A Certain Kind of Hero (35 page)

“Jugs?” She postured, hands on hips. “You'd better watch it, cowboy.”

“Hey, just because you domesticate me a little, it doesn't mean I'm show-ring material.”

She glanced down at her chest. “There's no less milk, just a little less pouf. I'm not show-ring material, either.”

“You did a lot today.” He piled the pillows against the headboard to make a backrest for her as she joined him on the bed. “I read somewhere that having a baby's like having major surgery. Takes a while to get your strength back.”

“Where did you read that?”

“One of the magazines in that pile downstairs.” Reluctantly Tate handed the baby over to her mother.

“Wouldn't be Ken's old
Quarter Horse Journal
s. Must be one of my old
Parents
magazines.”

“Yeah, well, I've already read all the horse stuff.” He planted his hands on his knees. “I'll go check on—”

“Stay, Tate.” She worked the buttons on her nightgown with one hand. “We haven't talked much since—” the soft look in her eyes personalized her invitation “—since the last time you watched me do this.”

“You don't mind if I watch you take your—” That's not it, he told himself, and he gripped his knees a little tighter as the last button slid though its hole. “Watch you feed the baby?”

“You've seen all there is to see. More than my husband saw, in fact.” The blue-flowered flannel slid away, baring her round, scarlet nipple. “I went to the hospital when I had Jody. Kenny wasn't there.”

“Really?” Tate didn't want to know why. He didn't want to talk about Kenny at all right now. Not with Amy's breast bared for the baby and blessings bestowed on his voyeurism. He wondered whether her nipples were sore. “Do you need a towel?”

“I have one.” She patted the bed, offering him the spot right next to her. “I promise not to squirt you.”

“You could squirt me?” Mesmerized, he moved closer.

“On a good day I have a six-foot range.”

“Does it taste like regular milk?” He glanced up and caught her smiling indulgently, the way he might look at Jody. Hell, he had his questions, too. He told himself to watch the baby suckle, think warm milk, and he would have the general idea. “I guess I've had it, but I don't…”

She uncovered her free breast.

He lifted his gaze to hers. “…remember.”

She couldn't make the offer in words, but her eyes were willing, mainly because he'd always been so easy on them. He was a beautiful man. His dark eyes held her gaze as he dipped his head slightly. Then he glanced down at the blue-white liquid dribbling down the underside of her breast. His full, sensuous lips parted as he looked into her eyes one more time to make sure. She nodded almost imperceptibly. He touched her nipple with the tip of his tongue.

She held her breath as he passed his tongue back and forth. The flow increased, and he took the bud of her nipple gently between his lips and let the milk leak into his mouth. He was cautious, like a humble petitioner, asking only to glean the overflow, while the tiny mouth on the left side was all business, working her like a milkmaid.

“Is it awful?” Amy asked timidly.

He made a low, contented sound, brushing his nose against her, scarcely moving his head in demurral. She forgot about her soreness. She forgot about feeling a little shy around him because she had been extraordinarily vulnerable and exposed, and she'd had time to reflect on what he might have seen and thought and felt. But for the moment misgivings and discomfort took a backseat in the presence of pure and natural tenderness.

He put his hand over her belly and felt for the distended muscle he'd learned so much about in recent days. He found it and massaged slowly, testing her receptiveness. “Does it still hurt here?” His lips hovered close to their post.

“Not as much, but…”
Yes, do that. Oh, yes, Tate, help me heal.

“Will it hurt if I…suck a little?”

“Not if you're gentle.”

He was gentle. The man who was wildness personified now suckled her with exquisite gentleness. She could not think how
wanton she must be to permit such a thing. She could only feel. Deeply touched by the potential of his power bridled by his own tight control, she relinquished her doubts and permitted herself a separation from anxiety, however brief.

“It's warm and sweet,” he murmured appreciatively. “Am I taking candy from the…” A tear slipped silently from the corner of Amy's eye and slid down her cheek. His heart fell with it.

“She's fallen asleep,” Amy said quickly. He drew back, and she covered herself with her open nightgown as she got up to put Karen to bed. “Does it taste like candy?”

Propped on one elbow, feeling foolish and deserted, he watched her bend over the bassinet, absently clutching her nightgown together in front. What kind of stupid, juvenile thing had he done, and what in hell was he going to do with the ache it had left him with?

She straightened slowly and laid her hand over her eyes. His problem was minor. She turned, her face full of desolate tears and confusion, and he knew that, no matter who she was looking for on her bed, Tate Harrison was all she had. She sat down next to him. His problem was major again.

“Would you hold me for a while?” she asked.

“Sure.” He reached for her, and she buried her face against his neck. He knew better than to expect an outpouring of emotion. This was Amy. She was stingy with her tears, and she sure as hell didn't shed them over spilled milk. “You were thinking about…somebody besides me.”

“No.” She put her arms around his middle and sighed. “Ken would never have done what you just did.”

“I was just curious,” he claimed.

She looked up at him, smiling through unshed tears.

“Okay, so maybe
curious
isn't the right word. Maybe I was just flyin' by the seat of my pants.” Maybe that was exactly
what he'd been doing since he'd first heard about Kenny's death, telling himself he had nothing but good intentions. “I'm sorry if I embarrassed you or made you feel…guilty or something.”

She closed her eyes and buried her face again. This time he could feel her trembling. “Don't cry, honey.”

“I can't help it,” she sobbed. “I have to cry. Isn't that stupid?”

“No stupider than what I did. I didn't mean to do anything bad, I just—”

“It wasn't bad,” she insisted, sniffling. “You were trying to make me feel…to help me…” She hated it when she got like this. “There's no reason for this ridiculous crying, so I'm stopping right now. See?” She used her hand until he plucked a tissue from the box on the night table and handed it to her.

She glanced ruefully at his shirt as she wiped her nose. “I'm getting you wet.”

“Don't worry about it. It's a release, like we all need from time to time.”
If she only knew.
“It's a natural thing, honey. Perfectly natural.”

“Yes, I suppose. I try to convince myself I'm above those things, but obviously…” She gestured in frustration, the pink tissue balled up in her hand. “I do know the only thing I have to be embarrassed about is the way I've always—” She glanced up, red-eyed and apologetic. “I've always sold you short.”

“You mean I ain't as cheap as what you thought?” he drawled with half a smile.

“It didn't surprise me that you bid the horses up. It was the kind of grand gesture I would have expected, and, after all, it was
only
money.” Still shaky, she took a deep, steadying breath. “But the Tate Harrison I
thought
I knew would have
walked away after that, satisfied he'd done his duty to his old
compadre.
”

He had come close to doing just that. “Honey, if I'd known you'd taken up sheepherdin'…”

“One favor,” she entreated. “Try to remember not to call me ‘honey.'”

“Is that what Kenny called you?”

“No.” She smiled. “He called me ‘Aims.' I don't want you to call me that, either.” With a quick motion she erased the very idea. “I've heard you call at least a dozen other women ‘honey.' It rolls off your tongue too easily, and it doesn't fit me.”

“How about Bossy?”

She pressed her hand to her lactating breast and groaned.

“How about ‘Black-Eyed Susan'?” he offered quietly, and the bittersweet reminder of “the road not taken” gave them both sober pause. He glanced away. “I'll come up with something better. Just give me a little time.”

Her real question was, how much time would he give her?

His real question was, how much would she accept?

“Would you like me to fill the tub for you?” he asked.

“I guess you've noticed it's one of my favorite places to be lately.”

“I can't imagine why.” His smile faded as he searched her eyes. “Does everything…seem to be healing up the way it's supposed to? I asked Mrs. Massey if everything was okay when she checked you over the other day, and she said, ‘Just fine, and how are you?' Like I was askin' after
her
health.” He gave a quick shrug. “Which I could have been, for all the conversation I had with her. She probably thought that was all the hired hand needed to know.”

“She's a woman of few words, and that was all the news.
But I have one more important thing to say.” She took his hand in hers, and he lost himself in her eyes. “Thanks for asking.”

He nodded. “Nice and warm, but not too hot, right?”

She nodded, too.

Half an hour later Amy emerged from the bathroom in her long white terry-cloth robe. Tate was watching TV in the living room when she came in to say good-night.

“Can I get you anything else?” he offered as he rose from the chair. He'd made himself some coffee. “Maybe some milk or some tea?”

“If you don't stop being so nice, I'm going to start crying again.”

But she offered no objections when he took her in his arms again. Her hair was damp, and she smelled of strawberry soap. Hugging her felt right. Kissing her would feel even better. “Ask me to hold you through the night, Amy.”

“Tate, I can't have—”

“I know that. It's just good to hold you. It made me feel good when you asked me to.”

“I think maybe we're both kind of turned inside out right now, Tate. I know I am, and I know it would be a mistake for us to spend the night in the same bed.” She leaned back and gripped his arms as she looked up at him. “A big, big mistake.”

“Turned inside out” was a good way of putting it. He told himself to keep that in mind while he straightened up the kitchen and thumbed through a magazine. His damn ear had turned itself inside out. He wasn't sure when he'd started keeping it cocked for the baby's cry or for the sound of little pajama-covered feet shuffling down the hallway.

He heard the telltale squeak of Jody's bedroom door open. No footsteps. Amy was looking in on him. Maybe she
was thinking about changing her mind about Tate. Maybe if Jody was sound asleep, and maybe if Amy was having second thoughts about her own empty bed, then
maybe
Tate wouldn't be spending another night tossing and turning on that wretched cot.

But the family slept upstairs. Their hired hand slept in the basement. Damn it all, it wasn't
his
family. She wasn't his wife and they weren't his kids. He was doing it all for the
late
Kenny Becker, his best friend. He heard her footsteps and the softer chirp Tate had learned to recognize as the hinges on her bedroom door. There was a pause.

“Good night, Tate.”

“Good night.”

 

By Thanksgiving there was snow, and it was time to bring the sheep closer to home. Tate wanted to leave Daisy and Duke at home, but Amy insisted that the dogs would save him time. They might have saved
Amy
time, but they were playing games with Tate this time out. When he dismounted and opened a gate, the dogs turned the herd and ran them down the fence line. Tate waved his arms and whistled and cussed to no avail. The sheep were scattered to hell and back, and all the dogs wanted to do was frolic in the wet snow.

By the time Tate had bunched the herd up again, the dogs were nowhere in sight, which was just fine by him. It was nightfall, and he was cold and hungry. He and Outlaw could push the herd without the help of any fancy dogs, just as soon as he figured out where the hell he was. The snow had thawed some during the day, but dropping temperatures had formed a crust that glistened by moonlight. The rolling hills all looked the same. But for the crunch of hooves breaking the snow crust and the creak of leather, the night was calm and quiet.
It was the kind of night that used to bring Kenny over to his place for a moonlight ride.

This was no time to let himself start thinking about Kenny. Tate's butt was getting numb. His face was stiff with the cold. If Amy was his friend, she would have a hot bath and a shot of whiskey waiting for him.

But Kenny was his friend, or had been, and Tate had an eerie feeling that he was surveying the same moonscape Kenny had been looking at that last night. He sensed that he was hearing the last sounds Kenny had heard. “Did you lose your bearings that night, buddy?” he asked the night breeze. “Did you get turned around the way we used to sometimes?”

Kenny had been out joyriding that night. Tate was doing a job. He was trying to bring Amy's herd in. Not that he was drawing any comparisons or thinking any critical thoughts concerning the dead.

“I never interfered with you, man, except that once. But she was your woman, 'til death do you part. And she misses you. Hell,
I
miss you. So I'm tryin' to do the right thing, here, helpin' her out.” He tipped his hat in unconscious deference to the myriad stars. “She's one hell of a woman. She always was, even though it seemed like she was afraid to loosen up and just have fun.”