The Truth About Tate. Marilyn Pappano

the contract, and the full cooperation of the subject and a hundred or so of his nearest and dearest. She had reams of research and thousands of hours of taped interviews. She’d gathered enough material to write a dozen volumes on the senator who’d virtually run the country for all of her life and beyond.

      She had everything…except the cooperation of one of the Chaney offspring. That one man’s stubbornness could cost her the project.

      It had been a deal-breaker in the negotiations. Upon his retirement from political life, Chaney had chosen her to write his biography, but he’d insisted that she personally gain the cooperation of each and every one of his six ex-wives, nine children and seven grandchildren. She’d known it was a red flag, because he’d already secured agreements from half of them. The other half had signed on readily enough, except for one. The fourth son, the fifth child, the only illegitimate one in the bunch. J. T. Rawlins.

      She turned on the water in the shower, then stripped out of her pajamas. She’d tried for months to set up an interview with the elusive son no one had ever heard of. She’d tracked him down in an end-of-the-line Oklahoma town called Hickory Bluff and sent him a letter politely requesting an interview. He’d returned it with a terse note scrawled across the bottom: No, thanks, not interested. She’d called repeatedly. He’d hung up on her. She’d written time and again. The letters had come back unopened.

      So here she was, in a cheap motel nineteen miles from Hickory Bluff. She intended to show up at J.T.’s house, to talk to him reasonably, persuasively, to let him see for himself that she wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t looking to disrupt his life any more than was necessary.

      Yeah, right, she thought scornfully as she rinsed magnolia-scented suds from her body. She just wanted all the personal details of his life so she could put them in a book for everyone to read. She wanted to announce to the world that his mother had had an affair with a tremendously rich and powerful married man and that he was the best-kept secret of one of the most flamboyant, tabloid-fodder families in the country. What would that do to his reputation, and to his mother’s? How would it affect their relationships with the people currently in their lives?

      She was sorry, but she had no choice. She needed this project. She’d already screwed up once, and it had cost her career, her relationship with her family and her own self-respect. This was her chance to recover those things. Failing wasn’t an option.

      After rubbing herself dry with a threadbare towel, Natalie quickly dressed. She applied the few cosmetics that were her major effort at looking good, tied her curls back with a strip of ribbon, then gathered everything she needed for a day’s work—steno notebook, ink pens, microcassette recorder, tapes and batteries, 35-mm camera and film, as well as digital camera. It all fit handily in the oversize tote she used for a purse. With sunglasses on and keys in hand, she left her motel room, deposited the laptop in the trunk for safekeeping, then slid behind the wheel of her classic Ford Mustang convertible and headed for Hickory Bluff.

      With The Doors blasting on the stereo, she cruised along the two-lane highway at ten miles over the limit and thought about the events of the past fifteen months that, together, had brought her to this place. The award-winning articles she’d written, the accolades and recognition, the jealousy, the scandal and the truth that only she and one other person knew. No one had stood beside her—not her editor, not her best friend of five years, certainly not her father. An entire career of outstanding work had been forgotten, destroyed in one careless moment by the simple act of trusting someone she’d loved. I hope you learned a lesson, her father had unsympathetically told her, and she had. Don’t trust, don’t love, don’t care about anyone or anything except the story. Natalie Grant’s New Rules to Live By.

      Dealing with Senator Chaney and his self-absorbed family made them easy to stick to. She hadn’t yet met any Chaney kin that she would give a plug nickel for. For a man who had accomplished so much good in his career, he’d married and helped give life to some of the most beautiful, charming, shallow, irresponsible and worthless human beings she’d ever met. Maybe J.T., being the exception as far as legitimacy went, would also be the exception in other ways, but she wasn’t holding her breath.

      At the sight of a large wooden sign up ahead, Natalie slowed and pulled onto the shoulder, stopping twenty feet back. Welcome to Hickory Bluff, it read. Home of the Fighting Wildcats. Class 2A State Champions in Football, Basketball, Baseball. Each sport was listed on a separate line, followed by the years the team had won the championships. Spray-painted in hot pink across the bottom was an afterthought—Lady Cats Rule!

      Was J. T. Rawlins an athlete? Had he suited up every fall Friday night in the Wildcats’ green and gold? Did he relive former glories every time basketball season rolled around or each time the crack of a baseball on a bat split the air?

      Making a mental note to check the yearbooks for his high school years, Natalie pulled back onto the road and rounded the curve that led into Hickory Bluff. It wasn’t a prosperous town and never had been. Situated at the crossroads of two state highways, it consisted of four blocks of businesses, houses backing them up on both sides of the street and a water tower, painted green and gold and honoring the boys’ teams. There was a church on every block, or so it seemed, and a redbrick schoolhouse, a football stadium and a complex of baseball fields.

      She parked in front of a store that announced its services in white letters painted across the plate glass. Hunting, fishing licenses. Ice. Bait. Video rental. Cold beer. Sandwiches. Notions. Driver’s licenses and car tags. Next door to it was her destination—the post office. The building was small, fronted with yellow brick and devoid of personality. If a tornado swept through the downtown area, it would probably take all the old stone-and-glass buildings with it and leave the amazingly unimaginative post office standing untouched.

      The plate-glass door led into a room no more than eight feet deep and ten feet wide. Customer boxes filled the two end walls, and a counter took up most of the back wall. There were no customers other than her, and no employees visible other than a white-haired man sorting through a stack of mail. He glanced at her but didn’t speak or stop his work. She waited patiently, assuming that when he finished, he would turn his attention to her.

      “Well?” he prodded after a moment. “You plannin’ on standin’ there all day, missy, or is there somethin’ you want?”

      “Actually, there is. I’m looking for J. T. Rawlins.”

      “Have you looked out at his place? Call me strange, but if I was lookin’ for someone, I’d start with where they’re supposed to be.”

      “I don’t know where he lives. The address I have is 2111 Rawlins Ranch Road.”

      “Yep, that’s right.”

      She waited expectantly, but he didn’t go on. “Can you tell me where that is?”

      “Sure can. It’s outside of town. West, then north. ’Bout…oh, four, five miles. You can’t miss it.” This time he was the one who waited expectantly. When she didn’t do anything—such as leave—he laid the mail aside. “Well? Is there somethin’ else you want?”

      “According to the map, practically the entire state of Oklahoma is west of here. Could you be a little more specific?”

      The old man rolled his eyes, then pointed out the window. “See that street? Not Main Street here in front. The one over there that runs east and west. You follow it outta town until you come to the old Mayfield barn on the left. Make a right turn and stay on that road a couple miles north until you come to the Rawlins place.”

      “And how will I recognize the old Mayfield barn?”

      He laughed. “You’ll know it. You’ll know the Rawlins place when you come to it, too. Trust me.”

      With a tight smile Natalie thanked him and returned to the car. It was tempting to run across the street to Norma Sue’s Café and ask for directions there. Instead, she decided to test the old man’s “you’ll know it when you see it” theory. If she didn’t find J. T. Rawlins, she could always come back, ask for help and get some lunch while she was at it.

      She