The Truth About Tate

With a towel wrapped around his middle, he went into his bedroom…and stopped a fair distance back from the south window. There he had a clear view of the big old blackjack and the Mustang—and Natalie and Jordan. She was removing items from the trunk—Tate recognized a laptop-computer carrying case slung over one shoulder—while Jordan walked in an admiring circle around the car. When she closed the trunk, he picked up a box of the type used to store files, and they started toward the house, talking easily. Of course, she was a reporter, paid for getting people to open up, and Jordan had never met a stranger in his life.

As they disappeared from sight, the phone beside the bed rang. Tate got it on the third ring, bracing it between his ear and shoulder while he started dressing. “Hello.”

It was Josh. “How’s it going?”

“So far, so good. How’s Grandpop?”

“Not feeling too hot. So far, he’s found fault with everything I’ve done—and he’s not even out of the hospital yet.”

Tate chuckled at the aggrieved tone of his brother’s voice. “I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. I’d rather have Grandpop griping at me than Ms. Alabama following me around with all her questions.”

“I think for once I got the lesser of two evils. What’s the lady reporter like?”

“About what we expected,” Tate replied with a twinge of guilt. She was persistent and stubborn, as they’d known she would be. But she was also so much more.

“What’s the plan?”

His plan was to avoid any slipups, to be as truthful with Natalie as possible while pretending to be someone else, to not tell her too much and to not notice any more than necessary how pretty she was…how good she smelled…how he was a sucker for leggy redheads and Southern drawls.

“I’m not sure,” he hedged. “She’s coming over for dinner in a few minutes. I guess I’ll find out then. Tell Mom I love her, and Gran and Grandpop, too.”

“Sure. Tate…? Thanks.”

“Hey, Rawlinses stick together, right? See you.” Tate hung up, pulled on a T-shirt and combed his fingers through his hair, then headed for the kitchen. He was buttering a loaf of French bread when Jordan came in from the office. Natalie was two steps behind him.

“How was practice?”

“Okay.” Jordan took a carton of milk from the refrigerator, gave it a shake, then drained it straight from the carton.

It was a habit Lucinda had tried to break, but since it was one Tate shared, he let it slide, except for a comment for Natalie’s benefit. “We don’t drink out of the carton unless we know we’re going to finish it, do we, son?”

Too late—when Jordan’s gaze jerked to him—Tate remembered. A glance at Natalie, though, showed no reason to worry. Men called boys son. She obviously thought nothing of it.

“Hey, uh, Uncle J.T., can I get online until supper’s ready?” Jordan asked.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Once he was gone from the room, Natalie came closer, leaning against the counter a few feet away. “Does he have any chores besides tinkering with old engines?”

“Are you kidding? He could run this place if he had to. There’s not a job here he can’t handle. After all, it’ll belong to him someday.”

“Along with any children you might have. But what if he doesn’t want to be a rancher?”

“He can be whatever he wants…but the land will be here for him.”

“It’s the Rawlins Ranch, right?” She waited for his nod. “Does the elder Rawlins—Tate’s father—mind that you’re a partner in his family’s spread?”

Tate opened a bottle of pop and started filling three glasses. This wasn’t the time to tell her that the only elder Rawlins around was his grandfather, that Rawlins was Lucinda’s family name and not that of her elder son’s father. As long as he could keep things straight in his head, she didn’t need to know all the details of his family’s lives. “T-Tate’s father can’t complain about me being a partner for several reasons. First, he hasn’t been around for a long time.” Truth—his old man had disappeared five months before he had appeared. He hadn’t offered to shoulder any responsibilities or pay any support. He’d kissed Lucinda goodbye and walked out the door. “Second, this place was never in his family. The Rawlinses of Rawlins Ranch are us—my mother, my brother, Jordan and me.”

“He calls you ‘uncle.’”

“Yeah? So?”

She shrugged. “No older than you are, I’d expect him to simply use your name.”

“I’m old enough to be his father.”

“Not quite. Not unless you discovered sex very young. Did you?”

Tate slowly looked at her. No one would guess, just by looking, that she’d asked such a provocative question, or raised his body temperature about twenty degrees, or made his throat clamp down so tightly that he wasn’t sure he could speak. No, she simply stood there, a bright splash of color and texture, cool, calm, unaffected.

“You tell me about your first time, and I’ll tell you about mine,” he said in a low, thick voice.

She moved, revealing an edge of restlessness that hadn’t been present earlier. “I’m not the subject of this book. No one’s interested in my first time.”

“I am.”

“You’d be bored.”

“Try me.”

She shuffled her feet, slid her hands behind her back, then clasped them in front of her. “I was nineteen. He was in too big a hurry. It was painful, messy and thoroughly unpleasant. End of story.”

“And I wasn’t bored at all.”

Her cheeks pink, she gestured. “Your turn.”

When the oven timer went off, he removed the lasagna and slid the bread under the broiler. He took plates from the cabinet, utensils from the drawer and serving utensils from another drawer. Out of diversions, finally he faced her. “I was seventeen, and I wasn’t in a hurry at all. It was better than I expected, not as good as it could be, and I enjoyed it thoroughly.”

She picked up one of the glasses and took a long drink of pop before continuing. “Jordan is only a year younger than you were then. Do you worry about him?”

“We’ve talked.” His smile was sardonic. “It’s one of the benefits of being no older than I am. We can easily discuss things that might be more difficult if I were ten or fifteen years older.”

“You’ve talked. Not Jordan and his father, but him and you. Why? Isn’t his father interested?”

Tate scowled as he used hot pads to carry the lasagna to the table. She followed with the dishes. “Of course his father is interested. They’re very close.”

“But…?”

“But nothing. They get along just fine. Why don’t you take notes?”

The abrupt change of subject threw her, as he’d intended. She blinked, then gave a shake of her head. “I will when it’s necessary. Right now we’re just getting acquainted.”

“So that’s what you call it,” he said dryly, then raised his voice. “Jordan, come on and eat.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Their voices sounded alike, Natalie thought as she slid into the same seat where she’d had lunch. They also looked a lot alike. She wondered about Tate, and if his son resembled him half as much as his uncle.

Carrying the bread and his own pop, J.T. sat across from her, leaving the chair at the head of the table for Jordan.

“Is there any work around here that doesn’t require a horse?” she asked while they waited for the boy to join them.

“Plenty. Why?”

“I’d like to follow you around for a few days, to get a feel for what you do.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “But I’ll be using Rusty all week. And you probably don’t know how to ride, do you? Too bad.”

“You’re not funny, Mr. Rawlins,” she said primly as she tried to suppress a smile.

“I wasn’t trying to be. How did you manage to reach the age of— How old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

“—without learning to ride?”

“Gee, I don’t know. I guess horses were just too cumbersome for the high-rise apartments where we mostly lived.”

“Around here kids learn to ride as soon as they can sit up by themselves.”

Natalie studied him skeptically. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Not by much. Hold your ears for a minute.” Pursing his lips, he let out a shrill whistle that could vibrate loose the fillings in her back teeth.

From down the hall came a grumbled, “All right, I’m coming.” A moment later, Jordan joined them. “I was just talking to some girls in California.”

“Here’s a novel idea—why don’t you pick up the phone and have a real conversation?” J.T. countered. “Better yet, after you do the dishes, why don’t you saddle up Cougar and ride over to see Mike in person?”

“Nah.” Then the boy’s eyes lit up. “But if you want to give me the keys, I can go into town and see a bunch of people. Then you two can talk all evening.”

“If you’re back by ten. Why don’t you invite Mike?”

“Aw, Da—Uncle J.T. If I show up with Mike, Shelley’s gonna spend the whole evening ignoring me. She doesn’t like Mike.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Jordan mumbled.

I do, Natalie thought to herself. The Barbie clone wanted everyone’s attention all for herself, especially Jordan’s. She wanted to be the only girl he cared about, even if she was stringing him along while going out with other guys. As for Mike’s dislike…she was tall, flat-chested, lacking in curves, bespectacled and plain. How could she not dislike the gorgeous little cheerleader doll?

Then, of course, there was Jordan. Mike wanted him. Shelley had him.

After a moment J.T. gave in. Jordan scarfed down two large helpings of lasagna and half a loaf of bread, then left. Both the door and the screen door slammed behind him.

In the silence that followed, Natalie finished her first and only helping of the dish while J.T. worked on his second. “You’re not really going to hide behind your horses to avoid me, are you?”

“It’s a thought.”

“You know, the more you restrict my access to you, the longer my visit will have to last.”

“You’ll have to go home eventually.”

She grinned. “I have plenty of clothes, my notes on the senator, my cell phone and my computer. I could survive indefinitely with nothing else.”

“What about your life back in Alabama? Your friends, your boyfriend, your other work?”

“I don’t have a life in Alabama.” No friends. Just people who’d once pretended to be. No boyfriend. No other work. This book had become her life.

And she wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if she was a little lonely. Really, she wouldn’t.

“No life?” J.T. repeated skeptically. “No boyfriend?”

She was flattered that he found it so difficult to believe that there wasn’t at least one man in the state of Alabama who wanted her, and was amused by her own feeling of flattery. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Well, at the moment I’ve got much more important things in my life. Men come pretty low on my list.”

“Why?”

With a shake of her head, she gave a low laugh. “You really have trouble grasping this question-and-answer process, don’t you? It’s really very simple. I ask. You answer. I can write it down for you to look at from time to time if you’d like.”

Between bites he said, “You said we were getting acquainted. That implies an exchange of information. You can’t get acquainted with me and remain a stranger to me. So why don’t you like men?”

“I like men. They have their uses.” Under different circumstances, she could like him a lot. She could find plenty of uses for him. “I just don’t want one in my life.”

“Why not?”

For a time Natalie considered various answers and lies, as well as simply refusing any answer at all. She thought about pointing out to him that his getting to know her wasn’t part of the deal, that he should be grateful she was trying to learn everything about him, that she could write the book as easily without his cooperation as with. The only difference was in the degree of accuracy—getting the chance to put his spin on things.

In the end, though, she answered. Maybe not completely, but truthfully, as far as it went. “My father is one of the greatest journalists who ever lived. I’ve known since I was a little kid that I wanted to be just like him. I know I’ll never be as good, but I’m trying.” She thought of the headlines fifteen months ago and inwardly cringed. She really was trying. Too bad she was failing. “One of the things he taught me was that this job requires dedication. Commitment. Doing it right—doing it Thaddeus Grant’s way—isn’t conducive to maintaining relationships or raising a family. I see no point in getting involved with a man who can’t compete with the job for my attention, and I certainly see no sense in bringing kids into the picture.”

“So your father didn’t love you, and you’re following in his footsteps by refusing to love anyone, in the same way.”

“My father loved me!” she protested.

“Not as much as he loved the job. Hey, my old man never gave a damn about me, either. But shutting yourself off from everyone else isn’t the way to deal with it.”

“I’m not shut off from anyone. I have plenty of contact with people. In fact, I spend so much time with people that most evenings it’s a pleasure to go home to an empty apartment. By the end of most days, I crave peace and quiet and solitude.” Usually that was true. Some days, though, she wanted what J.T. had—a close-knit family whose members cared about each other, who were there for each other. All she had was her father, and far from being there for her when she’d needed him, he’d withdrawn. He’d spoken to her only once, to tell her what a disappointment she’d become. He’d helped break her heart.

Shutting out the memory of the chill in his voice and his eyes, she toyed with her fork for a moment before meeting J.T.’s gaze again. “You ask awfully personal questions, considering that we’re strangers.”

He gave that sexy little shrug. “Have I asked you anything you didn’t ask me first?”

“But I’m being paid to ask questions.”

“So this is my payment. You want answers from me? You have to provide your own answers.”

When he pushed his plate back, she stood up, gathered the dishes and carried them to the sink, where she began rinsing them.

“After-supper cleanup is Jordan’s job.” J.T.’s voice came from somewhere behind her.

She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and instead concentrated on scrubbing away every particle of pasta, cheese and sauce before loading the dishes in the dishwasher. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s not a matter of minding. It’s his responsibility.”

“But I’m already finished.” She dried her hands, then faced him. “Can I go out with you tomorrow?”

“We start early.”

“I know. You get up at five-fifteen and have breakfast at five-thirty. When I interviewed Boyd, Jr., the oldest of your half brothers, I usually got back to the hotel around five-thirty. I doubt he’s been out of bed before noon since he graduated from high school.”

“And what did you and Boyd, Jr., do until five-thirty in the morning?”

“He partied, gambled, drank, ate, flirted. I watched. When I interviewed Kathleen, the second child, I was lucky to get four hours of sleep a night. She indulges in all of Junior’s pastimes, and is a world-class shopper, as well.”

“So they party, they play, they spend money. And your publisher actually thinks people want to read about this?”

“People are fascinated by the idle rich, especially when they attract scandal like…like Jordan’s Barbie doll attracts admirers.”

“Jordan’s—” Breaking off, J.T. grinned. It was a sight to see—white teeth, crinkled brown skin, a light in his dark eyes. “You saw Shelley’s picture at Mom’s.”

She nodded. “The most popular girl in Hickory Bluff. The cheerleader, the class president, the princess in the homecoming queen’s court, the star of the school play, the sweetest voice in the school choir. The golden girl whose life so far has been perfect, who makes other girls’ lives miserable.”

He gestured, and she preceded him into the living room. “You learned all that from a photograph? Or were you describing yourself back in high school?”

With a chuckle Natalie chose to sit on the sofa. It was one of those really comfortable overstuffed models, the perfect place to snuggle in among puffy pillows and cushions and drift off to sleep. “I was nobody’s golden girl. For me, high school was an ordeal to be endured. Graduation was one of the happiest days of my life.” Except that her father hadn’t been there. What had kept him away that time? Another terrorist attack in the Middle East? Some new crisis in Moscow or Baghdad or Belfast?

“Where did you go to high school?”

“New York. And Connecticut, Virginia and D.C.”

“I went from kindergarten through twelfth grade here in Hickory Bluff.”

“You were lucky.”

“Yeah, I was.”

When silence settled between them, she gazed around the room. There were family photographs on every wall, but none of Jordan’s mother or Tate’s father. A rusty horseshoe hung above the front door, and a sandstone fireplace filled one wall, with bookcases on either side crammed with—surprise—books. Neither the room nor its furnishings could hold a candle to the lavish residences the other Chaney siblings called home. They surrounded themselves with antiques, designer names and opulent furnishings, spending fortunes on the most exquisite items money could buy…but not one of them had a sofa that invited you to nap cozily cradled in its softness. Not one that she could recall displayed personal items with pride and affection, like the photos, the child’s sculpture of a horse or the handmade Best Dad Award that stood on the fireplace mantel.

Of course, she reminded herself, this was Tate Rawlins’s house—his pride and affection and comfort. J.T. was a temporary guest here, as she was at his mother’s house.

“So…” She brought her gaze back to J.T. He was sitting in an easy chair that looked as if it lived up to its name. His left knee was bent, with his foot propped on the coffee table. His other leg was stretched out half the length of the table. His jeans were soft and faded nearly white, his T-shirt was snug and worn thin, and his feet were bare.

Natalie liked the intimacy of bare feet. His were long and slender, not as dark as his face and arms, but shades darker than her own barely tanned skin. They were purely functional…and somehow appealing.

Oh, man, she needed a date. Badly.

Clearing her throat, she returned to a subject she suspected he wanted her to forget. “Can I go with you tomorrow?”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

She smiled. “That was another of my father’s lessons.”

“All right. But dress appropriately.”

“And what’s appropriate?”

“Jeans. A shirt—for you, with long sleeves. A hat. Sturdy shoes. Do you have any sunscreen?”

Her expression turned admonishing. “Look at me,” she said, and he did, his gaze sliding slowly over her face, down her throat and lower before lifting again. It made her voice sound funny and her heart beat faster, and she swore it raised her temperature by a degree or two. “Do I look as if I go anywhere without sunscreen?”

“No,” he agreed. “In fact, add a few more yards to that dress, and you’d look like the stereotypical Southern belle—fragile, pampered, delicate skin untouched by the sun…”

“I’m not sure whether I’ve just been complimented or insulted.”

“Frankly, neither am I.”

She glanced at her watch. It was after eight o’clock. She was tired, and no doubt J.T. would like a little time to himself before turning in. “I’d better get to bed if I’m getting up early. I’ll see you at five-thirty.”

He walked to the side door with her, leaning against the frame while she crossed the deck to her own door. There she looked back. “So you don’t like the dress.”

“As a matter of fact, I like it just fine.”

She smiled faintly, then sobered. “Don’t underestimate me, J.T. I’m neither fragile nor pampered nor delicate. I’m a survivor.” Or, at least, trying to be. “Good night.”

She went inside, closed and locked the door, then peeked through the curtains. For a long moment he remained where he was, motionless. Then, with a shake of his head, he went inside his own house and closed the door.

By the time Tate made it into the kitchen the next morning, the coffee was ready and breakfast was almost done. Jordan handed him a mug, already filled and sweetened, then turned back to the mass of eggs he was scrambling.

Tate wasn’t an easy riser. It didn’t matter whether he was getting up at five or noon, after two hours’ sleep or eight. He needed coffee, food and time before he was capable of any behavior remotely close to human.

He’d bet Ms. Alabama was perky and bright-eyed, he thought with a scowl as the doorbell rang. Leaving Jordan to his cooking, he went down the short hall, opened the side door, then silently swung around and headed back to the kitchen.

“And a good morning to you, too,” Natalie said cheerily as she followed. “Hey, Jordan. How was Shelley last night?”

Tate sat down with his back to the wall as Jordan grinned. “She was fine,” he said in a way that gave a whole new meaning to the word. “You have to excuse…Uncle J.T. He’s kinda cranky in the morning.”

“He’s kinda cranky in the afternoon and evening, too, isn’t he?”

He ignored the teasing and concentrated on his coffee. Usually it wasn’t hard to do, but usually Natalie Grant wasn’t standing a few feet away, a bright light in his dusky morning.

Dress appropriately, he’d told her, and she had. Her shirt was chambray, well-worn and tucked into faded jeans that fitted snugly and held a sharp crease all the way down each leg to a pair of running shoes. Her incredible hair was pulled back and caught with a glittery band, and she wore a Crimson Tide ball cap. The outfit made her look closer to Jordan’s age than his own.

He wished she was ten or twelve years younger. Of all the women he’d ever known, she was the most dangerous. He very much needed to keep his distance from her, but that was easier said than done.

“So, Jordan,” she was saying. “You’re handsome, a star athlete, you cook and do dishes, too. You’re going to make some lucky woman a very good husband someday.”

“I’m not planning on getting married,” he replied, his manner offhand. “Nobody else does. Go ahead and have a seat. You want coffee, milk or orange juice?”

“Juice, please.”

Natalie joined Tate at the table, bringing with her a faint hint of fragrance—something light and flowery that he didn’t recognize—but he hardly noticed. He was thinking instead about Jordan’s comment. I’m not planning on getting married. No one else does.

The last thing Tate wanted was for Jordan to get any ideas of what marriage, relationships and family were supposed to be from his own family. Lucinda hadn’t set out to have two sons with different fathers and no husbands. She’d expected to get married when she’d finished school—had certainly expected to be a wife before she became a mother. Just as he had always expected to be married before he became a father. Sometimes things just didn’t work out the way people expected.

But he still believed the ideal family included a mother and a father, married and committed before the kids came. That was what he wanted for Jordan when he was old enough. He didn’t want his grandchildren to carry on the family tradition of illegitimacy—didn’t want Jordan to give up one single dream to take on the hardships of single fatherhood. He wanted his son’s future to be every bit as normal and routine as his past wasn’t.

Jordan brought platters of food to the table, refilled both Tate’s and his own coffee and poured Natalie’s juice before sliding into his chair. They passed the food around, then ate in silence until Natalie, obviously not as comfortable with it as they were, spoke up. “When does school start?”

“In a couple weeks,” Jordan replied.

“Are you looking forward to it?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve had much time to be bored. But it’s okay. I don’t mind going back.”

“I loved summer vacations,” she said with a faint smile. “My father and I usually did some traveling—always related to his job, of course. Depending on what was happening in the world, we’d spend a few weeks in London, Paris or Rome. Of course, they were working trips—” her smile slowly slipped “—so I spent a lot of time alone in hotel rooms.”