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think,” Cecily muttered, glaring around her at the tall man.
    Tate’s dark eyes began to twinkle. He’d missed her in his life. Even in a temper, she was refreshing, invigorating.
    She averted her eyes to the large grass circle outlined by thick corded string. All around it were makeshift shelters on poles, some with canvas tops, with bales of hay to make seats for spectators. The first competition of the day was over and the winners were being announced. A women-only dance came next, and Leta grimaced as she glanced from one warring face to the other. If she left, there was no telling what might happen.
    â€œThat’s me,” she said reluctantly, adjusting the number on her back. “Got to run. Wish me luck.”
    â€œYou know I do,” Cecily said, smiling at her.
    â€œDon’t disgrace us,” Tate added with laughter in his eyes.
    Leta made a face at him, but smiled. “No fighting,” she said, shaking a finger at them as she went to join the other competitors.
    Tate’s granitelike face had softened as he watched his mother. Whatever his faults, he was a good son.
    â€œShe’s different since your father died,” Cecily commented, sitting down on one of the bales of hay, grateful for the diversion. “I’ve never seen her so animated.”
    â€œMy father was a hard man to live with,” he replied quietly. “If he hadn’t spent most of his life away on construction jobs, I’d probably have killed him.”
    She knew he wasn’t kidding. Jack Winthrop had beaten Leta once, and Tate had wiped the floor with him after coming home unexpectedly and finding his mother cut and bruised. By then, he’d been in espionage work for some time. Jack Winthrop, big and tough as he was, was no match for the experienced younger man. It was the last time Leta ever suffered a beating, too. Jack became afraid of his son. Cecily remembered that Jack had never spoken one kind word about his only child. Oddly he seemed to hate Tate.
    â€œYou didn’t like your father much, did you?” Cecily remembered.
    â€œHe wasn’t a likable man.” He sat down beside her.
    She felt the warm strength of him and closed her eyes briefly to savor it. He hardly ever touched people, not even his mother. In all the long years she’d been part of his life, he’d never touched her with intent. Not to hold her hand, kiss her even on the cheek, brush back her hair. That one time, when she’d flown to Oklahoma to help him with his case was the closest they’d come to intimacy, and that was anticlimactic, even if she had lived on it for weeks afterward. She’d ached for any contact at all, but that wasn’t Tate’s way. Yet she’d seen him holding hands with Audrey that day in the coffee shop. Nothing had ever hurt so much. It was an indication of the attraction he felt for the gorgeous socialite.
    She smiled as she watched Leta doing the intricate steps of the dance inside the circle. All the women were wearing buckskins, a feat of endurance because it was almost ninety degrees in the South Dakota September sun.
    â€œThat was a nasty crack I made about you and Senator Holden at his birthday party,” he said after a minute. “I didn’t mean it.”
    It was the closest he came to an apology. She was tired of arguing, so she took the olive branch for what it was. “I know.”
    The mention of birthdays reminded him that he’d deliberately ignored Cecily’s this year. It wasn’t a pleasant memory. He shifted on the hay, staring at his mother in the circle. “Do you like the job at the museum?”
    â€œVery much. I’ll be in charge of acquisitions, which is one reason I came out here. I want to exhibit some Oglala pottery and beadwork.”
    He didn’t look at her. “How did you get to know Holden?”
    â€œHe’s good friends with a member of the faculty at George Washington