“Mrs. Rutledge, what a surprise.”

The secretary stood up to greet Avery as she entered the anteroom of the law office Tate shared with his brother. To learn where it was, she had had to look up the address in the telephone directory.

“Hello. How are you?” She didn’t address the secretary by name. The nameplate on the desk read “Mary Crawford,” but she was taking no chances.

“I’m fine, but you look fabulous.”

“Thank you.”

“Tate told me that you were prettier than ever, but seeing is believing.”

Tate had told her that? They hadn’t engaged in a private conversation since the night he had kissed her. She found it hard to believe that he’d said something flattering about her to his secretary.

“Is he in?” He was. His car was parked out front.

“He’s with a client.”

“I didn’t think he was handling any cases.”

“He’s not.” Mary Crawford smoothed her skirt beneath her hips and sat back down. “He’s with Barney Bridges. You know what a character he is. Anyway, he pledged a hefty donation to Tate’s campaign, so when he hand delivered it, Tate made time to see him.”

“Well, I’ve come all this way. Will they be long? Shall I wait?”

“Please do. Have a seat.” The secretary indicated the grouping of waiting room sofas and chairs upholstered in burgundy and navy striped corduroy. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks. Nothing.”

She often passed up coffee now, preferring none at all to the liberally sweetened brew Carole had drunk. Sitting down in one of the armchairs, she picked up a current issue of Field and Stream and began idly thumbing through it. Mary resumed typing, as she’d been doing before Avery had come in.

This impetuous visit to Tate’s law office was chancy, but it was a desperation measure she felt she had to take or go mad. What had Carole Rutledge done all day?

Avery had been living in the ranch house for over two weeks, and she had yet to discover a single constructive activity that Tate’s wife had been involved in.

It had taken Avery several days to locate everything in her bedroom and the other rooms of the house to which she had access. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, not wanting to alert anyone to what she was doing. Eventually, she felt comfortable with the house’s layout and where everyday items were stored.

Gradually, she began to learn her way around outside, as well. She took Mandy with her on these missions so they would appear to be nothing more than innocent strolls.

Carole had driven an American sports car. To Avery’s consternation, it had a standard transmission. She wasn’t too adept at driving standard transmissions. The first few times she took the car out, she nearly gave herself whiplash and stripped all the gears.

But once she felt adequate, she invented errands that would get her out of the house. Carole’s way of life was dreadfully boring. Her routine lacked diversion and spontaneity. The ennui was making Avery Daniels crazy.

The day she had discovered an engagement calendar in a nightstand drawer, she had clutched it to her chest like a miner would a gold nugget. But a scan of its pages revealed very little except the days that Carole had had her hair and nails done.

Avery never called for an appointment. It would be a luxury to spend several hours a week being pampered in a salon—something Avery Daniels had never had time for—but she couldn’t risk letting Carole’s hairdresser touch her hair or a manicurist her nails. They might detect giveaways that others couldn’t.

The engagement book had shed no light on what Carole did to fill her days. Obviously, she wasn’t a member of any clubs. She had few or no friends because no one called. That came both as a surprise and a relief to Avery, who had been afraid that a covey of confidantes would descend, expecting to pick up where they had left off before Carole’s accident.

Apparently, no such close friends existed. The flowers and cards she had received during her convalescence must have come from friends of the family.

Carole had held no job, had no hobbies. Avery reasoned that she should be thankful for that. What if Carole had been an expert sculptress, artist, harpist, or calligrapher? It had been difficult enough teaching herself in private to write and eat with her right hand.

She was expected to do no chores, not even make her own bed. Mona took care of the house and did all the cooking. A yard man came twice a week to tend to the plants in the courtyard. A retired cowboy, too old to herd cattle or to rodeo, managed the stable of horses. No one encouraged her to resume an activity or interest that had been suspended as a result of her injuries.

Carole Rutledge had been a lazy idler. Avery Daniels was not.

The door to Tate’s private office opened. He emerged in the company of a barrel-chested, middle-aged man. They were laughing together.

Avery’s heart accelerated at the sight of Tate, who was wearing a genuinely warm smile. His eyes were crinkled at the corners with the sense of humor he never shared with her. Eddy constantly nagged him to trade in his jeans, boots, and casual shirts for a coat and tie. He refused unless he was making a scheduled public appearance.

“Who am I trying to impress?” he had asked his perturbed campaign manager during a discussion relating to his wardrobe.

“Several million voters,” Eddy had replied.

“If I can’t impress them by what I’m standing for, they sure as hell aren’t going to be impressed by what I’m standing in.”

Nelson had drolly remarked, “Unless it’s bullshit.”

Everybody had laughed and that had been the end of the discussion.

Avery was glad Tate dressed as he did. He looked sensational. His head was bent at the listening angle that she had come to recognize and find endearing. One lock of hair dipped low over his forehead. His mouth was split in a wide grin, showing off strong, white teeth.

He hadn’t seen her yet. At unguarded moments like this, she reveled in looking at him before contempt for his wife turned his beautiful smile into something ugly.

“Now, this is a treat!”

The booming bass voice snapped Avery out of her love-struck daze. Tate’s visitor came swiftly toward her on short, stocky legs that were reminiscent of Irish. She was scooped up into a smothering bear hug and her back was hammered upon with exuberant affection. “Gawddamn, you look better than you ever have, and I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Hello, Mr. Bridges.”

“ ‘Mr. Bridges?’ Shee-ut. Where’d that come from? I told Mama when we saw you on the TV that you’re prettier now than you were before. She thought so, too.”

“I’m glad I have your approval.”

He wagged two stubby fingers, holding a cigar, near the tip of her nose. “Now you listen to ol’ Barney, darlin’, those polls don’t meant a gawddamn thing, you hear? Not a gawddamn thing. I told Mama just the other day that those polls ain’t worth shee-ut. You think I’d put my money on the boy here,” he said, walloping Tate between the shoulder blades, “if I didn’t think he was gonna put the screws to that gawddamn Dekker on election day? Huh?”

“No sir, not you, Barney,” she replied, laughing.

“You’re gawddamn right I wouldn’t.” Cramming the cigar into the corner of his mouth, he reached for her and gave her another rib-crunching hug. “I’d purely love to take y’all to lunch, but I got a deacons’ meetin’ at the church.”

“Don’t let us keep you,” Tate said, trying to keep a straight face. “Thank you again for the contribution.”

Barney waved away the thanks. “Mama’s mailin’ hers in today.”

Tate swallowed with difficulty. “I… I thought the check was from both of you.”

“Hell no, boy. That was only my half. Gotta go. The church is a long way from here, and Mama gets pissed if I drive the Vette over seventy in town, so I promised not to. Too many gawddamn crazies on the road. Y’all take care, you hear?”

He lumbered out. After the door had closed behind him, the secretary looked up at Tate and wheezed, “Did he say half?”

“That’s what he said.” Tate shook his head in disbelief. “Apparently he really believes that the polls aren’t worth shee-ut.”

Mary laughed. So did Avery. But Tate’s smile had disappeared by the time he had ushered her into his office and closed the door. “What are you doing here? Need some money?”

When he addressed her in that curt, dismissive tone of voice, which he reserved for the times when they were alone, each word was like a shard of glass being gouged into her vitals. It made her ache. It also made her mad as hell.

“No, I don’t need any money,” she said tightly as she sat down in the chair opposite his desk. “As you suggested, I went to the bank and signed a new card. I explained about the change in my handwriting,” she said, flexing her right hand. “So I can write a check against the account whenever I get low on cash.”

“So, why are you here?”

“I need something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Something to do.”

Her unexpected statement served its purpose. It won her his undivided attention. Skeptically holding her stare, he leaned back in his chair and raised his boots to the corner of his desk. “Something to do?”

“That’s right.”

He laced his fingers together across his belt buckle. “I’m listening.”

“I’m bored, Tate.” Her frustration boiled over. Restlessly, she left the chair. “I’m stuck out there on the ranch all day with nothing productive to do. I’m sick of being idle. My mind’s turning to mush. I’m actually beginning to discuss the soap operas with Mona.”

As she aimlessly roamed his office, she made note of several things—primarily that there were framed photographs of Mandy everywhere, but none of Carole.

Framed diplomas and photographs were attractively arranged on the wall behind the credenza. Looking for clues into his past, she paused in front of an eight-by-ten blowup of a snapshot taken in Vietnam.

Tate and Eddy were standing in front of a jet bomber, their arms draped across each other’s shoulders in a pose of camaraderie. One’s grin was as cocky as the other’s. Avery had inadvertently learned that they’d been college roommates until Tate had postponed his education to enlist in the air force. Until now, she hadn’t realized that Eddy had accompanied him to war.

“Since when have you been concerned with your mind?” he asked her, bringing her around.

“I need activity.”

“Join an aerobics class.”

“I did—the same day the doctor examined my tibia and gave me the go-ahead. But the class only lasts one hour three times a week.”

“Join another one.”

“Tate!”

“What? What the hell is all this about?”

“I’m trying to tell you. You’re stubbornly refusing to listen.”

He glanced at the closed door, mindful of the secretary seated just beyond it. Lowering his voice, he said, “You enjoy riding, but you haven’t saddled up once since you got home.”

No, she hadn’t. Avery enjoyed riding, too, but she didn’t know how good an equestrian Carole had been and hadn’t wanted to tip her hand by being either too adept or too inexperienced.

“I’ve lost interest,” she said lamely.

“I thought you would,” he said sardonically, “just as soon as you cut the price tags off all that expensive gear.”

Avery had seen the riding clothes in Carole’s closet and wondered if she had ever actually worn the jodhpurs and short, tailored jacket. “I’ll go back to it eventually.” Giving herself time to collect her thoughts, she gazed at a picture of Nelson with Lyndon B. Johnson while he was still a congressman. Impressive.

There were several photos of Nelson in uniform, providing her a chronicle of his military career. One picture in particular caught her eye because it was reminiscent of the snapshot of Tate and Eddy.

In the photo, Nelson’s arm was draped companionably around another air force cadet—a young man as strikingly handsome and cavalier as young Nelson. Looming in the background, like a behemoth, was a monstrous bomber plane. Typed neatly across the bottom of the photograph was “Majors Nelson Rutledge and Bryan Tate, South Korea, 1951.”

Bryan Tate. A relative of Nelson’s? A friend? Presumably, because Nelson had named his son after him.

Avery turned again to face him, trying not to show more interest in the photograph than it should warrant for someone already familiar with it. “Put me to work at campaign headquarters.”

“No.”

“Why? Fancy’s working there.”

“Which is reason enough to keep you out. There might be bloodshed.”

“I’ll ignore her.”

He shook his head. “We’ve got a slew of new volunteers. They’re stepping over each other. Eddy’s inventing work to accommodate all of them.”

“I’ve got to get involved in something, Tate.”

“Why, for God’s sake?”

Because Avery Daniels performed best under pressure, she was accustomed to moving at a hectic pace, and couldn’t tolerate inactivity. The sedentary life Carole Rutledge had lived was driving her insane.

She could neither protect him from assassination nor do a story on the attempt if he continued to keep her at a safe distance. Her future, as well as his, hinged on her becoming as actively involved in his campaign as all the suspects.

“I feel like I should be helping you in some way.”

He barked a short laugh. “Who do you think you’re kidding?”

“I’m your wife!”

“Only for the time being!”

His sharp put-down silenced her. Tate, seeing her wounded expression, swore beneath his breath. “Okay, if you want to do something for me, continue being a decent mother to Mandy. She’s opening up a little, I think.”

“She’s opening up a lot. And I intend for her to improve further every day.”

She braced her hands on his desk and leaned over it, as she had when she had appealed to Irish for permission to pursue a story that met with his disapproval. “Even Mandy and her problems don’t consume enough time. I can’t be with her constantly. She goes to nursery school three mornings a week.”

“You agreed with the psychologist that she should.”

“I still do. Interaction with other children is extremely beneficial to her. She needs to develop social skills. But while she’s at school, I wander through the house, killing time until it’s time to pick her up. Every afternoon she takes a long nap.” She leaned farther forward. “Please, Tate. I’m withering on the vine.”

He held her stare for a long moment. Eventually, his eyes ventured down into the gaping vee of her silk shirt, but he quickly raised them and looked annoyed with himself for even that merest slip of his control.

He cleared his throat and asked crossly, “Okay, what do you suggest?”

Her tension eased somewhat. At least he was open to discussing it. She straightened up. “Let me work at headquarters.”

“Nix.”

“Then let me accompany you on that campaign trip next week.”

“No,” he said with taut finality.

“Please.”

“I said no.” Angrily he swung his feet to the floor, stood up, and rounded the desk.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not a trouper, Carole, and I won’t put up with the disharmony you create.”

“Like what?”

“Like what?” he demanded, incredulous that her memory didn’t serve her. “When you went before, you complained about the rooms, the banquet food, everything. You ran consistently late when you knew how tightly Eddy wanted to keep to schedule. You made wisecracks to the press, which you considered cute and everybody else thought were tasteless and unbecoming. And that was only a three-day trip to test the waters before I had made my final decision to run.”

“It won’t be like that this time.”

“I won’t have any time to entertain you. When I’m not making a speech, I’ll be writing one. Hours into the trip, you’d be whining that I was ignoring you and that you had nothing to do.”

“I’ll find things to do. I can make coffee, order sandwiches, sharpen pencils, take calls, return calls, run errands.”

“Menial labor. We’ve got gofers and hangers-on who do all that.”

“I can do something.” She had been following closely on his heels as he moved around the office. When he stopped abruptly, she collided with him from behind.

He turned. “The novelty would wear off after the first day, and you’d be tired of it, complaining, wanting to come home.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Why do you want to become involved all of a sudden?”

“Because,” she said with rising ire, “you’re running for a Senate seat, and it’s my responsibility as your wife to help you win.”

“Bullshit!”

There were three sharp raps on the door. Seconds later it was opened to admit Eddy and Jack. “Excuse us,” the former said, “but we heard all the shouting when we came in and thought you might need us to referee.”

“What’s going on?” Jack closed the door behind them. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see my husband,” Avery retorted. “If that’s all right with you, Jack.” She pushed her bangs off her forehead, a belligerent gesture that dared him to make something of it.

“Calm down, for crissake. I was just asking.” Jack sat down on the short sofa against the wall.

Eddy shoved his hands into his pants pockets and stared at the Oriental rug between his gleaming shoes. Tate returned to his desk and sat down. Avery was too keyed up to sit, so she crossed to the credenza and backed against it, supporting herself on her hips.

“Carole wants to go on the campaign trip with us next week,” Tate said.

Jack said, “Jesus, not again.”

Avery cried, “Well, why not?”

Eddy said, “Let’s discuss it.”

Tate took them in turn. “You don’t like the idea, Jack?”

Jack glared at her, then shrugged and swore beneath his breath. “She’s your wife.”

Tate’s attention moved to Avery. “You already know my objections.”

“Some of them are justified,” she said in a conciliatory tone, admiring him for not criticizing his wife in front of other men. “I’ll do better this time, now that I know what to expect and what is expected of me.”

“Eddy?”

Eddy’s contemplation of the rug ended when Tate spoke his name. He raised his head. “There’s no doubt that a handsome couple is an easier package to sell than a handsome man alone.”

“Why?”

“Image, mainly. A couple represents all the things America stands for—hearth and home, the American dream. Marriage signifies that once you get to Washington you aren’t going to squander taxpayers’ money on bimbo secretaries who can’t type.”

“At least in theory,” Jack said with a guffaw.

Eddy smiled crookedly and conceded, “At least in theory. Women voters will respect you for being a faithful husband and conscientious father. Men will like that you aren’t either gay or on the make.

“For all our modern sophistication, voters might feel uneasy about voting a suspected homosexual into office. A good-looking candidate is inherently resented by male voters. Having a wife by your side makes you one of the guys.”

“In other words, misery loves company,” Avery said snidely.

Eddy gave a helpless lift of his shoulders and apologetically replied, “I didn’t make up the rules, Carole.”

She divided her disgusted look among the three of them. “So, what’s the verdict?”

“I have a suggestion.”

“You have the floor, Eddy.” As before, Tate’s feet were resting on the corner of his desk, and he was reclining in the tall leather chair. Avery was tempted to sweep his boots off the desk just to unbalance his posture and his insouciance.

Eddy said, “On Carole’s behalf, I declined her invitation to attend that dinner coming up this Friday night.”

“The southern governors’ thing in Austin?”

“Right. I excused her from going by saying that for all the progress she’s made, she wasn’t quite up to a black tie evening.”

He turned toward her. “I could call them back and accept. It’s a bipartisan group, so there’ll be no active campaigning, just a chance to glad-hand, see, and be seen. We’ll see how that evening goes and make a decision about the trip based on that.”

“An audition, in other words,” Avery said.

“If that’s how you want to see it,” Eddy returned calmly. He looked toward Jack and Tate. “She did a pretty good job at that press conference when she left the hospital.”

Eddy’s opinion mattered a great deal to Tate, but final decisions were always left to him. He glanced at his older brother, who had remained irascibly silent. “What do you think, Jack?”

“I guess it’d be okay,” he said, glancing at her resentfully. “I know Mom and Dad would rather the two of you present a unified front.”

“Thank you both for your advice.”

They took the subtle hint. Jack left the office without saying another word. Eddy nodded an unspoken good-bye to Avery and closed the door behind himself.

Tate held her stare for several moments. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “You’ve won a chance to convince me that you’d be more of an asset than a liability when we begin campaigning in earnest.”

“You won’t be disappointed, Tate. I promise.”

He frowned doubtfully. “Friday night. We’ll leave the house at seven sharp. Be ready.”