a hassock. It wouldn't have been so hard to sell Ken's saddle horse—especially that outlaw that had been the death of him—if the buyer hadn't turned out to be Tate Harrison. But there was probably some kind of poetic justice in it all. She'd never doubted that she would have to face Tate sooner or later.

In that first rush of confusion, the initial daze and the onslaught of questions and decisions, her first impulse had been to find Tate. It had been a foolish idea, and she'd rebuked whatever infirm hormone it was that had bombarded her brain with such a weak-kneed notion. She'd breathed the biggest sigh of relief of her life the day Tate Harrison had left Overo and all but removed his freewheeling influence from her husband's life. She didn't really know how to get hold of him, not easily, not on such short notice, and he probably wouldn't have been free to come. He would come home for a party, but for a funeral? She doubted it. Or rather, she elected to doubt it. It was simpler that way.

But, as fate would have it, she'd had to face him with her excuses right after he'd done his good deed. As if that weren't
bad enough, she'd had to deal with those
stupid
feelings again. Tate Harrison always made her feel a little unsteady, slightly unsafe, as though she'd pitched camp on a geological fault. He made her want to do things she shouldn't do, just the way he had Ken. There was a look in his eyes, a challenge to be as bold and as rash as he was.

Even in sorrow, he challenged her. It would have been easy to let herself go, to break down in his arms. That was probably exactly what he expected—what everyone expected. It was also exactly the kind of behavior in which Amy could ill afford to indulge herself. She had responsibilities.

It was late when she heard the pickup drive up. She turned in her chair just as the headlights played over the sheers in the front window. Someone was probably stopping to tell her that that damned west gate was open again. She sighed and hauled herself to her feet. The dogs were going nuts outside. She would show them; she'd put them to work. Thank God she had the dogs.

Amy turned the porch light on, then peeked out the window. The face that peered back was disturbingly familiar. The angles softened earlier by daylight looked harder in the shadows, the bristly stubble darker, the black eyes less forgiving and the full, firm lips less patient. It was not the kind of face one welcomed late at night. But she unlocked the door.

Tate felt like the third guy from the left in a police lineup as he stood there waiting. Frost was nipping at his nose while she was looking him over, being none too quick about opening the damn door.

“Oh, Tate.” She made his name sound like a protest against any and all surprises. “Come in. We've already eaten, and Jody's—” She shrank back, as though he were muscling his way into her cozy nest.

Feeling awkward and a bit oversize for the small entryway,
he stepped over the threshold, tucking his chin as he removed his hat.

“But I can heat something up for you,” she added tentatively.

“I didn't come for supper, exactly.” He fingered his Stetson's broad black brim. “I'm lookin' for a job.”

“A job?” She laughed nervously. Standing there in her dimly-lit kitchen, he looked for all the world like a hulking, humble cowboy. “Did you blow all your money on those horses?” She knew all about that little routine from Kenny. Tate had his foolish habits, but burdening himself with useless horses was not one of them.

“I've got money,” he assured her. “What I need is a place to stay for a while.”

“Try the motel.” She didn't mean to sound sarcastic, but the wounded expression on his face told her that it had come out that way.

“I've had a bellyful of motels.” He squared his shoulders and nodded toward the door that led to the basement. “You've got a room downstairs. You need a hired man.”

“I don't need—” she took a deep breath while his eyes dared her to effect a complete rejection “—a favor quite that big.”

“It won't be a favor. I'm not an easy keeper. I eat a lot and I, uh—” he glanced past her, surveying the homey kitchen “—use a lot of hot water.”

“I can't pay you much more than that.”

“All I'm askin' for is room and board.” He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and offered a lopsided grin. “And all the shells to the shotgun.”

“You heard about that.” With few exceptions, she'd always been good at setting people straight. Tate Harrison was one of the few she'd had trouble with. “That happened back in June.
I'm a little slower now, but you still won't get any further than he did, so don't—”

“You've got a belly sittin' out there as big as a four-way stop sign.” The amusement in his eyes faded. “That's all you need, Amy. A big red stop sign.”

Ah, so he remembered. Well, so did she. She'd never told Ken about the time Tate had made his move on her, partly because it had happened before they were married and mostly because she had handled it. There had never been a need to discuss the incident. It would have served no purpose other than to prove that she had been right about Tate. He, of course, had been wrong about her, and he'd admitted it. So maybe it wouldn't hurt to let him help out for a while. Nobody had ever suggested that Tate Harrison wasn't a hard worker when he wanted to be.

And from the spark that flashed in his eyes when she relented with a reluctant nod, he wanted to be.

“You're right. I need a hand,” she said. “One I can trust. As long as you have some free time…”

He read the question in her eyes. “I can spare as much as you need.”

“I promise you, Tate, I bounce back fast. I did with Jody.”

“Every time I laid over with you guys, even for a day or two, I felt like you were in a rush to kick me out.” It was an observation, not a complaint. “I'd try to get you both out of the house, take you out to supper or just honky-tonkin', and you always acted like I was—”

“Ken had responsibilities,” she reminded him, although it wasn't something she expected a confirmed bachelor like Tate to understand. She smiled. “If it's any comfort, it was nothing personal. You weren't the only rowdy sidekick I ever bitched out royally.”

“Admit it.” He gave her a sly wink. “I always got your best shot.”

“You earned it.”

“I'll get my gear.” He stepped back and put his hat back on. “First thing tomorrow morning, it'll give me a world of pleasure to run those flea-bitten bleaters off your land.”

“You mean the sheep?”

“Must be a hole in the fence somewhere,” he judged. “Either that or—”

“Oh, Tate.” There it was again.
Oh, Tate.
This time the coolness was missing. In fact, he'd apparently said something delightfully funny, which was fine with him. He liked the rich sound of her laughter and the way her belly bounced with it.

She touched her hand to her lips, then to his leather sleeve. “Those are
our
sheep, cowboy. You just hired on as a sheepherder.”

L
ong before Amy had become Ken's wife, Tate Harrison had been his best friend. She remembered the earlier days well, but not, she had to admit, without a certain small niggling of dissatisfaction with herself, a sense that she had been tested and found wanting. It was not the only time in her life that her behavior had come up short, of course, and it would surely not be the last. She was only human.

More irritating, though, was that little voice inside her head that always had the last say when she thought about those old bygones. Same voice, same taunting tone, always suggesting that she had also been
left
wanting. But the idea was perfectly foolish, absolutely irrational. Amy Becker was nothing if not prudent. She always had been, even back then….

 

From Glendive to Missoula, Tate's reputation as a heartbreaking hell-raiser had been legend. Amy had never been interested in men like Tate. She much preferred his friend
Ken Becker, whom she'd met when she'd worked at a bank in Billings. When she'd become the head bookkeeper at the small branch in Overo, Ken had come courting. He'd seemed to think his role as bronc rider Tate Harrison's shadow was his best calling card. “We're gonna watch ol' Tate buck one out, and then we'll party,” he would say.

It was hard to convince Ken that the best date he could plan with her was a picnic atop one of the beautiful red clay bluffs on his ranch east of the Absaroka foothills. He hadn't been running the place very long, and his goals for his ranching business seemed a bit scattered. But he'd been born to the business, she thought almost enviously. He was the third generation of Becker cattlemen on Becker land. He had the kind of roots Amy craved, and he needed her. She liked that. He was as impressed with her good sense as he was with her good figure. She liked that, too.

Tate Harrison, on the other hand, never seemed to meet a woman who didn't impress him somehow. But it never lasted long. Too often, Amy's dates with Ken would start out as a threesome, and then Tate would pick up a fourth somewhere along the way. Usually it was some empty-headed buckle bunny who couldn't smile prettily and carry on a conversation at the same time, so she would quickly give up on the latter.

The worst of that ilk was Patsy Johnson. Unfortunately, she lasted the longest. She loved to play with the buttons on his shirt and sip on his beer. She never wanted a cigarette of her own, but she was always taking a puff off Tate's. Whenever she did it, she always glanced at Amy, as if to say,
What's his is mine.
As if Amy cared. Amy wasn't interested in Tate's buttons. She didn't like beer. She didn't smoke. Ken had virtually quit, too, except when he was around Tate. In fact, the whole two-stepping, partner-swinging honky-tonk scene
seemed to revolve around Tate, and Amy's little bottom simply wasn't comfortable on a bar stool.

One night she decided she'd had it with the rowdy cowboy-bar scene, where the soft drinks were too expensive, the music too loud and the women too cute. Ken and his friends were absolutely right; she did not know how to have a good time, and she didn't want to interfere with theirs. She made a trip to the ladies' room, then put in a phone call to solve her transportation problem. Enough of this noise, she told herself as she hung up the phone.

“Did you just call for a ride?”

Tate's voice startled her. Her heartbeat skipped into overdrive, and she had to remind herself that he wasn't catching her doing anything underhanded, which was almost the way she felt.

“Yes, I did,” she said calmly as she turned to find him standing too close for comfort in the narrow hallway. The bare overhead light bulb cast his face in sharp light and deep shadows, playing up its chiseled angles. The knowing look in his eyes was unsettling. She was glad she had genuine justification, even if she didn't owe him any. “I have a headache.”

“Does Kenny know?”

“He seems to be having an especially good time.” Ken knew how to enjoy himself, which was part of what made him so likable, and when he was drinking, he enjoyed himself beyond Amy's ability to keep up. “And we came with you tonight, so I called—”

“Did he do something?” Amy shook her head quickly, and Tate laid his hand on his own chest. “Did
I
do something? I said something wrong,” he supposed in all sincerity. “If it was that little joke about women in tight pants, I'm sorry. It didn't apply to you. I've never seen you wear—”

“It has nothing to do with anything you said. I just can't…” It seemed strange, but she felt as though she could level with him, now that it was just the two of them. He was looking at her intently, as though he were concerned about the fact that she felt so out of place sitting at a table with ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts and an accumulation of empty beer bottles. “I'm not very good at this kind of thing.” She gave a helpless gesture, the kind she generally scorned. “The loud music, the smoke…sometimes it gives me a headache, that's all.”

“All you have to do is say something, and we'll—”

“No, just let me—” She touched her fingertips to her throbbing temple. “I don't want to break up the party. I just want to go home.”

“Come on.” He put one hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the side door as he shoved his other hand in his pocket. She shook her head, trying to demur, but he cut her off. “No, I'll take you. It's no trouble.”

“But I've already called—”

“I'll take care of it. Kenny's sister, right?” She nodded.

Reassuring her with a light squeeze of his hand, he signaled the woman who'd been waiting on their table. “Jeri, honey, call Marianne and tell her Amy found another ride. And tell Kenny I'll be back in half an hour, that Amy's okay, but she needs to get home right away.” He glanced at their empty table as he tucked some money into Jeri's hand. Kenny and Patsy had taken to the dance floor.

Tate put Amy in his pickup and headed across town to the small house she'd rented. It was tiny, but it was the first real house she'd ever lived in. She'd had her own apartment in Billings, and before that she'd lived in apartments and trailer homes with her family. She'd always wanted a real house.

“It's a relief to breathe fresh air,” she told Tate. It was
also a surprise to her to hear herself confiding, “I feel like a fifth wheel sometimes, especially when Ken has too much to drink.” Too quickly she added, “Which he doesn't, usually.”

“Well, I'm driving tonight, so Ken doesn't have to worry about having himself a good time.”

She didn't understand their definition of having a good time, especially when it was bound to turn into a hangover by morning. “He's beyond the point where it would do any good to ask him to call it a night.”

“Did you try?”

“‘Just one more,' he said.”

“Kenny's crazy about you, you know.” He seemed to think he'd offered some great revelation, and he paused to let it sink in before he added, “He's making a lot of big plans. Not that it's any of my business.”

“It is your business.” Her tone betrayed her resentment. “Whatever his plans are, you'll know all about them before I do.”

“We go back a long way, Kenny and me. A guy's gotta talk things out with a close buddy sometimes, especially when he's not too sure what's gonna happen.” He dropped his hand and downshifted for a right turn. “He's afraid you'll turn him down.” He kept his eyes on the road ahead, shifted again and surprised her by adding, “I'm afraid you won't.”

“You think I'd spoil all the fun?” she asked scornfully, but Tate said nothing as he pulled over in front of her house. “There's more to life than rodeos and smoke-filled bars. If that's all you want, then fine, but I think Ken needs—”

“You're probably just what Kenny needs.” Tate shut off the ignition, draped his left arm over the steering wheel and turned to her. “But he's not the kind of man you need. Deep down, I think you know that.”

“He's a wonderful man,” Amy insisted, reflexively bristling
in Ken's defense. “He has a good sense of humor and the kindest heart and the gentlest nature of any man I've ever—” she paused and lifted her chin, defying the smile that tugged at the corner of Tate's mouth, for her concluding word came all too quietly “—met.”

“You're right about that. Kenny's a nice guy.” He laid his right arm along the top of the seat and touched her shoulder lightly. “You'll walk all over him. And he'll let you do it, because when you're done, he'll just pick himself up and do as he pleases. He'll do all that nice-guy stuff he likes to do, the stuff that never amounts to anything and never gets him anywhere. And you'll cover for him, which means he'll be walkin' all over you in his nice-guy way.” In the dim light his eyes were completely overshadowed by the brim of his black cowboy hat, but she could feel them studying her. “Is that what you want?” he asked.

She answered tightly. “That's not the way it would be.”

“Like I said, Kenny and me…” He shoved his hat back with his thumb and stretched lazily. “We go back a long, long way.”

“You said you thought he was crazy about me.”

“I
know
he's crazy about you. I know what Kenny thinks long before
he
does.” He chuckled. “It won't take you very long to achieve that skill. You're probably halfway there already.”

“With friends like you, he certainly doesn't need any enemies.”

“I am his friend. I'd back him in the devil's own ambush, and he'd do the same for me.” He glanced past the windshield at a pair of oncoming headlights. The car cruised by, and Tate shook his head, smiling wistfully. “But if I was a woman, I sure as hell wouldn't wanna be married to him.”

“You wouldn't want to be married to anyone. That's why
you go out with women like Patsy Johnson, who'll sit there and rub your thigh while she giggles at every word you say, whether it's supposed to be funny or not. She doesn't expect you to marry her.”

“What does she expect?”

“You know what she expects,” Amy snapped.

Tate chuckled. “Which part bothers you most? I don't like to be laughed at when I'm not joking, and when I am, you usually laugh, too. So you've got no reason to be jealous there.”

“Jealous!”

“But it's hard to resist a woman who's got her hand on your thigh.” His amused tone rankled almost as much as his male complacency. “'Specially if you've got no good reason to.” He slid closer. “If you wanted to, you could give me a good reason to resist Patsy or any other woman.”

“Why would I want to do that?” She knew what a dumb question it was. Dumber still was her willingness to sit still for the answer.

“Because you wanna be the one rubbin' my thigh.”

He was smiling, looking just about as irresistible as any man who'd ever donned a Stetson, and she was melting like ice cream in July. She imagined slapping her own cheek to wake herself up, but it was more fascinating to watch him take off his hat and balance it between the dashboard and the steering wheel.

“You know this for a fact?” she asked, fully realizing that this banter was part of the game and she was just taking her silly turn.

“Sure do.” He took her shoulders in his hands and turned her to him. “And you want me to be the one takin' you home, because you know damn well you'd never have to ask me twice.”

He slowly pulled her close, challenging her to deny the truth in his claim, refusing to let her gaze stray from his. He'd brought her home, hadn't he? The house was only a few yards away, and she was still sitting there. She wanted his kiss, didn't she? When he brushed his palm against the side of her face and slid his fingers into her hair, she knew he was giving her all the time she needed to say otherwise. She couldn't. She parted her lips, but no words would come.

He hooked one arm around her shoulders, lowered his head and kissed her, softly at first, then more insistently, pressing for her response. Her mouth yielded to his as her breath fluttered wildly in her chest. His tongue touched hers like a sportsman testing the direction of the wind. Ah, yes, he seemed to say, that's the way of it, and he turned his head to try another angle.

She liked the sweet whiskey taste of him and the woody scent of his after-shave. His slim waist seemed a good place to put her hand. Her touch was his signal to draw her closer and kiss her harder. He rubbed her back with the heels of his hands, relaxing her, melting her spine, vertebra by vertebra. Then he slipped his hand between their bodies, cupping one breast in his palm while he insinuated his fingertips past her V-neck blouse and stroked the soft swell of its twin. Both nipples tightened in response.

She leaned into his embrace and answered his tongue's probing with the flickerings of hers. She wanted to be closer still. She wanted to feel his hand inside her blouse, skin against warm skin. She wanted to let him guide her, let him show her the way to lose herself in her own senses. Slowly she slid her hand up his long, hard back, up to his shoulder, where she gripped him as though she were teetering and needed support. He groaned, and his kiss became more urgent, more hungry.

“Let's go inside,” he whispered.

“Oh, Tate.” She wanted to. But making a move required her to open her eyes and realize that she was in the arms of a man who was more than attractive, far beyond adequate and a notch past willing. He was ready to meet her demands, but he would have his own ideas, as well. And he was not Ken.

Ken. The man she was supposed to be with tonight.

“Oh my God. No, Tate, this is all wrong.” And it suddenly scared the hell out of her.

Her reluctance didn't seem to surprise him. “It'll be all right once you get it straight in your mind what you really want,” he said evenly.