But Natalie Grant was nothing if not persistent. She’d been harassing Josh for months, wanting his cooperation for her book. She’d called. He’d turned her down, hung up on her and ignored her messages. She’d written, and he’d written back once—“No, thanks, not interested”—then returned her following letters unopened. But none of that had stopped her from making the trip from Montgomery to Hickory Bluff.
And why shouldn’t she be persistent? Given Chaney’s political power, his wealth, his family’s penchant for scandal and the American people’s penchant for gossip, her book was bound for the bestseller lists. She stood to make a nice chunk of money by exposing Tate’s family to ridicule.
But maybe he could minimize the damage.
As if he sensed Tate was wavering, Josh asked, “How much effort do you think Ms. Alabama will make to be fair? He handpicked her to write the book. You can be damned sure everything will be skewed to make him out to be the good guy. She’ll say Mom—” With a glance toward the house, as if Lucinda could hear through the solid walls, he broke off. But he didn’t need to go on.
Tate had only one memory of the illustrious senator. He’d been about five years old when Chaney had come to their apartment in Montgomery. The election was coming up, and he’d brought money to persuade a very pregnant Lucinda to leave the state and keep the identity of her baby’s father secret. Tate hadn’t understood most of the conversation, or why the man was giving his mother so much money. But he’d never forgotten the ugliness in Chaney’s voice when he’d made one last remark before walking out the door. “Gold-digging whore.” The insult had made her cry, leaving Tate afraid to ask what it meant. Eventually, of course, he’d learned on his own, and he’d hated Chaney ever since.
Josh’s quiet voice pulled him back from the memory. “You think this reporter won’t make it look like Mom made a habit of having affairs with married men, getting pregnant and blackmailing a little cash out of them? And let’s toss in the fact that her older illegitimate son is raising his own illegitimate son. You think she won’t twist that so it reflects badly on you? On Mom? Hell, even on Jordan?”
Though he’d already made his decision, Tate continued to raise objections. “What if she finds out the truth?”
“You put the word out around town that you don’t want anyone talking to her.” The answer came from Jordan, standing in the doorway. Sixteen years old, and already showing his uncle Josh’s talent for deception. “Then make it one of the terms of your agreement, that she can only ask questions of you and me. Not Grandma, not the neighbors, not anyone who knows us.”
“And if she agrees to that, I’m supposed to trust her to keep her word?” A writer snooping around in people’s private lives didn’t strike him as the best candidate to trust. Anyone working in any capacity for that bastard Chaney couldn’t be too upright in the morals department.
“We won’t let her go into town alone.”
Tate shook his head as Jordan came closer. “There’s no ‘we’ in this. I don’t want you involved. You stay away from her, don’t talk to her and—”
“Dad, I live here, and unlike Josh and Grandma, I can’t leave. I’ve got football practice. Besides, I’m old enough to watch what I say.”
“You can’t go to Grandpop’s, but you can stay with Steve while she’s in town.”
“Aw, Dad…” Suddenly he grinned. “You need me here as a chaperon. Grandma and I think it would be a good idea if she stays here. That way we can watch her and you won’t have to trust her to keep her word.”
Josh slapped Jordan on the back. “Good thinking. Keep her on a short leash and control everything she does.”
“I don’t want her staying here,” Tate protested. Inviting a strange woman into his house? Sharing a bathroom with her? Letting her sleep in the empty room between his and Jordan’s rooms? Worse, giving her free run of the house while they were working?
“Not here,” Jordan replied, gesturing toward the house. “At Grandma’s. She’ll lock away all her personal stuff so there won’t be anything for her to snoop through. Besides, the nearest motel is twenty miles away. If you make her stay there, she’ll spend half her time driving back and forth.”
Tate turned to look at his mother’s quarters. The two houses shared a roof, but were separated by a broad deck with flower beds all around. It was a great place for cooking out, watching storms or just kicking back, and gave them at least the illusion of privacy.
“What do we care if she spends half her time commuting?” he asked as he turned back to Jordan and Josh.
The two of them exchanged a damn-he’s-slow sort of look, then Jordan explained. “The more time she’s out without one of us, the more chances she has of meeting other people, and the more people she gets to know, the more likely it is that she’ll start asking questions and they’ll start answering them. A stranger asking questions is one thing. A friend is different.”
The floorboards creaked as Tate moved to lean against the rail. Sweat was trickling down his back, his stomach was queasy, his head was starting to ache, and it was so damn hot. Better get used to it, though, because he was going to hell.
He was an honest man. He’d never cheated on a test, his taxes or a woman. He’d accepted every responsibility that ever came his way, whether he was ready for it or not. For thirty-four years, he’d lived right, loved well—if not always wisely—and earned a reputation a man could be proud of. But if he agreed to this fool-minded scheme, he was surely going to burn in hell.
He took a deep breath of dry air that seared his lungs, then faced Jordan and Josh. “All right.” The words were stiff and reluctant. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his family. They’d never had a lot, but they had each other, and that was all that mattered. When one was in trouble, they all were. When one needed help, they all gave it. It was how they’d lived their lives, how they always would.
But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about the help he was giving this time. “I’m sure I’ll live to regret it, but…all right. Let’s get our stories straight and see if I can pull this off.”
And if he did, or even if he didn’t, he would surely burn in hell.
But maybe he could take Natalie Grant and Boyd Chaney with him.
Natalie Grant scanned her laptop screen:
Luther Boyd Chaney was born in the heart of Alabama, not far from the Coosa River, in a sharecropper’s shack that let in the rain and the heat and the cold. He watched his father work himself to death, and a few years later saw his mother do the same, and he swore his own life would be different. Seventy-some years later, he’s made good on that vow. He put himself through school, got elected to the Alabama state senate, went on to Congress. He became the confidant of presidents and the unofficial advisor to prime ministers and kings the world over. He was unarguably the most influential man in the last century of American politics.
Muttering to herself, Natalie paged down to a blank screen and started typing again.
It would be difficult, if not impossible, to find an American citizen whose life hasn’t been greatly improved by Boyd Chaney. Every major piece of legislation in the past forty years dealing with education, families and social programs bears the stamp of the senator from Alabama. If he didn’t author it himself, he ensured that it passed into law. From his first Congressional term to his last, he was, first and foremost, an advocate for the American family.
One might expect such an advocate to be a family man himself, but Boyd Chaney doesn’t always do what one might expect. Oh, he married six times and divorced six times, and he had children—nine of them. He knows his children’s names, and their mothers’, but birthdays, ages, occupations, marital status? Not with any degree of accuracy.
With a sigh Natalie pushed the computer away and stood up. She’d slept in until eight, then gone straight to