The Truth About Tate. Marilyn Pappano
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it from you until you were older?”
Tate flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. This was a question he could answer for both Josh and himself. His grandparents may have been ashamed, the esteemed senator in denial and his own father uncaring, but Lucinda had always been honest and straightforward. “It was never a big secret. When I started asking questions, she gave me answers.”
“What was your first question?”
“If I had a father like the other kids.” He’d seen other kids with men in their lives who played catch with them, took them fishing and taught them things mothers knew nothing about, or so it seemed, and he’d wondered why he just had Lucinda. She’d chuckled and said, “Of course you have a father. Did you think the angels just delivered you out of the blue?”
He’d been older—seven, maybe eight—before he’d started asking for details. She’d told him his father’s name was Hank Daniels and he’d been a rodeo cowboy. A married rodeo cowboy, she’d admitted when he was ten or so. It wasn’t until he’d found himself in high school and trying to convince Stephani to marry him that he’d learned the rest of the story. How Lucinda had met Hank at a rodeo in Tulsa. How he’d swept her off her feet and taken her for the ride of her life. How she’d gone on the road with him, traveling from rodeo to rodeo, falling in love, living only for the moment. How she’d told him she was pregnant, and he’d told her he was already supporting a wife back in Dallas and the last thing he’d wanted was a pregnant girlfriend to add to his troubles.
“When you understood who your father was,” Natalie went on, “what did you think?”
“You mean, was I impressed?” Tate made a scornful noise. Hank Daniels hadn’t been as impressive as Boyd Chaney, but he’d made a name for himself. He’d won championships, had made and squandered a few small fortunes. “He was an arrogant jerk who seduced my mother, had his fun, then left her to deal with the consequences alone. The fact that he wasn’t just an average jerk didn’t make him any less of a jerk.”
“Your mother was…twenty-five or so?” She waited for his confirming nod. “She wasn’t exactly…inexperienced.”
“She was twenty-five, from a dusty little podunk town, working as a waitress in a restaurant that wouldn’t have let her through the door if she weren’t part of the help. She was living in a strange place, she had no friends, no money, no self-esteem and no hope. She didn’t stand a chance against him.”
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