Kitabı oku: «The Truth About Tate», sayfa 3

From the time the senator had told Natalie about his affair with Lucinda Rawlins and the illegitimate son it had produced, she’d wondered about the woman. Was she as pretty as Chaney remembered, as sly, deceitful and cunning as he claimed? Had she pursued him, seduced him and deliberately set out to trap him, or had it been just one more instance of the senator’s lack of self-control?

In the photograph with her sons and grandson, Lucinda didn’t look sly, deceitful or cunning. What she looked like, in fact, was the senator’s preferred type—slim, blond, pretty, delicate. She had a lovely smile and held herself with a certain grace, though her life certainly hadn’t been easy. According to the senator, her marriage to Tate’s father had ended when he’d found himself one girlfriend too many. She’d been left to raise two kids alone, with no help from either father, and she had apparently been very successful. Well, except for the fact that Tate had apparently repeated her mistake and wound up raising Jordan alone.

“Hey.”

She gave a start, then turned to face the subject of her last thought, standing in the kitchen doorway.

“I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear. I don’t know if—if Uncle J.T. told you, but the doorbell at the side door doesn’t work. We got hit by lightning in the last storm, and it fried the doorbell and Grandma’s cable and the telephone. We got the telephone fixed, but if you want to watch cable, you have to come over to our place, and Dad will fix the doorbell—” he swallowed hard, and his cheeks turned pink “—or—or maybe Uncle J.T. will. When he gets the time. Maybe.”

Natalie offered her warmest smile to put the boy at ease. “I appreciate your picking up my stuff for me. It was nice of your uncle to volunteer you.”

“They’re always doing that,” he said with a shrug that was an unconscious imitation of J.T.’s. “But I don’t mind. I just got my driver’s license a couple months ago. Your bags are by the door. Want me to put them in the guest room?”

“That’s okay. I’ll get them later. Do you have to get to work, or can you sit down and talk?”

He shifted uneasily. “I’ve got football practice in a little bit.”

“In this heat?”

“We just run some laps, and mostly work out in the weight room. It’s air-conditioned. And we drink a lot of water and Gatorade and stuff. We won’t spend a lot of time outside until week after next.”

“I saw the sign outside town that said you were the state champions last year.”

He seemed intent on dragging the toe of his boot back and forth across the seam where vinyl flooring met carpet. “Yeah, we did okay.”

“I bet you did better than okay.” He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, about 180 pounds of muscle—and acting as shy as a tongue-tied six-year-old. “Is football your only sport?”

“I play baseball, too. Pitcher, just like my dad. He was one of the best jocks Hickory Bluff ever saw. He was recruited by the OU Sooners and the Razorbacks his senior year.”

“What happened?”

Jordan stared at the floor for a moment. When he looked up, his brown eyes were dark with regret. “Me.”

“Oh.” Natalie’s smile felt forced. “Look at it this way—you probably saved him from a lifetime of aches and pains from too many injuries.”

“Yeah, I saved him a chance at the pros and making millions and retiring when he’s thirty-five.”

“Do you think he’d rather have the chance at the pros and making millions than you?”

Jordan raised his head and slowly smiled at her—the naturally perfect smile that she doubted she would get to see his uncle wearing. “Nope. My grandma says I’m the light of their lives.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said dryly. “What’s your favorite subject in school?”

They answered in unison. “Football.”

“What’s your favorite academic subject?”

“Algebra. I think after college I’ll teach math and be a coach.”

“And you’ll be the most popular math teacher the school has ever seen—with the girls, at least.” She hesitated, debated the wisdom of her next question, then asked anyway. “Your father’s not married, is he?”

“No.”

“And J.T. isn’t married, either, is he?”

“Nope. Are you?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

He looked like J.T., his mannerisms were like J.T.’s, and he was quick to ask questions like J.T. Kind of made her wonder just how much effort his father had put into raising him, and how much of the responsibility J.T. had shouldered.

With a sigh, she sat down in the nearest chair. Jordan took a seat on the sofa arm. “Why am I not married…. Nobody ever asked. I didn’t particularly want to get married. I haven’t had much time in the past year or so for dating.” Or much desire. In fact, the thing she’d wanted to do most in that time was hibernate. Disappear off the face of the earth. Find some way to turn back time and make right everything she’d done wrong.

“Take your pick, or make your own excuse.” She smiled tautly. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

A faint blush stained Jordan’s cheeks. “Sort of. We go out, but she sees other guys, too.”

“Are you free to see other girls?”

“Yeah, but who’s got the time?”

Or the desire, Natalie suspected. A faithful man—a rarity in her experience. She wondered—purely for the sake of the book—if his uncle shared that trait or took after the fidelity-challenged Chaneys.

“Her name is Shelley. Here’s a picture of her.” He passed over a brass frame from the end table. It held an eight-by-ten-inch photograph of a dozen or more teenagers. Jordan and a tiny blonde were front and center, looking like Ken and Barbie, Jr.

“She’s pretty,” Natalie said of Shelley, then pointed to another girl. “Who is she?”

“That’s Mike. She lives down the road a ways. Her real name is Michaela.” With a glance at his watch, he jumped to his feet. “I gotta go. See you later.”

While listening to his footsteps, then the slam of the door, Natalie continued to study the photo. The kids all looked so young, so fresh-faced and innocent, starting lives that were brimming with potential. It seemed she had always been the new kid in school, there and gone before she’d had the chance to make any lasting friendships. She envied the kids and hoped they enjoyed the camaraderie while they could.

Poor Mike didn’t look as if she was enjoying anything in the moment captured on film. She was taller than every girl and most of the boys in the shot, a brunette in a sea of blondes, her glasses unflattering and her clothes ill-fitting, and she was looking at Jordan as if he’d hung the moon. Unfortunately, Jordan was looking at Cheerleader Barbie’s Best Friend, Shelley, in exactly the same way.

Young love. Young heartache.

Natalie’s only experience with heartache had been of a nonromantic nature. She’d been betrayed by her only best friend ever, and she couldn’t imagine a lover’s betrayal could hurt any worse. She didn’t intend to find out, though. In the foreseeable future, her life was going to revolve around work—the book on Senator Chaney, undoing the mistakes of the past, righting the wrongs, winning back her father’s respect.

Like Jordan, she had no time or desire for anything more.

Chapter Three

It was after six when Tate returned to the house with only two things on his mind—a long, cool shower and a quiet, peaceful evening sacked out on the couch in front of the TV. The instant he saw the Mustang parked under the tree, though, the hope for a quiet evening went right out of his mind. He had to spend the evening with the woman of a thousand questions. He’d have no peace tonight.

As he reined in his horse, then swung from the saddle, he smiled without humor. He had to spend the evening with Natalie Grant. When was the last time he’d spent three whole hours with a beautiful woman and complained about it? Hell, he couldn’t remember his last date. Sometime last winter, he thought, with one of Jordan’s teachers. The kid had been mortified and had done all but beg him not to make a second date.

Tate hadn’t. Ms. Blythe, the English teacher, had been about as interesting as the subject she taught, and she’d spoken to him as if he were one of her students…at least until she’d sucked the oxygen right out of his lungs.

He didn’t think he had to worry about anything like that with Natalie—though given a choice, he’d rather kiss her than lie to her.

Damn, given the choice, he’d rather kiss Ms. Blythe than lie to Natalie. He just wasn’t cut out for deception and dishonesty.

He’d just finished tending his horse and tack and was heading for the house when he saw Natalie come out next door and start toward her car. When she saw him, she angled toward him, strolling across the yard as if she belonged there. The rays from the evening sun made her burnished hair glow and gave her creamy skin a golden gleam. She’d removed the ribbon that contained her hair in a ponytail, and now it hung wild and unrestrained down her back, so thick and electric that touching it, he thought, might send out sparks.

Burying his hands in it might generate more heat than he could bear.

“Hey,” she said, turning and falling into step beside him. “Long day.”

“The usual.” He removed his hat and drew his arm across his forehead. His sleeve came away wet and grimy. He was dripping with sweat, coated with dust and stank to high heaven…but he would swear he could smell the subtle fragrance of her perfume. Sweet. Clean. Light. “Did Jordan get back okay with your stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Did he take it inside for you?”

“Yes, he did. Then he left for football practice. Isn’t it way too hot for that?”

“If life stopped around here for the heat and the drought, we’d be shut down part of July, all of August and most of September every year. The kids are used to it, and the coaches keep an eye on them.”

“I know you played football in high school because I saw the picture. Any other sports?”

“Baseball. I was a pitcher.”

“You, too?” At his questioning glance, she shrugged. “Jordan said he’s a pitcher, and so was his dad. So all three Rawlins boys have a good arm.”

Through sheer will, Tate kept his grimace inside. This damned charade offered a million chances to screw up, and he’d just taken one. Truth was, Josh couldn’t hit the barn with a rock unless he was standing within spittin’ distance. He’d rodeoed and chased girls, and that was it.

He climbed the steps to the back door, then turned to find her following. Deliberately he blocked her way. “Yeah…well…” Brilliant observations, but all he could think of at the moment. Then he turned the conversation back on her. “I know Jordan didn’t say, ‘Here’s your luggage and, by the way, did you know my dad and I both pitched for the Wildcats?’”

“No, of course not. We were talking, and I asked—” She broke off and backed down a step, then another. Because she realized she’d already broken their agreement? Or because he was scowling at her? “I wasn’t questioning him. We were talking. He asked me if I was married. I asked him if he played anything besides football. It was just idle conversation.”

Like father, like son. Under better circumstances, whether she was married would be one of his first questions, too. It was too late for that now, but… “Are you? Married, I mean?”

Confusion shadowed her blue eyes momentarily, then cleared. “No. I’m not.”

It was an unimportant detail. She might as well be, for all it mattered. She was still a reporter snooping into his family’s lives. He was still lying to her with every breath he took. He couldn’t summon any respect for her or her job, and at the moment he was fresh out of it for himself, too.

Even so, it seemed harder to break her gaze than it should be. He managed by digging out his keys and turning to unlock the door. “Give me half an hour to clean up, then we’ll eat supper.”

“I can fix something—”

“It’s taken care of.” Leaving her at the foot of the steps, he went inside, closed and locked the door, then drew a deep breath. He needed a date. Soon.

He left his boots by the door, put a pan of Lucinda’s lasagna in the oven, tossed his clothes into the hamper, then stepped into the shower under a stream of cool water. Once his body temperature dropped below steaming, he warmed the water, then scrubbed away layers of grime. He also, for reasons he didn’t look at too closely, shaved before he got out.

With a towel wrapped around his middle, he went into his bedroom…and stopped a fair distance back from the south window. There he had a clear view of the big old blackjack and the Mustang—and Natalie and Jordan. She was removing items from the trunk—Tate recognized a laptop-computer carrying case slung over one shoulder—while Jordan walked in an admiring circle around the car. When she closed the trunk, he picked up a box of the type used to store files, and they started toward the house, talking easily. Of course, she was a reporter, paid for getting people to open up, and Jordan had never met a stranger in his life.

As they disappeared from sight, the phone beside the bed rang. Tate got it on the third ring, bracing it between his ear and shoulder while he started dressing. “Hello.”

It was Josh. “How’s it going?”

“So far, so good. How’s Grandpop?”

“Not feeling too hot. So far, he’s found fault with everything I’ve done—and he’s not even out of the hospital yet.”

Tate chuckled at the aggrieved tone of his brother’s voice. “I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. I’d rather have Grandpop griping at me than Ms. Alabama following me around with all her questions.”

“I think for once I got the lesser of two evils. What’s the lady reporter like?”

“About what we expected,” Tate replied with a twinge of guilt. She was persistent and stubborn, as they’d known she would be. But she was also so much more.

“What’s the plan?”

His plan was to avoid any slipups, to be as truthful with Natalie as possible while pretending to be someone else, to not tell her too much and to not notice any more than necessary how pretty she was…how good she smelled…how he was a sucker for leggy redheads and Southern drawls.

“I’m not sure,” he hedged. “She’s coming over for dinner in a few minutes. I guess I’ll find out then. Tell Mom I love her, and Gran and Grandpop, too.”

“Sure. Tate…? Thanks.”

“Hey, Rawlinses stick together, right? See you.” Tate hung up, pulled on a T-shirt and combed his fingers through his hair, then headed for the kitchen. He was buttering a loaf of French bread when Jordan came in from the office. Natalie was two steps behind him.

“How was practice?”

“Okay.” Jordan took a carton of milk from the refrigerator, gave it a shake, then drained it straight from the carton.

It was a habit Lucinda had tried to break, but since it was one Tate shared, he let it slide, except for a comment for Natalie’s benefit. “We don’t drink out of the carton unless we know we’re going to finish it, do we, son?”

Too late—when Jordan’s gaze jerked to him—Tate remembered. A glance at Natalie, though, showed no reason to worry. Men called boys son. She obviously thought nothing of it.

“Hey, uh, Uncle J.T., can I get online until supper’s ready?” Jordan asked.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Once he was gone from the room, Natalie came closer, leaning against the counter a few feet away. “Does he have any chores besides tinkering with old engines?”

“Are you kidding? He could run this place if he had to. There’s not a job here he can’t handle. After all, it’ll belong to him someday.”

“Along with any children you might have. But what if he doesn’t want to be a rancher?”

“He can be whatever he wants…but the land will be here for him.”

“It’s the Rawlins Ranch, right?” She waited for his nod. “Does the elder Rawlins—Tate’s father—mind that you’re a partner in his family’s spread?”

Tate opened a bottle of pop and started filling three glasses. This wasn’t the time to tell her that the only elder Rawlins around was his grandfather, that Rawlins was Lucinda’s family name and not that of her elder son’s father. As long as he could keep things straight in his head, she didn’t need to know all the details of his family’s lives. “T-Tate’s father can’t complain about me being a partner for several reasons. First, he hasn’t been around for a long time.” Truth—his old man had disappeared five months before he had appeared. He hadn’t offered to shoulder any responsibilities or pay any support. He’d kissed Lucinda goodbye and walked out the door. “Second, this place was never in his family. The Rawlinses of Rawlins Ranch are us—my mother, my brother, Jordan and me.”

“He calls you ‘uncle.’”

“Yeah? So?”

She shrugged. “No older than you are, I’d expect him to simply use your name.”

“I’m old enough to be his father.”

“Not quite. Not unless you discovered sex very young. Did you?”

Tate slowly looked at her. No one would guess, just by looking, that she’d asked such a provocative question, or raised his body temperature about twenty degrees, or made his throat clamp down so tightly that he wasn’t sure he could speak. No, she simply stood there, a bright splash of color and texture, cool, calm, unaffected.

“You tell me about your first time, and I’ll tell you about mine,” he said in a low, thick voice.

She moved, revealing an edge of restlessness that hadn’t been present earlier. “I’m not the subject of this book. No one’s interested in my first time.”

“I am.”

“You’d be bored.”

“Try me.”

She shuffled her feet, slid her hands behind her back, then clasped them in front of her. “I was nineteen. He was in too big a hurry. It was painful, messy and thoroughly unpleasant. End of story.”

“And I wasn’t bored at all.”

Her cheeks pink, she gestured. “Your turn.”

When the oven timer went off, he removed the lasagna and slid the bread under the broiler. He took plates from the cabinet, utensils from the drawer and serving utensils from another drawer. Out of diversions, finally he faced her. “I was seventeen, and I wasn’t in a hurry at all. It was better than I expected, not as good as it could be, and I enjoyed it thoroughly.”

She picked up one of the glasses and took a long drink of pop before continuing. “Jordan is only a year younger than you were then. Do you worry about him?”

“We’ve talked.” His smile was sardonic. “It’s one of the benefits of being no older than I am. We can easily discuss things that might be more difficult if I were ten or fifteen years older.”

“You’ve talked. Not Jordan and his father, but him and you. Why? Isn’t his father interested?”

Tate scowled as he used hot pads to carry the lasagna to the table. She followed with the dishes. “Of course his father is interested. They’re very close.”

“But…?”

“But nothing. They get along just fine. Why don’t you take notes?”

The abrupt change of subject threw her, as he’d intended. She blinked, then gave a shake of her head. “I will when it’s necessary. Right now we’re just getting acquainted.”

“So that’s what you call it,” he said dryly, then raised his voice. “Jordan, come on and eat.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Their voices sounded alike, Natalie thought as she slid into the same seat where she’d had lunch. They also looked a lot alike. She wondered about Tate, and if his son resembled him half as much as his uncle.

Carrying the bread and his own pop, J.T. sat across from her, leaving the chair at the head of the table for Jordan.

“Is there any work around here that doesn’t require a horse?” she asked while they waited for the boy to join them.

“Plenty. Why?”

“I’d like to follow you around for a few days, to get a feel for what you do.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “But I’ll be using Rusty all week. And you probably don’t know how to ride, do you? Too bad.”

“You’re not funny, Mr. Rawlins,” she said primly as she tried to suppress a smile.

“I wasn’t trying to be. How did you manage to reach the age of— How old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

“—without learning to ride?”

“Gee, I don’t know. I guess horses were just too cumbersome for the high-rise apartments where we mostly lived.”

“Around here kids learn to ride as soon as they can sit up by themselves.”

Natalie studied him skeptically. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Not by much. Hold your ears for a minute.” Pursing his lips, he let out a shrill whistle that could vibrate loose the fillings in her back teeth.

From down the hall came a grumbled, “All right, I’m coming.” A moment later, Jordan joined them. “I was just talking to some girls in California.”

“Here’s a novel idea—why don’t you pick up the phone and have a real conversation?” J.T. countered. “Better yet, after you do the dishes, why don’t you saddle up Cougar and ride over to see Mike in person?”

“Nah.” Then the boy’s eyes lit up. “But if you want to give me the keys, I can go into town and see a bunch of people. Then you two can talk all evening.”

“If you’re back by ten. Why don’t you invite Mike?”

“Aw, Da—Uncle J.T. If I show up with Mike, Shelley’s gonna spend the whole evening ignoring me. She doesn’t like Mike.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Jordan mumbled.

I do, Natalie thought to herself. The Barbie clone wanted everyone’s attention all for herself, especially Jordan’s. She wanted to be the only girl he cared about, even if she was stringing him along while going out with other guys. As for Mike’s dislike…she was tall, flat-chested, lacking in curves, bespectacled and plain. How could she not dislike the gorgeous little cheerleader doll?

Then, of course, there was Jordan. Mike wanted him. Shelley had him.

After a moment J.T. gave in. Jordan scarfed down two large helpings of lasagna and half a loaf of bread, then left. Both the door and the screen door slammed behind him.

In the silence that followed, Natalie finished her first and only helping of the dish while J.T. worked on his second. “You’re not really going to hide behind your horses to avoid me, are you?”

“It’s a thought.”

“You know, the more you restrict my access to you, the longer my visit will have to last.”

“You’ll have to go home eventually.”

She grinned. “I have plenty of clothes, my notes on the senator, my cell phone and my computer. I could survive indefinitely with nothing else.”

“What about your life back in Alabama? Your friends, your boyfriend, your other work?”

“I don’t have a life in Alabama.” No friends. Just people who’d once pretended to be. No boyfriend. No other work. This book had become her life.

And she wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if she was a little lonely. Really, she wouldn’t.

“No life?” J.T. repeated skeptically. “No boyfriend?”

She was flattered that he found it so difficult to believe that there wasn’t at least one man in the state of Alabama who wanted her, and was amused by her own feeling of flattery. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Well, at the moment I’ve got much more important things in my life. Men come pretty low on my list.”

“Why?”

With a shake of her head, she gave a low laugh. “You really have trouble grasping this question-and-answer process, don’t you? It’s really very simple. I ask. You answer. I can write it down for you to look at from time to time if you’d like.”

Between bites he said, “You said we were getting acquainted. That implies an exchange of information. You can’t get acquainted with me and remain a stranger to me. So why don’t you like men?”

“I like men. They have their uses.” Under different circumstances, she could like him a lot. She could find plenty of uses for him. “I just don’t want one in my life.”

“Why not?”

For a time Natalie considered various answers and lies, as well as simply refusing any answer at all. She thought about pointing out to him that his getting to know her wasn’t part of the deal, that he should be grateful she was trying to learn everything about him, that she could write the book as easily without his cooperation as with. The only difference was in the degree of accuracy—getting the chance to put his spin on things.

In the end, though, she answered. Maybe not completely, but truthfully, as far as it went. “My father is one of the greatest journalists who ever lived. I’ve known since I was a little kid that I wanted to be just like him. I know I’ll never be as good, but I’m trying.” She thought of the headlines fifteen months ago and inwardly cringed. She really was trying. Too bad she was failing. “One of the things he taught me was that this job requires dedication. Commitment. Doing it right—doing it Thaddeus Grant’s way—isn’t conducive to maintaining relationships or raising a family. I see no point in getting involved with a man who can’t compete with the job for my attention, and I certainly see no sense in bringing kids into the picture.”

“So your father didn’t love you, and you’re following in his footsteps by refusing to love anyone, in the same way.”

“My father loved me!” she protested.

“Not as much as he loved the job. Hey, my old man never gave a damn about me, either. But shutting yourself off from everyone else isn’t the way to deal with it.”

“I’m not shut off from anyone. I have plenty of contact with people. In fact, I spend so much time with people that most evenings it’s a pleasure to go home to an empty apartment. By the end of most days, I crave peace and quiet and solitude.” Usually that was true. Some days, though, she wanted what J.T. had—a close-knit family whose members cared about each other, who were there for each other. All she had was her father, and far from being there for her when she’d needed him, he’d withdrawn. He’d spoken to her only once, to tell her what a disappointment she’d become. He’d helped break her heart.

Shutting out the memory of the chill in his voice and his eyes, she toyed with her fork for a moment before meeting J.T.’s gaze again. “You ask awfully personal questions, considering that we’re strangers.”

He gave that sexy little shrug. “Have I asked you anything you didn’t ask me first?”

“But I’m being paid to ask questions.”

“So this is my payment. You want answers from me? You have to provide your own answers.”

When he pushed his plate back, she stood up, gathered the dishes and carried them to the sink, where she began rinsing them.

“After-supper cleanup is Jordan’s job.” J.T.’s voice came from somewhere behind her.

She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and instead concentrated on scrubbing away every particle of pasta, cheese and sauce before loading the dishes in the dishwasher. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s not a matter of minding. It’s his responsibility.”

“But I’m already finished.” She dried her hands, then faced him. “Can I go out with you tomorrow?”

“We start early.”

“I know. You get up at five-fifteen and have breakfast at five-thirty. When I interviewed Boyd, Jr., the oldest of your half brothers, I usually got back to the hotel around five-thirty. I doubt he’s been out of bed before noon since he graduated from high school.”

“And what did you and Boyd, Jr., do until five-thirty in the morning?”

“He partied, gambled, drank, ate, flirted. I watched. When I interviewed Kathleen, the second child, I was lucky to get four hours of sleep a night. She indulges in all of Junior’s pastimes, and is a world-class shopper, as well.”

“So they party, they play, they spend money. And your publisher actually thinks people want to read about this?”

“People are fascinated by the idle rich, especially when they attract scandal like…like Jordan’s Barbie doll attracts admirers.”

“Jordan’s—” Breaking off, J.T. grinned. It was a sight to see—white teeth, crinkled brown skin, a light in his dark eyes. “You saw Shelley’s picture at Mom’s.”

She nodded. “The most popular girl in Hickory Bluff. The cheerleader, the class president, the princess in the homecoming queen’s court, the star of the school play, the sweetest voice in the school choir. The golden girl whose life so far has been perfect, who makes other girls’ lives miserable.”

He gestured, and she preceded him into the living room. “You learned all that from a photograph? Or were you describing yourself back in high school?”

With a chuckle Natalie chose to sit on the sofa. It was one of those really comfortable overstuffed models, the perfect place to snuggle in among puffy pillows and cushions and drift off to sleep. “I was nobody’s golden girl. For me, high school was an ordeal to be endured. Graduation was one of the happiest days of my life.” Except that her father hadn’t been there. What had kept him away that time? Another terrorist attack in the Middle East? Some new crisis in Moscow or Baghdad or Belfast?

“Where did you go to high school?”

“New York. And Connecticut, Virginia and D.C.”

“I went from kindergarten through twelfth grade here in Hickory Bluff.”

“You were lucky.”

“Yeah, I was.”

When silence settled between them, she gazed around the room. There were family photographs on every wall, but none of Jordan’s mother or Tate’s father. A rusty horseshoe hung above the front door, and a sandstone fireplace filled one wall, with bookcases on either side crammed with—surprise—books. Neither the room nor its furnishings could hold a candle to the lavish residences the other Chaney siblings called home. They surrounded themselves with antiques, designer names and opulent furnishings, spending fortunes on the most exquisite items money could buy…but not one of them had a sofa that invited you to nap cozily cradled in its softness. Not one that she could recall displayed personal items with pride and affection, like the photos, the child’s sculpture of a horse or the handmade Best Dad Award that stood on the fireplace mantel.