Carole had perpetuated the myth until after Mandy was bornathat had also been according to plan. It had been a relief for her to put phase two into action and start having affairs. The shackles of respectability had been chafing her for a long time. Her patience had worn thin. Once let loose, she performed beautifully.

God, it had been marvelous fun to witness Tate in his misery!

Except for that indiscreet visit in the hospital ICU, there'd been no mention made of their secret alliance since she was introduced to Tate four years ago. Neither by word or deed had they given away the pact they had made when she had been recruited for the job.

But since the crash, she'd been even more evasive than usual. She bore watchingaclosely. She was doing some strange and unusual things, even for Carole. The whole family was noticing the unfamiliar personality traits.

Maybe she was acting strange for the hell of it. That would be like her. She enjoyed being perverse for perversity's sake alone. That wasn't serious, but it rankled that she had seized the initiative to change the game plan without prior consultation.

Perhaps she hadn't had an opportunity to consult yet. Perhaps she knew something about Tate that no one else was privy to and which needed to be acted upon immediately.

Or perhaps the bitchaand this was the most likely possibilityahad decided that being a senator's wife was worth more to her than the payoff she was due to receive the day Tate was laid in a casket. After all, her metamorphosis had coincided with the primary election.

Whatever her motive, this new behavior pattern was as annoying as hell. She'd better watch herself, or she'd be cut out. At this point, it could all go down with or without her participation. Didn't the stupid bitch realize that?

Or had she finally realized that a second bullet was destined for her?

SEVENTEEN.

"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 ofField and Streamand 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 salonasomething Avery Daniels had never had time fora 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 joba 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 oP 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. aWhat 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 i 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 thingsaprimarily 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 didathe 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 companion-ably around another Air Force cadetaa 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, I95I."

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 Rudedge had lived was driving her insane.