The exchange of cabins between Tate Jordan and Harry Hennessey was completed within four days. Hennessey was enchanted with Tate's offer, and with the appropriate amount of grumbling, Tate eventually moved his things. He claimed that he didn't particularly like his cabin, was sick and tired of hearing Hennessey bitch, and had no vested interest in any of the cabins. To him, it was one and the same. No one took any particular notice of the transaction, and by Thursday night Tate had unpacked all his things. In her room at Aunt Caro's, Samantha waited patiently in the dark until nine thirty, when Caroline was safely in her room. Samantha left via her window and padded through the garden at the rear of the house, until only a few moments later she reached Tate's front door. His new cabin was almost directly behind the house and could be seen by no other. It was even protected from the view of the big house by the fruit trees at the back end of the garden, so there was no one who could see Samantha slip quietly through the door. Tate was waiting for her, barefoot, bare-chested, and in blue jeans, his hair almost blue-black, with salt at the temples and liquid green fire in his eyes. His skin was as smooth as satin, and he folded her rapidly into his arms. Moments later they were between clean sheets on his narrow bed. It was only after they had made love that they indulged in conversation, that she giggled about sneaking out her window and told him that she was sure that at that very moment Bill King was tiptoeing through the front door.
“Doesn't this all seem ridiculous at our age?” She was amused but he wasn't.
“Just think of it as romantic.” Like Bill King with his concern for Caro, Tate Jordan had no intention of turning Sam into a laughingstock on the ranch. She was no quick piece of ass, no easy lay from New York. She was one hell of a special lady, and now she was his woman, and he would protect her if he had to, even from herself. And she understood nothing of the code of behavior between ranchers and ranch hands. What they did was their business and no one else's, and always would be, no matter what Samantha said. It was a point that she no longer chose to argue, there were always too many other things to say. She knew his position now, and he was well aware of hers, there was nothing left to be said for the moment about their clandestine arrangements. And it was comfortable enough for a while. For some reason, in her own mind, she had decided to make it an “open secret” by summer. She figured by then they would have been lovers for six or seven months, and he would be less uptight about the others knowing the score. And she realized as she thought of the summer that suddenly she was thinking of staying on at the ranch. It was the first time that she had admitted to herself that she might stay there, and it brought up the question of what she would do with her job in New York. But she figured that there was time to work that out too. It was still only December, although it already felt as though she had been on the Lord Ranch, and was Tate Jordan's woman, for a number of years.
“Happy?” he asked her just before they drifted off to sleep, linked together, her legs entwined in his, and his arm around her shoulders.
“Mmmm.…”She smiled at him with her eyes closed, and he kissed her eyelids once just before she drifted off to sleep. She awoke when he did at four o'clock the next morning and made her way back through the orchards behind the garden, slipped in through her half-open window, and turned on the lights. She showered as she always did, dressed, went to the main hall to breakfast, and thus, for Samantha Taylor, began a new life.
On Valentine's Day she got a card from Charlie Peterson from her office that made reference to her empty office. For the first time she thought of the job waiting for her in New York. She told Tate about it that night as she lay in his arms. It was a nightly ritual now. She was there each night no later than nine o'clock, after eating dinner with Aunt Caro and then taking a bath.
“What's he like?” Tate watched her with interest as she flung herself on the couch with a happy grin.
“Charlie?” She narrowed her eyes at the man who now felt like her husband. “Are you jealous?”
“Should I be?” His voice was even.
“Hell no!” The words were blended with a shout of laughter. “He and I have never been involved, besides he has a wife and three sons and she's pregnant again. I just love him like a brother, you know, kind of like my best buddy. We've worked together for years.”
He nodded. And then, “Sam, don't you miss your job?”
She was silent and pensive for a moment before answering and then shook her head. “You know, the amazing thing is that I don't. Caroline says it was that way for her too. When she left her old life, she just left it. And she never had any desire to go back. I feel that way too, I miss it less and less every day.”
“But you miss it some?” He had trapped her, and she rolled over on her stomach now and looked into his eyes as she lay on the couch and he sat near her with his back to the fire.
“Sure, I miss some of it. Like sometimes I miss my apartment, or some of my books, or my things. But I don't miss my life there. Or my job. Most of the things that I do miss are all the things that I could bring here if I wanted to. But the job … it's so strange, I spent all that time working so hard, and trying so damn hard to become important, and now …” She shrugged at him and looked like a very young, very blond sprite. “I just don't give a damn about that anymore. All I care about is if the steers are rounded up, if there's work to be done, if Navajo needs new shoes, if the fence in the north pasture is down. I don't know, Tate, it's as though something happened. As though I became a different person when I left New York.”
“But somewhere in you, Sam, is still that old person. That person who wanted to write prize-winning commercials and be important in your line of work. You're going to miss that one day.”
“How do you know that?” She looked suddenly angry. “Why do you keep pushing me to be what I don't want to be anymore? Why? Do you want me to go back? Are you scared of the commitment, Tate, of what it might mean?”
“Maybe. I have a right to be scared, Sam, you're a hell of a woman.” He knew that she wasn't willing to keep their life together a secret forever, that she wanted their love out in the open. That was something that worried him a great deal.
“Well, don't push me. Right now I don't want to go back. And if I do, I'll tell you.”
“I hope so.” But they both knew that her leave of absence had only six more weeks to run. She had promised herself that she would make a decision by mid-March. She still had a month. But only two weeks later, as they rode slowly back from the secret cabin where they still spent idyllic Sundays, he looked mischievous and told her that he had a surprise.
“What kind of surprise?”
“You'll see when we get home.” He leaned over toward her from where he sat on his pinto and kissed her full on the lips.
“Let's see … what could it be …?” She managed to look both naughty and pensive, and also very young, at the same time. She had her long blond hair in two pigtails tied with red ribbons, and she was wearing a brand-new pair of red snakeskin cowboy boots. Tate had teased her horribly about them, telling her that they were even worse than Caro's green ones, but with the Blass and Ralph Lauren and Halston wardrobe cast off since she'd arrived at the ranch, they had been her only whimsical purchase in three months. “You bought me another pair of boots? Violet ones this time?”
“Oh, no …” he groaned as they rode slowly home.
“Pink?”
“I think I'm going to throw up.”
“All right, something else. Let's see … a waffle iron?” He shook his head. “A new toaster?” She grinned, she had set fire to theirs only last week. “A puppy?” She looked hopeful and he smiled but once again shook his head. “A turtle? A snake? A giraffe? A hippopotamus?” She laughed and so did he. “Hell, I don't know. What is it?”
“You'll see.”
As it turned out, it was a brand-new color television, which he had just bought through Josh's brother-in-law in the nearest town. Josh had promised to drop it off at Tate's place on Sunday. And Tate had
told him to leave it inside while he was out. And when he and Samantha came through the door, he pointed with an expression of pride mixed with glee.
“Tate! Babe, this is great!” But she was a lot less excited than she knew he was. She had been perfectly happy without one. And then she pouted coyly. “Does this mean the honeymoon is over?”
“Hell no!” He was quick to prove it, but afterward he turned on the TV. The Sunday news report was on. It was a special weekly wrap-up usually done by someone else, but tonight for some reason John Taylor was handling it, and as Sam saw him she suddenly stopped and stared at him, as though she was seeing him for the first time. It had been almost three months since she'd seen his face on TV, five since she'd seen him in person, and she realized now that she didn't care anymore. All that terrible hurt and pain had faded and all that was left now was a vague feeling of disbelief. Was this truly the man she had once lived with? Had she really loved that man for eleven years? Now as she watched him she thought he looked plastic and pompous, and suddenly the clear realization of how totally self-centered he was came to her for the first time and she wondered why she had never seen it before. “You like him, Sam?” Tate was watching her with interest, his angular rugged countenance in complete contrast to the baby-smooth golden boy looks of the younger man on the TV screen. And with an odd little smile Sam slowly shook her head, and then turned to face Tate.
“No, I don't.”
“You're sure watching him pretty close.” And then Tate grinned. “Go on, you can tell the truth. Does he turn you on?”
This time it was Samantha who grinned. She smiled with a look of freedom and relief and suddenly, finally, she knew it was over. She no longer had any tie whatsoever to John Taylor. She was her own woman now, and it was Tate Jordan whom she loved. In fact she didn't even give a damn if they'd had their baby, and she didn't care if she never saw either John or Liz again. But Tate was persistent as he watched her, sprawled out in the bed he had bought to accommodate their loving, with the soft blue blanket held to her chest.
“Come on, Sam, does he?”
“Nope,” she finally answered with a note of triumph. She kissed Tate playfully on the neck then. “But you do.”
“I don't believe you.”
“Are you kidding?” She whooped with laughter. “After what we just did all day you can doubt that you turn me on? Tate Jordan, you are craaaaaazzyyyy!”
“I don't mean that, silly. I mean about him. Look … look at that pretty blond newsman.” He was teasing her and Sam was laughing. “Look how pretty he is. Don't you want him?”
“Why? Can you get me a special deal? He probably sleeps in a hair net, and he's sixty years old and has had two face-lifts.” For the first time in her life she was enjoying making fun of John. He had always taken himself so damn seriously, and she had let him. The face and body and image and life and happiness of John Robert Taylor had been of prime importance to both of them. But what about her? When had Sam really mattered, if ever? Certainly not at the end when he ran off with Liz. Her face grew serious again as she remembered.
“I think you like him and you're too chicken to admit it.”
“Nope. You're wrong, Tate. I don't like him at all.” But she said it with such an air of conviction that he turned his head to look at her again, this time with a look of serious inquiry that hadn't been there before.
“Do you know him?” She nodded, but she looked neither moved nor amused. Mostly she looked indifferent, as though they were talking about a plant or a used car. “Do you know him well?”
“I used to.” She could see Tate bridle, and she wanted to tease him just a little. She placed a hand on his powerful naked chest and then smiled. “Don't get yourself excited, sweetheart. It was nothing. We were married for seven years.” For a moment everything seemed to stop in the little room. She could feel Tate's whole body tense beside her, and he sat up in the bed next to her and stared down at her with a look of dismay.
“Are you putting me on, Sam?”
“No.” She looked at him matter-of-factly, unnerved by his reaction, but not sure what it meant. It was probably just shock.
“He was your husband?”
She nodded again. “Yes.” And then she decided that the occasion needed further explanation. It wasn't every day that one saw the ex-husband of one's current lover on the television screen as one went to bed at night. She told him everything.
“But the funny thing is that I was just thinking as I watched him that I really don't give a damn anymore. When I was in New York, every night I used to watch that damn broadcast. I'd watch both of them, John and Liz, doing their cutesy little routine and talking about their precious baby as though the whole world cared that she was pregnant, and it used to turn me inside out. Once when I came in, Caro was watching it, and I almost felt sick. And you know what happened tonight when that plastic face came on the screen?” She looked at Tate expectantly but got no answer. “Absolutely nothing happened. Nothing. I didn't feel a damn thing. Not sick, not nervous, not pissed off, not left out. Nothing.” She smiled broadly. “I just don't care.”
With that, Tate got up, stalked across the room, and turned off the set. “I think that's wonderful. You used to be married to one of America's best-looking young heroes, clean-cut preppie John Taylor of television fame, and he leaves you and you find yourself a tired old cowboy, some ten or twelve years older than our hero, without a goddamn dime to his name, shoveling shit on a ranch, and you're trying to tell me that this is bliss? Not only is this bliss, but it's permanent bliss. Is that it, Samantha?” He was steaming, and Samantha felt helpless as she watched. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“Why? What difference does it make? Besides, he is not nearly as well known or successful as you seem to think he is.” But that wasn't quite true.
“Bullshit. You want to see my bank account, baby, and compare it to his? What does he make every year? A hundred grand? Two? Three? You know what I make, Samantha? You want to know? Eighteen thousand before taxes, and that was a big raise for me because I'm the assistant foreman. I'm forty-three years old, for chrissake, and compared to him, I don't make shit.”
“So what? Who gives a damn?” She was suddenly shouting as loud as he was, but she realized that it was because she was scared. Something had just happened to Tate when he learned that she and John had been married, and it frightened her. She didn't expect him to take it this hard. “The point is …” She made a conscious effort to lower her voice as she smoothed the blanket over her legs. By now Tate was pacing the room. “The point is what happened between us, what kind of people we were, what we were like to each other, what happened at the end, why he left me, how I felt about him and Liz and their baby. That's what matters, not how much money he makes or the fact that they're on TV. Besides, they're on television, Tate, I'm not. What difference does it make? Even if you're jealous of him, just look at him, dammit, he's a fool. He's a plastic little preppie that made good. He got lucky, that's all, he's got blond hair and a pretty face and the ladies around America like that. So what? What does that have to do with you and me? If you want to know what I think, I think it has absolutely nothing to do with us. And I don't give a shit about John Taylor. I love you.”
“So how come you didn't tell me who you were married to?” He sounded suspicious of her now, and she lay back in the bed and tugged at her hair, trying not to scream before she sat up to face him again, which she did with a look in her eye almost as ferocious as the look in his.
“Because I didn't think it was important.”
“Bullshit. You thought I'd feel like two cents, and you know something, sister?” He walked across the room and started to pull on his pants. “You were right. I do.”
“Then you're crazy.” She was shouting at him openly now, trying to fight his illusions with the truth. “Because you're worth fifty, a hundred, John Taylors. He's a selfish little son of a bitch who hurt me, for chrissake. You're a grown man, and a smart one, and a good on
e, and you've done nothing but be good to me since we met.” She looked around the room where they had spent all their evening hours for three months, and saw the paintings he had bought her to cheer the place up, the comfortable bed he had bought, even the color TV now to amuse her, the pretty sheets they made love on, the books he thought she'd like. She saw the flowers that he picked her whenever he thought no one was looking, the fruit he had brought just for her from the orchards, the sketch of her he had done one Sunday at the lake. She thought of the moments and the hours and the gestures, the rolls of film they had taken and the secrets they had shared and she knew once again, for the hundredth time, that John Taylor wasn't fit to lick Tate Jordan's boots. There were tears in her eyes when she spoke again and her voice was suddenly husky and deep. “I don't compare you to him, Tate. I love you. I don't love him anymore. That's all that means anything. Please try to understand that. That's all that matters to me.” She reached out to him but he kept his distance, and after a few minutes she let her hand drop to her side as she knelt naked on the bed with tears rolling slowly down her face.
“And you think all of that will mean something to you in five years? Oh, lady, don't be so naive. Five years from now I'll be just another cowboy, and he'll still be one of the most important people on television in this country. You think you won't stare at the set every night while you wash dishes and ask yourself how you wound up with me? This isn't playacting, you know. This is real life. Ranch life. Hard work. No money. This isn't a commercial you're making, lady, this is real.” She began to cry harder now at the fierceness of his words.
“Don't you think it's real to me?”
“How could it be, for chrissake? How could it be, Sam? Look at what you come from and how I live. What's your apartment in New York like? A penthouse on Fifth Avenue? Some fancy-schmancy number with a doorman and a French poodle and marble floors?”
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