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.”
“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
