The Truth About Tate

“Jordan doesn’t get summer vacations,” Tate said sharply. “His time off from school is spent working on the ranch.”

“But at least I don’t have homework.” Under the table Jordan nudged Tate with his foot, then frowned.

Just what he needed—to be reprimanded by his sixteen-year-old son. The fact that the reprimand was deserved brought a rush of warmth to Tate’s cheeks.

Still wearing that warning look, Jordan asked, “What’s on the schedule for today, Uncle J.T.?”

“Ms. Grant wants to follow me around, so I’m putting her to work. We’re going to check fence and replace that section out by the creek.”

“I thought I’d try again to get the truck running, then go out and spray for weeds.” After sandwiching two strips of bacon between halves of a biscuit, Jordan stood up, drained his coffee, then headed for the door. “I’ve got practice at three. If you need anything from town, leave a list on the table. I should be home around the usual time, unless the coach is in a bad mood.”

After he left, Tate finished his own coffee while studying Natalie. She hadn’t eaten a fraction as much breakfast as he and Jordan had, and seemed preoccupied at that moment with separating the half biscuit remaining on her plate layer by layer. She didn’t seem to want to talk to him or even acknowledge him in any way.

So, naturally, he left her no choice. “Ready to go?”

Abruptly she dusted her hands, slid to her feet and began clearing the table. Instead of offering his help, he got a large cooler and filled it with ice and water. By the time he finished, she was ready, too, with a large bag slung over one shoulder.

“What’s all that?” he asked after he’d locked up and they’d started across the yard.

“Tools of the trade. Tape recorder, notebook, camera.” She gestured toward the materials Jordan was loading into the bed of the pickup truck parked in front of the bar. “What’s all that?”

“Tools of my trade.” He put the cooler in back, then slid into the driver’s seat. “Thanks, Jordan. See you later.”

Natalie settled in on the passenger side, putting her bag on the seat between them. After taking out a camera, she opened the lens cap, then looked through the viewfinder. “Looks like you’ve got company,” she remarked as she wiped the lens with a soft cloth.

He looked in the same direction she had and saw a lone rider on horseback coming up the driveway. “That’s Mike, our neighbor’s kid. If Jordan can’t fix the truck, she probably can.”

“Tall, plain and mechanically inclined to boot. Poor Mike.”

Tate gave her a sharp look before he drove around the bar and onto a well-used, if primitive, road that crisscrossed the ranch. “Mike is one of Jordan’s best friends. She’s a good kid, smart and sweet. She doesn’t deserve your insults.”

“I’m not insulting her. I’m commiserating with her. You were a teenage boy yourself at one time. You were handsome, a jock and, I presume, fairly popular with the girls. Was there one girl in school who wanted to be best friends with you?”

He’d gotten his share of attention from girls from the time he was about thirteen years old. He’d had girlfriends and friends who were girls. But he’d always known he could have more from his girl friends. All he’d needed to do was let them know.

“Mike may be one of Jordan’s best friends,” Natalie went on. “But that’s not all she wants to be. She’s settled for what she can have, not what she wants.”

“And you know all this about a girl you’ve never met…. How?”

“I saw the way she was looking at him in the photograph.”

“What photograph?”

“The one in your mother’s living room.” When he didn’t respond, she scowled. “The one with Jordan gazing adoringly at the Barbie doll. Sheesh, you didn’t even realize Mike was in that picture, did you? Men.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Okay, so he should have known Mike was in the picture. And, yeah, maybe he hadn’t noticed her because Barb—Shelley had grabbed his attention, or maybe just because he was so accustomed to seeing Mike. She’d practically grown up here on the ranch. But he wasn’t any more attracted—or distracted—by a pretty face than anyone else, man or woman.

But red hair and long legs… That combination could make him a goner real quick.

After a moment she withdrew the tape recorder from her bag and pressed the record button. “It’s Wednesday, August eighth. This interview with J. T. Rawlins is taking place at the Rawlins Ranch. Do you have a preference where we start?”

“How about next week?” At her prim, pursed-lips look, he shrugged. “No. Wherever you want.”

“Did you always know who your father was, or did your mother keep it from you until you were older?”

Tate flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. This was a question he could answer for both Josh and himself. His grandparents may have been ashamed, the esteemed senator in denial and his own father uncaring, but Lucinda had always been honest and straightforward. “It was never a big secret. When I started asking questions, she gave me answers.”

“What was your first question?”

“If I had a father like the other kids.” He’d seen other kids with men in their lives who played catch with them, took them fishing and taught them things mothers knew nothing about, or so it seemed, and he’d wondered why he just had Lucinda. She’d chuckled and said, “Of course you have a father. Did you think the angels just delivered you out of the blue?”

He’d been older—seven, maybe eight—before he’d started asking for details. She’d told him his father’s name was Hank Daniels and he’d been a rodeo cowboy. A married rodeo cowboy, she’d admitted when he was ten or so. It wasn’t until he’d found himself in high school and trying to convince Stephani to marry him that he’d learned the rest of the story. How Lucinda had met Hank at a rodeo in Tulsa. How he’d swept her off her feet and taken her for the ride of her life. How she’d gone on the road with him, traveling from rodeo to rodeo, falling in love, living only for the moment. How she’d told him she was pregnant, and he’d told her he was already supporting a wife back in Dallas and the last thing he’d wanted was a pregnant girlfriend to add to his troubles.

“When you understood who your father was,” Natalie went on, “what did you think?”

“You mean, was I impressed?” Tate made a scornful noise. Hank Daniels hadn’t been as impressive as Boyd Chaney, but he’d made a name for himself. He’d won championships, had made and squandered a few small fortunes. “He was an arrogant jerk who seduced my mother, had his fun, then left her to deal with the consequences alone. The fact that he wasn’t just an average jerk didn’t make him any less of a jerk.”

“Your mother was…twenty-five or so?” She waited for his confirming nod. “She wasn’t exactly…inexperienced.”

“She was twenty-five, from a dusty little podunk town, working as a waitress in a restaurant that wouldn’t have let her through the door if she weren’t part of the help. She was living in a strange place, she had no friends, no money, no self-esteem and no hope. She didn’t stand a chance against him.”

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