A Certain Kind of Hero (40 page)

“Permanently planted, I'd say.” Slipping his arm around her shoulders seemed a natural gesture. “Was your father in the military?”

“He should have been, but that was probably one of the few things he didn't try. He never held a job very long. He got bored.” His hand curved comfortingly around her shoulder as her voice drifted and became almost childlike. “And I was never in one school for more than a year. He left us one winter when my mother decided that the trailer court we were living in was going to be home.” A deep breath and a quick toss of her head grounded her in the present again. “She's still there, in Florida.”

“Smart woman. I wouldn't wanna leave Florida in the winter, either. Where was the ol' man headed?”

“Who knows? I haven't seen him since.”

He started to drink his cider, but a word from a previous conversation nagged at him. “Would you call him a gypsy?”

“Among other things.” She offered a knowing smile. “He was a rover. He was a jack-of-all-trades. He was a lovable man in his way.”

“Would you say he was a dreamer?”

“Oh, yes, he was that.”

He looked her in the eye. “You know, you married a dreamer, too.”

“Ken was not at all like my father. He may not have been much of a businessman, but he gave his family a home.” She shrugged. “I'm surprised my father didn't try cowboying. It would have suited him well, I think.”

“It would suit me well, too.” Suit him just fine, he thought, as he drew his arm back and cradled the warm mug in both hands. “Except that I've been stuck with a damn flock of sheep lately.”

“You're not stuck with them.” She bit her lower lip, and he knew damn well she was thinking up a good one. Without looking up, she said quietly, “You're free to leave anytime.”

“I was just…”
Damn,
she was a tough nut to crack. “I've made up my mind to see you and the kids through the winter, and that's what I'm doin'. I'm not sellin' any land before spring, and I'm not in any hurry to hit the road.” He slid her a hard glance. “Unless you want me to.”

“I just don't want you to feel obligated.”

“I don't. I've got nothin' better to do. Simple as that.”

Simple, hell. They stared at the Christmas lights until he couldn't stand the silence anymore. It was loaded with complications.

“Can't think of any place I'd rather spend the winter than Montana, freezin' my damn—” He glanced at her, and he thought he detected the hint of a smile in her eyes. “I don't know anyone in Florida who'd put me up for the winter, do you?”

“Not a soul.”

“Besides, it's Christmas.” He reached for her hand. “I'm not goin' anywhere at Christmas.”

“Peace to you, then, cowboy.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and whispered, “And merry Christmas.”

J
ody didn't see Tate sitting at the kitchen table when he rode his broomstick horse into the living room on Christmas morning. Tate had already made coffee, and he was quietly biding his time as he sipped the first cup of the morning. Just waiting. He smiled to himself when he heard Jody's, “Whoa.” There was a pause, and then, “Whoa! Mom! Tate! Hurry, come look!”

Tate hitched up his beltless jeans and poured coffee into a second cup, which he passed across the counter to Amy as she came around the corner carrying the baby against her shoulder. “Santa even made coffee this year?” she marveled with a sleepy smile. “What a guy.”

“Special Christmas service for people who do two-o'clock feedings,” Tate returned as he walked around her and touched the baby's cheek with one finger. “Happy first Christmas, little darlin'.”

Eyes as big as saucers seemed to be asking him what all
the fuss was about. “This is Christmas,” he explained, sliding his finger under her soft baby chin. “Are you ready for all the excitement?” She bounced her head up and down over her mother's shoulder and rewarded him with a smile.

Her brother galloped onto the kitchen scene, waving both arms wildly. “Come on, you guys! Hurry!”

Amy gave a throaty, morning laugh that sent shivers down Tate's back. “There's nothing in there that's about to run away, Jody.” On second thought she cast Tate a warning glance as they headed for the living room. “Better not be anything on the hoof.”

“There might be a few little tracks on the roof, but no new livestock this time around.”

“Look at me, Mom!” Jody bounced astride the small saddle Santa had left under the tree. A small gasp escaped his mother's throat. “Just my size. Maybe there's a little horse for me outside!”

“Santa always takes these things one step at a time,” Tate said. “I know for a fact that he never brings live animals without Mom's permission.” Amy's soft sigh of relief made him grin. “But Santa knows every cowboy needs a good saddle, just in case.”

A soft-body baby doll that was bigger than Karen earned a discreet test squeeze from her mother. The fancy stroller that could be converted for half a dozen uses obviously pleased Amy, too. “Santa heard that the stroller Jody used was ready for retirement,” Tate said.

“Santa's insight was remarkable this year.” Amy lifted the padded seat out of the stroller frame. On the floor it became a handy infant seat with handles that also served as rockers. Karen settled into it comfortably and quietly watched her first Christmas morning unfold.

No one tore through the gift wrap faster than Jody. He
announced what each gift was, barely able to contain himself as he pulled it out of the box. “Cowboy hat—thanks, Tate! Cowboy pajamas—thanks, Mom! Record player—thanks, Tate! Monkey with a button nose—thanks, Mom!”

Amy opened a box and lifted out the ruffled dress he'd picked for Karen. He blushed when she held up the frilly bloomers. “I liked the bows on it.” He shrugged and sipped his coffee. “The one you made for her is prettier, though.”

“This one is fancier.” Amy's eyes glistened. “I love it, Tate. It's just darling.”

“Well, see what you think of this,” he said, urging her to open another box. He'd decided that a woman who'd just put aside her maternity clothes probably needed some pretty new things in her normal size, and he'd chosen a sweater, slacks, blouse and a down-filled jacket with fur trim on the hood.

“I saved the receipts in case there's something you don't like.” He reached behind the sofa and pulled out a huge fruit basket, wrapped in red cellophane and tied with a green bow. “Except this. We're eatin' this.”

“That's enough for an army!” It made him feel warm inside to hear Amy laugh so readily. “I like everything, but we'll see what you guys think about the clothes when I try them on. I can't even guess what size I am now.”

“I don't know if the styles are right.” Tate eyed her appreciatively and gave a slow smile. “But I'll bet you two oranges and a banana that I didn't mess up on your size.”

“You sound awfully confident.” Her smile was coy. “Did you seek expert advice?”

“Didn't need any,” he drawled. “Got a damn good eye.”

She ducked under the far side of the tree and delivered a gaily wrapped box into his hands. “There aren't any receipts for yours. About all I can alter is the fit.”

He couldn't believe she'd made the Western shirt herself,
with its piped yoke, pearlized snaps and crisply tailored collar and cuffs. And the plush royal-blue robe she'd made was monogrammed with his initials and a tiny horseshoe. Tate smiled a little self-consciously as he tried the robe on over his T-shirt and jeans. He'd never been big on clothes to wear around the house, but he could see how it might come in handy for a guy who had a house to hang around in. He thought about breaking it in with his own brand of after-shave.

“Do you like the color?”

“It's a great color.” It didn't look anything like Kenny's. “We knew you were busy back there, but we had no idea
how
busy. Did we, Jody? Ma'am, you sure outdid yourself on that sewing machine.”

“I'll take that as the stamp of approval.” Admiring the way it looked on him, she assessed the sleeve length and adjusted the fluffy lapels, smoothing her hands over them to make sure they lay just right over his robust frame. “Does it feel comfortable in the shoulders?”

“It fits great.”

“I thought you'd like a pocket,” she said.

With two fingers he traced the large
H
in the middle of the monogram. “How did you know my middle name?”

“I sneaked a peek at your driver's license.”

“Picked my pocket, huh?”

“You're an easy mark,” she said lightly. “You left your pants in the bathroom. But your license only says ‘Tate C. Harrison,' so I'm still wondering what the
C
stands for.”

“Carter,” he said. “After my father.”

Their eyes met briefly, exchanging myriad feelings neither dared name. He wanted to kiss her, long and hard. She wanted to put her arms around him and hug him in the new robe she'd made for him.

But she smiled and patted its single pocket. “This isn't made to hold cigarettes.”

“What's it for?”

“I don't know.” She gave him a saucy smile. “Maybe your billfold.”

“I do like to keep that handy.”

Amy sat on the floor next to the baby and tested out the rocker as she surveyed the colorful torn-paper chaos. “What was in that small box, Jody? Did I miss that?”

“Didn't open it yet,” Jody said as he withdrew the last box from underneath the tree. “I was saving it.”

“Well, let's see what it is.” Tate's eagerness shone in his eyes as he watched Jody unwrap the gift.

“The harmonica.” With wide eyes and a voice full of wonder, Jody took the instrument from the box. “The silver-and-black one.”

“Is that yours, Tate?” Amy asked quietly.

“I have a couple of them,” he said absently. He was busy cherishing the look in the little boy's eyes. “This is Jody's favorite. Right, partner?”

“Tate's gramma gave him this,” Jody reported. “It was his grampa's.”

“Oh, Tate—”

“Jody has a surprise for you.” He gave an encouraging nod. “Go ahead, son.” The word
son
was out before Tate knew it was coming. Jody didn't seem to notice, and neither did Amy. She was too intent on listening to Jody play “Jingle Bells” and “Frosty the Snowman.” Tate figured he'd only used the word because right now it suited the way he felt. He wasn't trying to take anybody's place. But he was just as proud of the boy's accomplishment as any father could possibly be.

 

By afternoon the snow was falling thick and piling up fast. By nightfall the wind had picked up. When Tate went out to the barn to put the sheep to bed, he found that the snowdrifts were getting bigger. He hadn't thought it possible, but the sheep were getting stupider. The shed was three-sided, and the solid wood doors on the barn had to be left open whenever the building was used for a sheep shelter. There were no deadlier conditions for sheep than moist air in close and closed quarters. He'd been meaning to build slatted doors for the barn, but he hadn't gotten around to it yet. Now the dumb beasts were huddled in every corner of the pens outside, and the drifts were mounting around them.

Daisy and Duke seemed to realize right off the bat that this was no time to play games with the cowboy, even if his signals were a little off the mark. They took the cue to drive every last woolly creature under a roof. Tate couldn't help marveling at the dogs' work. He vowed that the pair would feast on T-bones or soup bones, whatever he could rustle up from Amy's freezer. After supper they would be bunking in his room for the night. When the chips were down, the cowboy and the sheepdogs made a remarkable team.

Amy didn't object when the dogs stumbled in the back door with him, blown in on a big wind. He could tell she'd been waiting anxiously, just as she had the night he'd trailed the sheep back from his pasture. Not that he wanted her to worry, but there was something pretty nice about being met at the door.

“Visibility must be down to zero out there,” he announced as he shooed the dogs down the basement steps to keep them from shaking snow all over the kitchen. “Ol' Daisy and Duke sure did earn their—”

“Where's Jody?”

The question slammed the brakes on Tate's heart. He stared dumbly.

“He's not in the house, Tate. I was ready to brain you for taking him outside in this, but…” She kept looking behind him, as though she expected the boy to appear at his heels. “He's not anywhere in the house.”

“Get me the biggest flashlight you've got.” Tate jerked the back door open and whistled for the dogs.

“I'll get dressed.”

“You stay with the baby. We'll find him.”

It was the kind of windy whiteout that spawned Western disaster tales, and the worst kind was about the child who slipped outside unnoticed and froze to death only yards away from the house. Galvanized by fear, Tate called out as he followed the fence line toward the pens, but the dogs bounded through the drifts in a different direction. They seemed to be headed for the machine shed.

With every inch in every direction turned completely to snow, there were no directions. There was no order, no sense to anything. A mere man was almost useless. The snow stung Tate's face as he followed the two canine tails, which were about all he could see. The flashlight probably wasn't penetrating more than a few feet, and the wind had his lung power beat all to hell. He had to trust the dogs' keener senses.

But when he ran smack into the chain-link fence surrounding their kennel, he cursed the dogs roundly. “I said find
Jody
you dumb sons of—”

“Here I am!”

Daisy and Duke were already digging the snow away from the doghouse door. Jody emerged like a snowball, tumbling into Tate's arms. He'd had the good sense to dress warmly, and he'd found a snug place to take shelter. Throat clotted with a
burning flood of relief, Tate hugged him close. A whistle for the dogs was the only sound he could manage.

“He's okay,” Tate announced as he came through the door again, his legs considerably less steady this time. “He was in the doghouse.”

“In the doghouse?” Laughing and crying at once, Amy reached out like a desperate beggar and took the boy in her arms. She sat him on the kitchen counter and peeled his ice-coated scarf away from his face. She laughed again, relieved to uncover a cherry-red nose and quivering lips. “How was it in there?”

“Cold as ice,” Jody blurted out.

“I guess one trip to the doghouse is enough for tonight.” She took off his hat and combed her fingers through his matted curls. “Oh, Jody, I was so scared.”

“M-me, too. I was worried about Tate. Th-thought I c-could help him get done with his chores f-faster.” His teeth chattered. “I couldn't f-find the b-barn.”

“You didn't know how bad it was out there, did you, partner?” Tate offered as he glanced anxiously at Amy.

The looks they exchanged over Jody's head acknowledged the internal mélange of emotion that defied words. Terror was slow to give way to complete, bountiful relief. Amy didn't know whether to scold her son or simply hug him to pieces, then do the same for his rescuer. Tate didn't quite know what to do with himself, either, other than to try to shake off most of the snow in the vicinity of the scatter rug by the back door. Amy handed him Jody's jacket, and he hung it on a hook next to his.

From the back room came Karen's call for her supper. One look in Amy's eyes and Tate knew that the woman had finally reached her limit, emotionally and otherwise. She couldn't
stand the idea of coming apart in front of anyone. She needed a few moments to herself.

“I'll give Jody a bath while you feed the baby.”

“Are you—” She pressed her lips together tightly and cupped Jody's cheeks in her hands. “Toes hurt?” she croaked.

Jody shook his head. “I just went out…'bout three or seven minutes ag-go.”

“I don't think he was out too long,” Tate said. “We'll go in the bathroom and get ourselves thawed out.”

Amy nodded and fled to answer the baby's call.

Jody pulled one of his boots off and dropped it on the floor. “She's real mad, ain't she?” he asked quietly. “
Isn't
she.” The correction rolled off Tate's tongue as though teaching the boy proper English was something he did every day. Where had
that
come from? he wondered as he hunkered down to pick up the boot. Jody handed him the second one. “She's not really mad. She was afraid you were lost in the snow, and I was, too. It was a mistake to go outside, Jody.”