Slamming out of the SUV on a perfect autumn evening Tate followed the aroma of grilled chicken into the backyard and tried to push the worries over his campaign into the background. Soon enough Julee would read the ugly allegations against him in today’s newspaper. No use bringing trouble to the dinner table.
Wearing a white chef’s apron over her pregnant bulge, Julee waved a spatula and smiled. “I hope you’re hungry.”
He pumped his eyebrows and gave her a wolfish once-over. “Starved.”
As the months had passed and she’d begun showing, Tate had grown more fascinated than ever by her body. He’d heard that a woman was increasingly beautiful and sexy during pregnancy, but he’d never noticed the difference in other women. He did with Julee and was filled with awe to know he’d had a part in those changes.
“I thought we’d eat out here on the patio since the weather’s so pleasant.” She motioned to a round table set with a blue tablecloth and yellow mums.
“Great.” He bent to kiss her, a habit he’d grown to enjoy as much as the pretty feminine touches around the house. Dangerous, perhaps, but he’d come to accept the good with the bad, grasping the pleasure while it lasted. One thing for sure, coming home eased the stress of his job in a way it never had before no matter how bad the campaign was going. “Where’s Megan?”
“Inside. Will you tell her to come on out and eat?”
“You bet.”
In minutes, he and Megan returned and the three sat down to dinner.
“Chicken, rice, corn on the cob. Mmm,” Tate said, as he piled his plate high. He’d never expected her to cook for him, never expected a lot of the things she’d done. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she actually enjoyed being here.
“And chocolate cake for dessert.”
“Dessert?” She seldom fixed dessert, calling sweets wasted calories. “What are we celebrating?”
He forked a bite of chicken and nearly moaned over the delicious savory herbs. Lunch had been a drive-through burrito.
“The agency called today.”
His stomach went south. Suddenly the chicken wasn’t quite as tasty. “Your modeling agency?”
Julee nodded, face aglow with excitement. “They want me for the ad campaign.”
His lousy day just got lousier. Months had passed since she’d first mentioned the campaign. Very carefully, he lifted his napkin and wiped his fingers. He’d known this moment would come, dreaded it on the best of days, but the timing couldn’t be worse. “Congratulations.”
Her smile faltered. “I thought you’d be happy?”
Happy? Hardly. She was carrying his baby, and he wanted to experience every moment that he’d missed with Megan. He wanted Julee, too, but he didn’t dare admit that little secret. She’d been more than clear about the temporary aspect of their marital arrangement.
“You need to rest, not be standing on your feet all day in front of a camera.”
Julee glanced at Megan. “Honey, would you go inside and bring out that chocolate cake now?”
Megan glanced from Julee to Tate, then shrugged. “Okay. Ice cream, too?” she asked hopefully.
“Sure.”
When the child was out of hearing range, Julee said, “I haven’t worked in months, Tate. Do you have any idea how expensive a stem-cell transplant will be? Or how long Megan will be on maintenance care afterward?”
“I’m not exactly broke, you know.” Not yet anyway. “I have some investments and if worse came to worst, I could sell my land and take on another job. There are ways, Julee.” He wanted to beg her, to get down on his crippled knee and plead with her not to leave him again. “Work with me on this. Give me a chance to take care of you and Megan. I can do it.”
Over a plate of salad and chicken, she stared at him with the strangest expression. He could swear she wanted to believe him.
Feeling a surge of confidence, he played what he considered his ace. “Think about this, Julee. Megan can’t go to L.A. She has school and her medical team is here. Who will look after her if you leave?”
For some reason the light in Julee’s eyes dissipated and her shoulders drooped. “Yes. For Megan. You’re right of course,” she said dully. “As I mentioned before, Mom will come and stay with the two of you while I’m gone.”
There was the truth, much as it pained him. Whether love or money, what he had to offer was never enough. Julee didn’t want to be here. She belonged in L.A. with her rich and successful friends. He felt like one of his stray dogs, groveling for affection.
Megan, toting the cake and ice cream on a tray, returned then. She must have sensed the tension between the adults because she frowned from one to the other as she slid into her chair. “Are you two fighting?”
“Of course not.” No way he’d upset Megan. This was his problem, not hers—or even Julee’s. She’d never intended to stay. “Your mother was telling me about the great new job offer she has. She’s going back to California for a while.”
“I don’t have to go, do I? Carly might get to have a party at Halloween.” Eyes worried, she chomped down on an ear of corn.
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me and your grandma.”
“Grandma’s coming?” She glanced at Julee. “When?”
Julee reached over and wiped a buttery kernel from Megan’s cheek. “In a couple of weeks.”
More disappointment filtered through Tate. “But the election is only three weeks away.”
She laid a hand on his. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be here.”
His chest hurt so badly he thought he’d explode. He was about to lose his job and now he was losing the woman he loved all over again. He fought back a wave of bitterness. He hadn’t meant to love her, hadn’t meant to let her under his skin again. He’d always known she planned to go back, but that didn’t keep his heart from shattering into a million pieces.
During the next week concern over Tate’s campaign continued to grow, and that concern pushed the modeling job to the back of Julianna’s mind. She’d been inexplicably disheartened that Tate hadn’t minded if she left as long as Megan remained, but seeing Tate hurt over this election bothered her more.
First, a smear tactic funded by friends of Melton Scott. Then, the resurrection and rehashing of Tate’s less-than-stellar youth. And last of all, the rumors that he ran a corrupt office.
For Julianna the festering boil came to a head Wednesday afternoon at the local supermarket. She stood with one hand on the creamed corn—Tate’s favorite—and the other on her aching back when she heard the sheriff’s name coming from somewhere beyond the black-eyed peas.
“You know why the sheriff is out to get Melton, don’t you?”
“Something to do with Julianna Reynolds is what I heard.”
“You heard right. When the three of them were in high school, Tate was always jealous of Melton’s money and position. The two of ’em got in a fight once because Julee and Melton had eyes for each other. Been bad blood between them ever since.”
Shock ricocheted inside Julianna like a bullet in a metal room. She remembered that fight. One night after a dance, a very drunk Melton had tried to force Julee into his car. Tate still bore that tiny scar on his face where Melton had hit him with a beer bottle. And she recalled Melton’s vicious taunts about Tate’s parentage and her own morals. Then, as now, Melton Scott had been a spoiled brat, determined to have his own way no matter who got hurt.
Angry enough to open a can with her teeth, Julianna left the store without buying a thing. After all Tate had done for this town, yet human nature wanted to believe the worst about him. They all needed a good reminding of how hard he worked, of how much of himself he poured into the Little League, the senior citizens, the school, and every other social program in the county. They needed to remember the criminals he’d pulled off the streets and the times he’d endangered his own life to make Seminole County a safe place for them to live.
He’d given up so much for her as well as this town. She’d asked everything of him, and he’d asked nothing but that she give his children his name. And what did he get as repayment? The prospect of losing the job he loved so much. Surely there was a way for her to help now that he was in need. But how? What could a leg model possibly have to offer a political campaign?
Shaking so hard she could barely get the car key in the lock, she slid into the seat and slammed the door. She wasn’t good at much, but she could throw a party. And that’s exactly what she would do. Blackwood was about to experience an old-fashioned, band-playing, speech-making political rally.
From sunup to sundown for the next week a steely-minded Julianna pounded the pavement, recruiting volunteers and cajoling donations from every merchant and business in the county. Just as she’d organized the bone-marrow drive with stunning efficiency, she whipped together a campaign attack worthy of a professional.
Soon the reality of what she was doing hit her. There was no way she could stop now when Tate needed her so badly. She fought it, worrying about finances and anxious to work, but in the end the desire to help Tate won out. If she hoped to turn the tide in this election, going to L.A. was out of the question. She couldn’t stay here forever, but she could do this.
Slick, polished ads appeared in the paper, on the radio and local television. Posters created by Megan and her school friends went up all over town. Most of all, Julianna talked. She talked and smiled and charmed, using her pregnancy and her celebrity to every advantage. Her homecoming remained big news and she used that, appearing on local talk shows and news programs to garner free publicity that Tate’s opponents would have to pay for. She had never felt so successful in her life.
When the night of the big party arrived—a barbecue held at the city park—the crowd flowed in, dragging lawn chairs to set up around the perimeter of the huge concrete pavilion. To Tate’s surprised satisfaction, even members of the opposition party appeared, either curious to see what would happen or too greedy to pass up the free food.
In the perfect October Indian summer evening, the mouth-watering aroma of barbecue wafted up from a smoker the size of an oil tanker. Tense, but more than pleased, Tate stood beside Julee on the back of a flat-bed trailer, which had been pulled alongside the pavilion to serve as a stage. Behind them a country band tuned up, twanging guitar strings to a perfect pitch with an electric piano.
“Look at this crowd, Julee. How did you do it?” He was amazed at her organizational skills.
She waved off his gratitude. “Oh, it was nothing.”
“Nothing? What are you talking about, woman?” He leaned away and studied her beautiful face. She had no idea of how talented she was. “Twice this year I’ve watched you whip this county into a frenzy in support of your cause. You could do this for a living.”
Stunned blue eyes met his. “You’re kidding, right?”
She looked adorably kissable in a short lime-green overall, the bulge of his baby around her middle downright sexy. He loved looking at her. And after what she’d done for him and his campaign, he danged near worshipped her.
“I’m not kidding. You’re a natural at this. I know a dozen politicians that would give their eyeteeth for someone with your skills and ability to generate interest and excitement.”
“Anyone could do what I did.”
“No, sweetheart, they couldn’t.” He slid an arm around her, the tips of his fingers brushing her belly. Even at five and a half months she wasn’t very big, but big enough that she tired easily. And for the past two weeks she’d flown around like a migrating hummingbird.
“Shouldn’t you go home now and rest our baby awhile?”
“And miss all the fun?” Her laughter glided across his nerve endings like satin sheets. “Not a chance, Sheriff. I feel great and so does baby McIntyre. Tonight this town is going to sit up and take notice, and I wouldn’t miss that for the world.” She pointed toward Megan and a group of her friends coming toward the platform. “Here we go.”
She pulled him down into the lawn chairs set up toward the back of the trailer where they could see everything. And everyone could see them.
A lump the size of a Dodge truck parked in Tate’s chest. Waving mini pom-poms and dressed in their Warrior T-shirts, Megan and a half dozen other fourth-graders jumped onto the stage and chanted:
McIntyre for Sheriff. McIntyre’s the one.
If you don’t vote for McIntyre, you’re no fun!
The cheer went on for several embarrassingly sweet verses. Then, amidst cheers and clapping, the girls pranced off the stage. When Megan stopped to blow a kiss his direction, his heart filled with a love so powerful he could hardly contain it.
So began the process of speakers, a mishmash of everyday citizens willing to speak up for that McIntyre boy from the wrong side of the tracks; just plain folks, each with a brief story to tell about the sheriff who’d been there when they needed him. Holding Julee’s hand in a death grip, Tate looked on in humble amazement.
All the while his mind chanted the name of the woman who’d brought all this to pass. Julee. Champion of the underdog. Wonder worker of organization. What did it mean? Why had she gone to so much trouble to help him?
The last speaker rose from her lawn chair and with a rickety gait started toward the platform. Rising, Tate moved forward to assist the tiny, withered lady.
Georgia Barkley saw him coming and wagged her cane at him. “I can make it, boy. Git back over there with that pretty wife of yours. She’s pregnant, you know,” she declared, stating the obvious with such relish that everyone laughed.
“Now.” She wobbled up to the microphone where Tate stubbornly waited to lend a hand if needed. “All of you people know me. I taught half of you to read back in my teaching days. And it’s a crying shame you’re using that skill to spread this nonsense about our sheriff. Don’t you people know how hard this man’s worked?” She pointed out a walrus-faced man near the front. “Angus Fleming. Your filling station stays open until midnight, doesn’t it?”
At the command in Mrs. Barkley’s school-teacher voice, Angus sat up straight. “Yes, ma’am. Seven days a week.”
“How many nights has the sheriff come by to check on you before closing?”
“About every single night, I reckon.”
“And you, Heck Jones.” A bony finger picked out her next student. “When you’re out on the garbage truck at 4:00 a.m. do you ever see Sheriff McIntyre?”
“Sure do. Lights are on in his office most of the time.”
“You see what I’m getting at? His office is open all day and he spends time with your kids in the evenings, then works most of the night.” She nailed the crowd with an accusing stare. “We run this boy ragged. I don’t know when he sleeps. Shoot, I can’t even imagine when he had time to make that baby.”
The crowd roared with laughter. Tate grinned over at Julee whose cheeks blossomed bright pink. He gave her a naughty wink.
“Don’t get me wrong.” Leaning heavily on her cane, Mrs. Barkley went on in her thready voice. “I’m as guilty as the rest. He’s made many a trip to my place to look for a Peeping Tom. Why, who’d peep at an old bag like me? But he came anyway. Now, if we don’t keep our Sheriff McIntyre in his office, who’s going to take care of these things? And who’s going to bring Penelope her cat food? I’ll tell you who.” She banged her cane against the wooden platform. “Nobody.”
Affection for the lonely widow bloomed as Tate realized how long it had been since she’d called him. Not once since Julee had hired her to teach Megan piano. He missed that.
“So,” Mrs. Barkley continued, “it’s time we nipped all these silly lies about him right in the butt.”
Suppressing a laugh, Tate leaned down and corrected gently, “In the bud, Mrs. Barkley.”
“There, too. And some of you folks need more than a nip. You need a swift kick for even thinking our fine sheriff would do anything underhanded.” To nods and smiles, she said, “Now, this isn’t a funeral, you know. It’s a celebration to honor the finest sheriff we’ve ever had. I got a little song I want to play.” Tottering toward the electric keyboard set up to her right, she asked the pianist, “Mind if I borrow your pee-ano?”
Grinning, the keyboard player relinquished his seat. Georgia Barkley sat, then ran a few tentative chords. She leaned into the microphone. “I haven’t ever played one of these electric pee-anos, so here goes nothing.” The PA system squealed and she jerked back. “Lord o’ mercy.”
Tate didn’t know what to expect. But Georgia Barkley ripped into a Scott Joplin ragtime tune with a stern admonition that everyone dance, and the park erupted. People spilled out of their folding chairs and bee-bopped onto the concrete pavilion.
Tate laughed out loud and grabbed Julee by the wrist. “You heard the lady. Let’s dance.”
They zigzagged around the platform for the duration of Mrs. Barkley’s tune, but when she turned the music back to the band a slow dance began, Tate pulled his breathless wife toward him.
“You’ve put me in a dancing mood, Mrs. McIntyre.” He bent for a kiss, lingering long enough to make him wish they were home alone.
“Good. You needed a little fun and relaxation.” She slid her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder. “How’s your knee holding up?”
“Fine.” The heck with his aching knee. He nuzzled her ear. “I don’t know what to say, or how to thank you for this,” he murmured, his voice growing gruff with emotion while all around them people danced and talked and ate barbecue. “I feel…I feel…” He couldn’t find the words.
“Shh. I know.” Julee pressed soft fingertips to his lips. “People just needed a reminder, Tate.”
But he knew what she’d done. She’d made him realize for the first time that this town not only respected him as a lawman, they cared about him as a person. She had no idea what that did for a man who’d grown up the mixed-breed bastard of a shady woman, always the outcast.
He pulled her to him, to hold her close in gratitude and love. “You’ve done so much.”
She smiled. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Sheriff. We still have lots more work to do between now and election day.”
“But you’re leaving on Tuesday.”
She laid a long-nailed hand against his cheek. “Some things are more important than money, Tate. After all you’ve done, I couldn’t leave you to fight this alone.”
He stepped back, puzzled. What was she saying? “The designer campaign—it’s what you always wanted. Aren’t you going to L.A.?”
“I canceled the trip, turned down the contract. There will be other ad campaigns. Elections only come every four years.”
Blood pounded in Tate’s temples and he was certain his bad knee was about to give way. Julee had turned down the assignment of a lifetime for him? What did it mean? That he was more than a sperm donor? That she trusted him to provide for her and Megan?
Settling his chin on her head, he breathed in the smoky essence of her hair, loving her so much he ached. And for the first time in many years the boy from the wrong side of the blanket felt loved in return. Julee, the woman who’d shattered his life, was giving it back to him.
“Julee,” he pledged, “I’ll find a way to take care of us. We’ll be all right.”
She touched his cheek. “Of course we will.”
Bitterness, long buried inside him like a festering thorn, lifted and floated away on the scent of barbecued ribs.
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it against his chest, unable to stop the words that tumbled out. “I love you, Julee. I’ve always loved you.”
Julee heard the sweet words but didn’t reply. Instead she laid her head against his chest and remembered the last time he’d said them—ten years ago before she’d stepped on that Greyhound bus. And as soon as she was out of sight, he’d found another woman. Would he do the same the next time she left for L.A.? Even if she wanted to believe that he loved her, the memory of that betrayal wouldn’t go away.
Julee worked tirelessly on Tate’s campaign during the next weeks and when at last the victory came, she was delirious with excitement. Tate, too, was overjoyed and seemed lighter, happier, more comfortable in his own skin. The town’s affirmation, she was certain, had done that for him.
Thanksgiving came and then Christmas. They celebrated in small-town style with a parade down Main Street and Megan’s school play in the auditorium. All the while the need to work pressed on Julee’s mind as hard as the baby pressed on her heart. She’d missed her opportunity to model while pregnant, so all she could do now was bide her time until after the delivery. Funny how every moment spent with Tate made her that much more reluctant to return to L.A. But return she must. Her life was there and so was her livelihood. She belonged in California just as Tate belonged here. They had made a bargain and she would keep her end of it.