A Certain Kind of Hero (28 page)

“I want a home. I want a family.” Pulling back from him wasn't easy, so she resorted to the kind of ammunition she knew would scare a man like Tate off. “I want love first and then…and
then
sex. Ken—”

It was the name that did it. Tate's shoulders sagged a little as his embrace slackened. Amy closed her eyes and fought the urge to close her hands around his retreating arms before they got away completely. She had to say it again quickly. She had to
hear
it again. “
Ken
and I don't…”

“That's not something we talk over, whether you do or you don't. I'm not interested in hearing any of that,” he snapped as he closed his hand around her left wrist and lifted her hand in front of her own face. “You're not wearing his ring. That's all I need to know.”

 

Six months later Tate had known all he'd needed to. He'd carried the small gold band to the altar in his breast pocket, then turned it over to his best friend. He'd witnessed their vows, stood by while they were sealed with a kiss, even put his signature on the official documents. Amy wondered if his participation was Tate's way of backing Ken in “the devil's
own ambush.” He had kissed the bride properly in his turn and waltzed her once around the Overo Community Hall dance floor. It was the one time Amy could remember that Tate had left the party early—and alone.

 

On the first morning after he'd talked himself into the lowest-paying job he'd ever had, Tate was lured up the basement stairs by the commingling aromas of bacon and coffee. It had been a long time since he'd been up before the roosters, but he wanted to get started on the right foot with his new boss. He took it as a good sign when she glanced up from the big iron skillet and greeted him with a bright smile, never missing a beat as she turned a row of flapjacks, golden brown side up. It pleased him that she remembered his breakfast preferences.

“Sheep, huh?” He smiled back as he poured himself a cup of strong black coffee.

“Sheep.”

“How many head?”

“Three hundred. And they pay the bills.” The metal spatula scraped lightly against the skillet as she started dishing out the pancakes. “I can handle sheep, whereas I wasn't much help with the cattle.”

“And cattle were the best excuse Kenny could think of for keeping horses around.” Tate took a seat at the kitchen table.

“He really just wanted to raise horses, which would have been fine if—”

“If they'd paid the bills.”

“Exactly.” She wasn't fussy. She intended to keep her home intact. She would raise earthworms if the price were right. “Ken and I made a deal two years ago when he was beginning
to realize that my little herd of sheep was more profitable than his whole—”

“You're a better businessperson than Kenny was,” Tate said, cutting to the crux of the matter. “Did he ever realize
that
somewhere along the line?”

“Yes, he did. We all have our talents. Anyway, I agreed to the horses, and he agreed to the sheep. We got out of the cattle business.”

“Sheep.” The traditional bane of the cattleman. Not that Tate was in a position to care all that much, since he didn't own any cattle anymore, just a parcel of land, and it didn't appear that she'd used it to graze sheep. The damn woollies could crop the grass down halfway to China if a stockman didn't use a good rotation plan.

But here he was, offering his personal services, which would mean personal contact. He preferred the smell of cattle over the stink of sheep any day. He thought about it as he sipped his coffee. Finally he shook his head. “Well, you can give my portion of mutton to the dogs and double my ration of hot water.”

“I don't serve mutton.”

She
did
serve a nice plate of flapjacks and bacon, though, and he took a deep whiff as she set it down in front of him.

“Thank God for small favors. I'm going to have to fix that shower stall before I use it.” He tasted the crisp bacon, then elaborated. “It doesn't drain right.”

“I usually just mop up the water.” The resignation in her voice irritated him. She planted her knuckles against her hip as she turned back to the stove. Her little fist was dwarfed by the basketball of a belly that tested the limits of her pretty pink sweater. “Ken was going to fix that shower, but there were other repairs that were higher on the priority list.”

Tate imagined her down on her hands and knees, wiping
the floor with a towel. “You give me the list,” he ordered as he cut into the stack of flapjacks with his fork. “And a mop, if you don't want me to use your shower upstairs this morning.” She wasn't mopping up
his
water.

“You're welcome to use the upstairs bathroom. Just let me check to make sure I've got clean soap and dry—”

“Clean soap?”

“You know,
fresh.
And towels, and Jody's bath toys out of the way.”

“Does he have boats? Maybe I'll take a bath instead.” He was chuckling happily. She wasn't. He could see her adding another chore to her mental list. “Amy, soap is soap, and I can find the towels. I don't need any special treatment, okay? I'm the hired hand, not a guest from out of town.”

“Housekeeping hasn't been tops on my list of priorities lately, but ordinarily—”

“I don't see anything out of place,” he assured her. And then, as if on cue, a sleepy-eyed blond moppet appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Hey, who's this big guy?” Tate laughed when his dubious greeting sent the boy scurrying to his mother's side. “Are you the same Jody who used to twist my ear half off when I gave him horseyback rides?”

The little boy looked up at his mother for some hint as to how he was supposed to answer.

“Do you remember Tate, sweetheart? Daddy's good friend?”

Tate, sweetheart.
He smiled, enjoying the way it sounded. “You were a little squirt last time I was here, but you sure are getting big.”

“I'm almost five,” Jody announced bravely as he flashed splayed fingers Tate's way.

“Well, you must be big enough to ride a two-wheeler.
I almost tripped over one out by the yard fence. Is that yours?”

“It
was
Bill, Jr.'s.” Jody ventured a few cautious steps from his mother's side. “I'm gonna give it back to him,” he added, clearly for Amy's edification.

“You'll get the hang of it, Jody. Maybe we'll put it away until spring.” Amy sighed. “By then it won't be quite so hard for me to get you going.”

“You just learning?” Tate asked as Jody joined him at the table.

“I keep falling off when my mom lets go. I'd rather ride a horse.”

“I'm with you there, partner. If your mom'll let me use the horse trailer, I'll head into town after I get some chores done around here and bring back your dad's—”

“Breakfast first.” Amy cast Tate a warning glance as she plunked a glass of orange juice on the table for Jody.

“My dad's what?”

“Your dad's…”

“Tate is going to help us out for a while, Jody, and he needed a horse, so I sold him—”

“The buckskin,” Tate supplied. “That's the one I—” wrong choice, obviously, the way she was rolling her eyes “—kept. He moves out spirited and stylish, and he's got a nice head on him, good chest. The mare was kinda goose-rumped and paunchy.” He eyed Amy playfully. “Like mares get sometimes.”

“Very funny.” Both hands went to her hips as Jody slipped away from the table. “In other words, you weren't about to listen to me.”

“I know good horseflesh,” Tate pointed out quietly. He hoped Jody wasn't beating feet down the hallway because of something he'd said. He'd just wanted the boy to know that his dad's horse would still be around.

“The buckskin was Ken's favorite, too,” Amy said.

“So you were down to the four?”

“No. There are eighteen registered quarter horses out there. The mares aren't bred. The geldings aren't broke. You might say we're horse-poor. I can't afford to keep them, can't afford to give them away.” She shook her head sadly. “Not Ken's dream herd.”

“Horse-poor, huh,” Tate echoed reflectively.

Jody reappeared, carrying a broken stick horse with a missing ear.

“Whatcha got there, partner?” Tate asked. Jody handed over his steed. “Does this guy have a little better handle than that two-wheeler? Looks like he got hogged.” Tate ran his hand over the remains of a yarn mane, which had obviously been cut short by an inexperienced groom.

“I buzzed him with the scissors. He's glass-eyed, see?” Jody pointed to the pony's eye, which was indeed made of glass, but a horseman would term him glass-eyed because it was blue. “But whoever heard of a horse with blue-and-white polka dots?”

“You've never seen a blue roan?”

“That's not a roan.”

“Looks like a roan to me.” Tate turned the stick in his hand as he examined what was clearly a well-loved toy. “I think I can fix him up for you. Do a little fancy blacksmithin'.” He winked at the boy, who listened spellbound at his knee. “And we can probably get that bike of yours at least green-broke while I'm here. When you get throwed, best thing is to climb back into the saddle.”

“Ready for pancakes, Jody?”

“Soon as I put Thunder back in his stall.”

After the little boy had galloped out of earshot, Amy turned
from the stove, plate in hand. “Don't make him any more promises, Tate. Two is enough. He's pretty confused as it is.”

“I don't make empty promises.” His look challenged her to disagree. When she didn't, he glanced away. “He looks a lot like his dad.”

“Yes, he does. And now he reminds me of Peter Pan's shadow, sort of at loose ends.” In another part of the house a closet door was opened, then shut. Amy set Jody's plate on the table and spoke softly. “Just be careful. I'm afraid he's looking for a man's boots to attach his little feet to.”

“You think I'm gonna drag that little guy along behind me?” He reached for his coffee. “That's not my way, Amy.”

“What is your way?”

“With kids?” Tate shrugged. “I don't know. I'm a little short on experience. Just be a friend and stick around while times are tough, I guess. Is that okay?” She nodded, and he smiled. “Good. So far his size doesn't scare me much. Long as I don't have to get on that two-wheeler myself, I'll be all right.”

 

The autumn grass provided the sheep with plenty of roughage, but they needed supplemental feed. Amy laid out her instructions to the letter before turning the chore over to “the guys.” Tate shoveled a load of grain into the pickup bed and took Jody along to show him where the feeders were. The sheep trotted across the pasture, bleating to beat hell when they saw the pickup coming.

Tate pulled up to one of the scattered feeders and set about filling the trough with grain. For an almost-five-year-old, Jody seemed pretty grown-up. He often mirrored what Tate recognized as Amy's instructive manner. “We have to spread it out in the trough so they won't climb all over each other,” the boy said soberly as he put his small hands to the task.

“Who's been hauling this out to the sheep since the last man quit?” They'd probably been supplementing for a month or more, Tate figured. He stood back and watched the dingy white merino ewes jostle for position around the trough.

“Me and Mom.” Jody squinted one eye against the glare of the morning sun. “We're not as strong as you, so it takes a long time. We put the feed in a lot of small things, like ice-cream buckets, load them up in the pickup and—” with a gesture he drew a beeline in the sky “—buzz on out here. Did you know we're gonna have a baby? That's why my mom has such a big tummy.”

“You mean it's not always that big?”

“No, that's a baby inside her. A little baby about—” he held his little round hands inches apart “—I'd say this big. That's why Mom had to stop using the scoop shovel to load the grain. Her big tummy got in the way.”

Tate forced a chuckle for Jody's benefit, but it pinched his throat. He thought about Amy wielding that big shovel, and he shook his head. “Brother or sister, do you know?”

“No, that's going to be a surprise. I'm hoping for a brother.”

“But a sister would be nice, too. Right?”

“I don't know.” Jody scowled, then thrust his hand up for Tate's inspection. “My cousin Kitty slammed the car door on my finger yesterday. See?”

Tate hunkered down behind the open tailgate and studied the purpling fingernail. “Does it still hurt? It looks like it must've hurt like a bit—”
Wrong choice of words.
“
Biddy.
Like an old biddy with a baseball bat, right? Boy, that can be murder.”

“What's a biddy? Is it a girl, like my dumb ol' cousin Kitty?”

“Yeah. Only older and meaner.” He smiled. This curly-
haired little fellow was cuter than a spotted colt. “You might get a new fingernail out of this deal. Did your mom tell you that?”

“No.” Incredulous, Jody took a closer look at his finger. “You mean my fingernail might fall off?”

“After a while. But it'll be okay, because you'll get a new one. It's happened to me a lot of times.”

“By a biddy hittin' you with a bat?”

“By getting my hand caught in a door or stomped by a horse or banged with a hammer.” He ruffled the boy's cotton-candy curls as he stood. “It's not always a girl's fault.”

“I still want a brother,” Jody insisted.

“Either way, you'll have a new baby.” Tate tossed the shovel into the pickup bed.

“Do you know about babies?” Jody wondered.

“I know they don't play much for the first year or so, and then they start gettin' into things. Have you had pups around, or kittens?” Jody nodded vigorously. “Kinda like that. Brothers get to be more fun when they get a little age on 'em.”