A Certain Kind of Hero (36 page)

Okay, so maybe his wits had left camp temporarily, but he figured he could count on the witnesses to keep his secret.

“I have a feeling you can hear me tonight, Kenny. Either that, or I'm talkin' to myself. Or a bunch of dumb sheep.”

Amazing how close the big ewe's bleating resembled laughter.

“What's that, you big pile of wool? You're sayin' I'm the one who's lost? Hell, I know where I am. I'm back in Montana. Big Sky Country.” He lifted his eyes to the diamond-studded,
black velvet sky. “I hope. It damn sure ain't heaven if Tate Harrison's allowed in, right, buddy?”

Tate read his answer in the distant glow of Amy's yard light. He managed a stiff-lipped grin. “But it's likely as close as I'll ever come.”

“M
om, where's Tate?”

Amy turned from the window. “He's bringing the sheep in, Jody.” But the pens were still empty, the west gate was still closed and there was nothing stirring on the snow-covered hill above it. “He's out in the pasture, rounding up the sheep.”

Jody was satisfied with Amy's answer for all of ten minutes, which was the time it took her to cut up vegetables for the stew she was planning for supper.

“Mom, when's Tate coming back?”

“Soon, Jody. He'll be back soon now.” She glanced out the window again, this time noting the rosy streaks in the western sky. Sundown had a way of sneaking up on a person this time of year.

Not five minutes later Jody's broomstick horse was dragging its tail on the kitchen floor again. “Mom, what's taking Tate so—”

“I don't know!”

The moment the words were out, Amy regretted her tone. Jody's big eyes displayed the same kind of worry she'd been trying so hard to disown. He came to her and put his little arms around her hips, not looking for a hug, but offering one. She dropped to his eye level and took him in her arms.

“Tate rides really good,” Jody assured her. “He hardly ever gets bucked off when he rides saddle bronc.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He showed me one of his buckles. They're like prizes you get for winning in rodeos. Tate rides
real
good.”

So did your father. Horses were his life.

“You don't have to worry, Mom.”

“You don't, either.” She raked her fingers through the polka-dot horse's new mane. “Daisy and Duke aren't used to Tate, so he probably can't get them to work for him as fast as they do for me.” The explanation sounded good. It even made sense.

It even made Amy herself actually smile. “Tate may be good with horses, but your mom is the dog expert around here.” She gave Jody another good squeeze. “Of course, if he had the common sense of a good sheepherder, he'd take them the long way, which would take him safely along the highway. We could drive out a little ways and take a look.”

Taking a look was better than sitting around worrying, Amy decided. She bundled up the children and drove her pickup several miles down the two-lane road, but there was no sign of sheep, dogs or horseman. Still nothing to worry about, she told Jody. If Tate was trying to get back before dark, he had to cut across the pasture. In that case, they wouldn't have been able to see him from the highway. But it was getting dark. When the dogs came back on their own, Amy called the sheriff.

“Miz Becker, it ain't all that cold out yet, and it ain't all that late,” Sheriff Jim Katz told her over the phone.

Amy snorted disgustedly. When it got to be thirty below in the dead of winter, she would have to remember to ask the sheriff if it was cold enough for him yet.

“Man's got a job to do, y'gotta give him time to do it, Miz Becker.”

“How long is that, Sheriff?” One glance at Jody's anxious face reminded her to curb the bitterness that burned the tip of her tongue. For the moment, anyway.

“I'd say ol' Tate oughta have them sheep penned up by eight and be warmin' up his innards at the Jackalope not long after. Once you start callin' the bars, if you can't track him down by midnight, you give me another call.”

“Midnight. I'll make a note of that, Sheriff. Thank you.”

“I understand you bein' touchy, Miz Becker. You've had more'n your share. But you gotta understand, I can't send out a search party every time a man rides out in his pasture.”

“It's mostly my pasture, and it's dark and Tate's not familiar with—”

“Tate Harrison knows his way around, Miz Becker.” Katz chuckled. “Give him a little more time. Then give a holler over to the Jackalope.”

Amy wasn't tracking
anybody
down at the Jackalope. Men never took anything seriously until the situation was long past serious. She went about her business, and feeding her children came first. Twice during supper she jumped up from the table to check on the noise she thought she'd heard outside.

After she cleaned up the dishes she congratulated herself for getting the laundry done during the off-peak hours when electricity rates were cheaper. She left the baskets of folded clothes downstairs, thinking she would ask Tate to carry them up. Not that she couldn't lift them herself, she mused as she glanced out the window for the fifteenth time, but knowing Tate, she would be in for a reprimand if he caught her at it.
He would tell her it was too soon for her to be hauling heavy loads up the stairs.

She was the perfect image of calm, repeatedly reassuring Jody as she bathed both children. After she'd put them to bed, she showered and dressed for bed herself, even though she fully intended to keep vigil. She turned the lights out so she could see through the window, but nothing stirred in the bright circle cast by the yard light. Nothing—absolutely nothing. She folded her arms on the back of the sofa, rested her head in the nest they made and kept watch out the side window.

 

The yard light was a homing beacon, but Tate was disappointed to see that the house was dark. Not even a light left on in the kitchen. The vehicles were all lined up in a row, present and accounted for. No one was looking for him. That was a relief, of course. It didn't make any sense to take the kids out on a cold night and drive around looking when she wouldn't have had a prayer of finding him, anyway. Not on the trail he'd taken. He had half a mind to backtrack tomorrow and see just where in hell he'd been.

He got the sheep bedded down and his horse rubbed down. Outlaw deserved that and then some for getting him home—getting him
back,
back to the house. When he'd first seen that yard light, he'd really felt as though he'd found his way home. He'd had to remind himself that it was the Becker place. Just a house. Just a dark house, where everybody was tucked up in bed, nice and cozy the way they ought to be.

Amy sat bolt upright when the back door opened. Somehow she had let herself doze off, lost track of time, neglected her fretting. She sprang to her feet, but she managed to affect some measure of composure by the time she reached the kitchen. “Tate?”

There he stood in the shadows just inside the door. He
was safe. He was home at last. He was unscathed, breathing normally, filling her kitchen doorway with his broad shoulders and the fresh scent of a winter's night.

He glanced up from pulling his gloves off. “You still up?”

“I've been waiting, but I guess I dozed off.” She crossed the cold floor on bare feet, stopping short of arm's reach. “Did you have trouble?”

“Damn dogs wouldn't listen to me,” he complained. She could tell his lips were stiff. “Other than that…I kinda got lost. Whole countryside's crusted over with snow. Looks like a huge white lake. You try to set your course, and just when you think you've got yourself lined out, you cross your own tracks. Pretty soon you start talkin' to yourself, tryin' to keep your brain from wanderin' away from camp.”

Now that he was inside, his teeth had started chattering. “I brought 'em all back, though.” He fumbled with the buttons on his sheepskin coat. “Every last bleatin' one of 'em. I counted.”

“Let me help you.” Her heart pounded out a jubilant rhythm as she took over the job of undoing his buttons. “Are your fingers…?”

“A little stiff, is all.”

She pushed his jacket off his shoulders, then reached up to take his hat, then the scarf he'd tied under it. “How about your ears?”

He groaned when she put her hands over them. She knew the shock of her warmth must hurt, but he stood still for her inspection. There was even an indulgent smile in his voice. “They're still there.”

“Oh, but so cold, and your cheeks…” Vulnerable places, all. She cupped her palms over his cheeks. If she turned on the light, would she find a healthy flame in his skin, or dark
discoloration? She could feel his body shaking. Hers joined in, whether from relief or panic, she didn't know.

He put his hands over hers, sandwiching her warmth and pressing it to his face. She ached sympathetically with the stiffness in his hands.

“I don't know if I can get my boots off without a crowbar. My feet have turned to ice.”

“I'll take them off. Sit here.” She dragged a chair back from the table. The offer seemed to surprise him, but he complied, raising one leg so she could get a grip on his boot heel. “Can you wiggle your foot just a little?”

“Sorry, ma'am. 'Fraid I'm plumb out of wiggle.”

“Okay, then, just hold still while I—” She turned her back, straddled his leg and tugged. His foot was forced to bend as the boot came loose, and he sucked his breath quickly between his teeth with the pain.

“If it hurts, you're starting to thaw,” she said as she stepped over one leg and on to the next.

“I'm thawing, then. Hungry, too. Anything left from supper?”

“I'm going to fix you something, and it's also my turn to fill the tub for you, and I want to make sure…”

When the second boot came off, she found herself sitting on his knee. He settled his hands over her hips, and she looked at him over her shoulder. It was her turn to be surprised.

He grinned. “Why are we sittin' in the dark?”

Smiling shyly, she felt like a child sitting on Santa's knee. Partly uneasy, but mostly delighted. “Because I was watching out the window.”

“I thought you'd gone to bed.” He toyed with the white sash of her robe, tugging, turning her toward him. “The house was dark, so I thought…”

“I didn't know what to do. I took the kids and drove up
the road. I called the sheriff, but he said to give you…to wait a while, to…” She closed her eyes as he touched her cheek. “Oh, Tate, your hands are still so cold.”

“Your face is warm.”

“I wasn't sure—”

His arms encircled her, and his kiss put an end to uncertainty. He was there, in the flesh. She touched his face, his ears, his neck, hoping to transfer her warmth to his chilled skin. But his lips were warm. His embrace tightened as he tilted his head for a new angle, for better access to her lips and the recesses of her mouth. She welcomed his tongue's gentle onslaught. She was more than glad to have him home.

She tucked her hands into the open neck of his flannel work shirt and smoothed them over cool combed cotton. He had the neck and shoulder muscles of a breeding stud. The feel of him thrilled her, and when he broke the kiss, she knew he could read that weakness in her eyes. He could hear it in every fluttery breath she took.

She traced his collarbones with her thumbs. “Just a plain T-shirt instead of long johns, Tate? What were you thinking?”

“It started out to be a nice….” He closed his eyes, and his mighty shoulders quivered beneath her hands. “Oh, God, Amy, if you wanna undress me all the way…my fingers are still pretty stiff.”

It would hardly be a difficult task, she thought. She could easily warm his body with hers. She could readily banish the chill from his bones and ease whatever stiffness plagued him. It was so good to have him safe in her arms that it was hard to remember any doubts she'd ever had about holding him close.

About trying to hold him at all.

“Let me start the water.” She got up quickly and pulled him
out of the chair. “We need to get you into some warm water right away.”

“I think I'm gonna like this part.”

“It's all part of thawing out. How do you like it so far?” It was impossible to interpret his low groan, so she tackled another subject. “Jody was awfully worried. He couldn't help thinking about what happened to Ken, you know? And he kept asking and asking, ‘Where's Tate?'”

She turned the hall light on. He blinked and squinted like a man who'd just awakened.

“I'll go in and tell him I'm back. Would it be okay to wake him up?”

“I think it would be a good idea. I made him go to bed, but if he's asleep, he's probably not
sound
asleep, because there's that—” She touched his sleeve, pressed her lips together briefly and nodded. “That worry.”

Tate nodded stiffly. She wanted to say what he wanted to hear, what she had not quite managed to claim—that it was her worry, too. He turned on his sock-clad heel and made his way down the hall. She listened for the low creaking sound she identified with Jody's door. Even with the bathwater running, she was able to tune in to their voices—one small and high, the other deep and comforting. Tears stung her eyes. She wiped them away quickly and made herself busy. Busyness kept sentimentality at bay.

“You were right,” Tate said when he returned from his mission. “He was awake. I think I lost a few points with him when I told him I got lost. He says if Santa Claus brings him a real horse this year, he's goin' with me next time, because he knows the way home.” He smiled as he tackled his shirt buttons. “I think that's a hint.”

“I've heard it before. That broomstick is the only kind of horse Santa Claus is ever dropping down
this
chimney.” She
hand-tested the temperature of the water. “I'm surprised he didn't pounce on you the minute you walked in.”

“He heard us whispering, and he couldn't make out who it was. He was afraid to come out and see.” He pulled his shirttail free of his jeans. “Sometimes a little kid gets scared when he hears adults whispering. He's afraid something bad has happened.” He shrugged as he unbuttoned his cuffs. “Or he
knows
something bad has happened, and he's afraid of what might come next.”

“You're still talking about Jody?” she asked carefully. She remembered Ken telling her that Tate had lost his mother when he was a boy, but she knew nothing about the circumstances.

“Sure, Jody. Or any little guy.” He shed the plaid flannel shirt and whisked his T-shirt over his head. “He thought maybe the sheriff was here.”