A Certain Kind of Hero (29 page)

“But he plays around in my mom's tummy right now,” Jody disclosed as he followed Tate to the driver's side.

Tate pictured an unborn child “playing around” in a warm, dark, cozy haven. He smiled as he hoisted Jody into the pickup. “What does he play?”

“He kicks.” Jody scrambled over on the bench seat to make room for the driver. “Sometimes Mom says it feels like he's playing football. She lets me feel it, too. He kicked my nose once when I was just tryin' to talk to him in there.”

Tate was still smiling as he buckled Jody's seat belt.

“Next time I'll let you feel, too,” Jody offered magnanimously.

“Feel what?”

“The baby kicking.”

“Oh, well, your mom might, uh…” Let him put his hand on her belly? Yeah, right. But he was
still
smiling. “She might have something to say about that.”

“She'll let you. She always lets me.”

When they got back to the barn, they found Amy raking out stalls. Her long, chestnut-colored hair was clipped back at the nape, but bits of it had strayed over her face as she worked. She'd tossed Kenny's black parka aside and pushed up the sleeves of her pink sweater. She looked up when she heard them coming, then leaned on the rake handle as she pressed her free hand against the small of her back.

“Whew, I'm working up a sweat here.” She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “Lately it doesn't take much and I'm all in a sweat.”

“Go back in the house, Amy. I know where everything is, and I swear to you I've already got the hang of the routine down pat. Jody and me—” She wasn't listening. She'd slid her hand over her ripe, round belly and gotten a funny look on her face. “What's the matter?”

“Is he kickin' again, Mom?”

“
She
—” Amy put her hand under Jody's upturned chin and offered a motherly smile “—is going to be a Rockette. The little rascal is in top form today.”

“Where, where, where?” Jody jumped up and down like a pogo-stick rider until Amy took hold of his hand and placed it against the lower left side of her stomach. “Yow! Mom, that baby kicked me again,” Jody chirped. “Let Tate feel.”

Bubbling with excitement, Jody was puzzled by the sudden stillness. He looked up at one face, then the other, and he wondered at his power. He'd just created two awkwardly flash-frozen big people, staring dumbly at each other. “Come on, Tate wants to feel, dontcha, Tate?”

“Jody, my hands are pretty—” Tate looked down at hands
that might have belonged to someone else, as awkward as they suddenly felt. He flexed his fingers as though he were working out some stiffness in the joints. “They're too dirty and…too cold.”

“He won't know that,” the boy assured him with exaggerated patience. “He's inside Mom's tummy.” He claimed Tate's big, rugged, reluctant hand in his small but sure one. “Where do you feel it now, Mom?”

“Here,” Amy said softly. She leaned back against a short stack of square bales as she reached for Tate's hand.

Her skin felt like a firebrick against his. He tipped his hat back with one finger as he sought and found her permission in her soulful, brown, earth-mother eyes. He swallowed convulsively. She directed his hand, pressing it against her as though she were showing him where to find her most personal, most intimate secret. Her belly was harder than he had thought it would be, and wondrously round, like a perfect piece of fruit. He wanted to slip his hand under the sweater—damn pesky wool—and touch taut, smooth skin, but not in an invasive way. More like reverent. It was sure corny, but that was the way he felt. He'd almost forgotten what he was supposed to be feeling
for
until the little critter he couldn't see actually
moved
beneath his hand.

“Ho-ly…” Without thinking, he went down on one knee. As though he were gazing into a crystal ball, he focused his whole attention on this precious part of Amy, the part that held her baby, the part that she permitted
him
to hold in his two hands.

“Hey, Mom, there's Cinnamon Toast.” Jody pointed at the feline face peering down at them from the rafters. Neither Amy nor Tate flickered an eyelash. “C'mere, Cinnamon,” Jody coaxed as he headed up the ladder to the loft.

“Is that a foot?” Tate asked quietly, afraid he might scare
whatever was in there, whatever,
whoever,
seemed to be responding to his touch.

“What does it feel like to you?”

“Like somebody tryin' to fight his way out of a—” He looked into her eyes and gave a teasing half smile. “A balloon?”

“Tactful choice.”

“Does he do this all the time?”

“I think she's one of those children who loves to perform for an audience.”

“Jeez, she's really—” he moved his hand, following the movement within Amy “—goin' to town here. How long before she's supposed to make her appearance?”

“Three weeks. But you can give or take two. Jody was late. But, then, I know when this one got her start, almost to the hour.”

They shared a solemn look. Then an oppressive thought hit Tate like a cannonball. She was speaking of an hour he didn't want to think too much about, not just because it had been one of Kenny's last, but because…because he'd made himself stop thinking about the two of them in that way a long time ago, and he didn't want to start in again. He drew his hands away gradually as he rose from the straw-covered floor.

“Ken never knew,” Amy said.

“He knows now.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Sure.” He sought to put some distance between himself and the bone-melting experience he'd just had by remembering his friend the way he ought to have been remembering him. “I can't see him wearin' a halo or any of that kind of stuff, but I believe he's in a good place, and I think he'll be with you in spirit.” Her eyes took on a misty sheen, and her brave smile consecrated his amended efforts. Damn, he could talk nice
when he saw a need. “Especially when the baby's born,” he added. “I think he'll be there, come hell or high water.” He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “So to speak.”

“So to speak,” she echoed softly.

He nodded, and his eyes strayed to her distended belly again. “That's pretty amazing. I mean, you don't realize how amazing until you actually…” He extended his hand impulsively, then arrested the presumptuous move to touch her stomach once more, turning it into an empty-handed gesture. “That's pretty amazing.”

“You're blushing, Tate Harrison.” He glanced at her, then glanced away, shaking his head. “Yes, you are. You are as pink as—”

Tate chuckled, genuinely embarrassed.
Damn.
Where had this big, dumb cowboy come from? Hadn't he just been doing the silver-tongued knight like a seasoned pro?

“You look like a newborn with a five o'clock shadow.” She cupped his bristly cheek in her small hand. “
That
is pretty amazing.”

T
ate's plan was to get in a few chores before breakfast, but Amy had already foiled it three days running. The woman didn't know how to sleep in. He could have sworn it was still the middle of the night, but she had him waking up to the smell of coffee. Her time was getting close. Surely she needed more rest. Each time he heard those early-morning footsteps overhead, his first thought was,
Maybe this is it.

Nah, couldn't be. If anything serious had started, she wouldn't be fooling with the coffeepot at whatever the hell time it was. In order to see the time, he would have to turn the damn light on. He would find out soon enough. He dragged himself out of bed and felt his way to the bathroom door. Once he'd stood in the shower long enough to steam his eyes open, the smell of her coffee drew him up the steps to the kitchen table.

“Oh, did I wake you up?” Amy asked sweetly. “I'm sorry. I really was trying to be quiet.”

“You wanna be sneakin' around, you need a different pair of shoes,” he told her, his mood lightening gradually. Her hair hung over her shoulder in one thick braid. He liked her light floral, fresh-from-the-shower scent. He also liked the way their fingers touched when she handed him his coffee.

“Ken gave me these.” She lifted her foot and glanced down at the plastic heel on her slipper. “They're noisy?”

“Like Mr. Bojangles found a linoleum cloud in heaven.”

“I'm hardly that light on my feet,” she said with a laugh as she set a plate in front of him. “But see if these scrambled eggs are light and fluffy enough for you. How are you getting along with the dogs?”

“We're on speaking terms.” The eggs went down easy. With a wink and a nod, he told her so. “I tell 'em, ‘Speak,' and they say, ‘Grrr-ruff.' Kinda meanlike, so my guess is we're speaking about territory, and they're tellin' me this is theirs.”

“Don't take it personally. They didn't like Ken, either. Do you think you could bring the herd in by yourself?”

“You're talkin' to a professional cowboy here, ma'am.” He smiled as she joined him at the table. “Among other things. If I can work cows, I sure as hell don't need any help bringin' in the sheep.”

“Good. You'll bring them in, the dogs and I will sort them and we'll take the rest of the lambs to the sale barn tomorrow.”

“I can tell the big ones from the little ones, honey.
I'll
do the sorting.”

“The dogs do all the work.” She studied her coffee for a moment, and he waited for the second shoe to drop. “Tate, I know it's just an expression, but I think it would be better if you'd try not to use it, um…in this particular case.”

“What expression?” He was truly at a loss. If he'd said
a cuss word, it had slipped right out without him even hearing it.

“Honey.”

Honey
was bad? “Just an expression,” he agreed.

“Jody might hear it and get the wrong impression.”

“Which is—” he gave her the opening, but she left it to him to fill in the blank “—that maybe I like you some?”

“Some?”
Her indulgent smile rankled
some.
“Jody wouldn't understand that ‘honey' just means ‘female' to you.”

“So I should use the word
female?
” He tried it out. “I can tell the ewes from the lambs,
female?
Or should I say, I can tell the females from the kids? But kids are goats,” he amended with a boyish grin. Now that he was rolling, he had her rocking with laughter. “If I start calling the ewes ‘honey,' I want you to get me to a shrink, right away. Sign the commitment papers and tell 'em I'm crazy as a sheepherder.”

“Crazy as a pregnant
female
sheepherder?”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head slowly, enjoying the sparkle in her big brown eyes. “Just ‘crazy as a sheepherder.' It's a cowboy expression. You've got a
cowboy
workin' for you, lady. You can boss his hands, but not his mouth.”

“First
ma'am,
then
honey,
and now it's
lady.
I don't know.” Her laughter dwindled into a sigh. “They say cowboys are just naturally fickle.”

“Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em.”

“Can't resist 'em, either,” she mumbled, drowning the better part of the comment in her coffee cup.

“What was that?” Had he heard her right? With a quick shake of her head, she jumped up from the table, leaving him to guess whether his ears had lied to him.

He shrugged and let it go. “Anyway, what I was trying to say was, I've got a pretty good whistle on me. I can do the
sorting. I don't want you out there in those pens until you've calved out.”

She returned with the coffeepot and poured him a refill. “Wet your whistle with this, cowboy. You'll need it. It's hard to get the dogs to work for somebody they're not used to. They're my dogs, and they're my pens and I'm not a cripple. I'm just—”

“The mule-headedest woman I ever met. You can supervise, okay? Give orders.” His fork clattered on the plate as he took a swipe at his mouth with a paper napkin. “To the dogs, not me. You can tell me what to do, but not how to do it. I might be herdin' your damn sheep, but I've still got some pride left.”

“I never doubted that.” She smiled complacently as she claimed his empty plate.

He sighed. “So how many head are we sellin'?”

“I sold half the crop as spring lambs back in July, but the price wasn't nearly what I needed to get, so I've been holding off on the balance to put more weight on them.” She let her guard down and eyed him solemnly. “I'm running out of time, though.”

“They're not spring lambs anymore.”

“No, but they're still lambs. Nice ones. They're pretty and plump right now. I was betting on a friendlier fall market, but it hasn't improved much, and my bills need to be paid. I think I'll be able to meet them. I really think I will.” She was working hard to convince somebody, but he didn't think it was him.

“Did Ken have any insurance?” Tate asked. Without looking him in the eye, she shook her head. It surprised him a little, but he didn't let it show, because it would have embarrassed her.

“Insurance premiums aren't at the top of the priority list
when you've got your whole life ahead of you, and your whole life is tied up in this place.”

“Kenny inherited this place.”

“And we mortgaged it to stock it and buy equipment. The land and the house. That was Ken's share. The rest was up to him.” She slipped the plate into a sink full of soapy water. “When he married me, it was up to
us.
”

Tate snagged a toothpick from the little red container that stood next to the pepper shaker. “But he's gone now, and
us
adds up to you and a little—
two
little kids.” He slid his chair back from the table.

“It's the life I want for me and my two little kids. So I'm going to fight for it.”

“Then I guess I'd better saddle up and move some sheep.” He ambled over to the counter, thinking a toothpick was a poor substitute for a cigarette, but a guy had to make do. “Speaking of priority lists, I fixed the shower.”

“Already?”

“Didn't take a lot of study, just a little muscle. You tell me what needs doing, and I'll figure out how to do it.” He drained the last of his coffee before he handed her the mug. “But if you don't clue me in on the rest of your list, I'll have to come up with one on my own.”

“See if you can get the dogs to go with you.” She made it sound like a consolation of some kind. “Once you get them out in the pasture, they know what to do. Getting them to work the sheep in the pens takes a little more direction.”

 

See if you can get the dogs to go with you.
As if a sheepdog was going to be particular about keeping company with a cowboy. But when he let the two out of the kennel, they took off hell-bent-for-leather for the tall grass in the shelter belt. An explosive beating of pheasant wings promptly had them
yapping their fool heads off as a ring-necked cock sailed majestically out of reach, his coppery feathers stealing a glint of sunrise.

“Nice move, bird,” Tate said, turning a squint-eyed grin up to the sky. “To listen to
her
talk, you'd think these two sheepdogs had more brains than a cattleman.” He plucked the toothpick from the corner of his mouth and tucked his tongue against his teeth, but then thought better of giving a whistle so close to little Jody's bedroom window. He used the toothpick as a pointer. “Come on, you two, we've got work to do.”

All they did was play around. They chased each other around the shed while Tate gathered up his gear. They spooked the buckskin while Tate was trying to get him to take the bit. Damn horse was head-shy as it was. The rowels on Tate's spurs jingled as he gave a hop into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The dogs ran circles around him as he trotted past the yard-light pole.

“If you two mutts are goin' with me, you can stop actin' like jackrabbits any time now.”

“The collie's name is Duke, and the spotted bitch is Daisy,” Amy called out. “She's a Catahoula Leopard.”

Tate hadn't heard the door open, but there she was, waving to him from the back porch like he was some kind of explorer heading out to sea. “I can see that,” he called back.

“She's won two blue ribbons.”

“For what? Chasing cars?”

“They know their names.” As showy as the pheasant's feathers, Amy's rich chestnut hair trapped a red glint of sunlight. She gave another jaunty wave. “Just call them.”

He didn't need her advice on what to call them. “Come on, you fleabags. We're burnin' daylight.”

When he topped the rise, he looked back. The dogs had
treed some varmint, and their tongues were lolling in apparent expectation that the thing would fall out of the branches and land at their feet. One more chance was all they were going to get.

Tate popped a crisp whistle. “Daisy! Duke! Get your carcasses up here!”

And they came a-running.

 

The dogs had pushed the sheep along the draws without much coaxing from Tate, but it was a wonder to watch them work the pens for Amy. She whistled like nine different kinds of bird and used hand signals to let the dogs know which animals to drive where. All Tate and Jody had to do was mind the gates.

He still didn't like the idea of letting her get near any livestock so close to her time. Sheep had legs. They could kick. She was already getting kicked pretty good on the inside. When she paused to rub the side of her belly, he whacked the gate shut on the pen where he was working and started to go to her, but then she smiled. Another one of those little kicks. He clenched his fists to stop himself from going to her anyway and putting his hand where hers was. He liked feeling the movement inside her. It was sort of like having a new foal trust him enough to come close and nuzzle his palm, then stand still for a little friendly petting.

“What time are they sending the truck?”

“Five,” she told him. “I want to be at the sale barn when they're unloaded so that I can get them settled down and fed.”

“You're staying right here.” With a quick gesture he cut off her protest as he strode across the corral, closing in on her. “Look at you. You're all done in. If you wanna go to the sale tomorrow and have your remarkable business-lady wits about
you, you'll let me…” He heard footsteps tagging along behind him, at least three steps to his one. Without missing a beat, he scooped Jody up in his arms and patted the back pockets of his pint-size blue-jeans. “You'll let
Jody and me
take care of the grunt work tonight. Right, partner? You think we can handle it?”

Jody nodded vigorously.

“I'm not a business
lady.
I'm a business…”

“Person. Female. Female person. Give me a break, Amy. I got the remarkable part right, didn't I? And I'm just trying to give
you
a break.” As part of the effort, he held the gate open for her. “I suggest you take me up on it. It would be downright humiliating if you happened to collapse at the sale barn and I had to carry you out of there. I mean, what if I couldn't lift you?”

She laughed and shook her head as she headed for the house.

“Huh? What if I had to haul you out in a wheelbarrow?” Close on her heels, Tate gave Jody a male-conspiratory wink. “How much does a pregnant lady weigh, anyway? Pregnant
female,
pardon me.”

“I
do
think of myself as a lady, but not like, ‘Whoa, that's too much for you to handle,
little lady.
Better let a
man
take over for you.'”

“Did I say that? Hey, I've made my reputation as a top hand. You're a
sheep
rancher. You think I'd set my sights on takin' over for a sheep rancher? No, ma'am. Not this cowboy. I'll just be Miz Becker's hired hand, down on his luck and workin' for a dollar a day and board. Only way to hang on to my self-respect.”

“A dollar a day?” At the top of the back steps she turned to him, hands on her hips, and flashed a saucy smile. “When did I give you a raise?”

 

Amy's lambs did better than most, but prices were depressed. So was Amy. She didn't say a word on the way home from the auction. There wasn't much supper conversation, either, and anything coming from Amy was directed quietly at Jody. Tate felt like an interloper. He helped Jody clear the table. When the boy was told it was his bath time, Tate figured he'd been dismissed from the domestic scene. He went downstairs, flopped back on his bunk and played a few tunes he'd taught himself over the years on the harmonica he'd gotten from his dad. His
real
dad. He thought of him as Carter Harrison, the black-and-white photo phantom. Carter had played the harmonica, too. Sad songs, his mother had told him. Songs to fit his mood, like, “I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry.”