McKettricks of Texas: Tate

by Linda Lael Miller

  “I think I’ll go to bed now,” Garrett announced.

  “Hell of an idea,” Tate agreed. “That will save me the trouble of kicking your ass.”

  Garrett got out of his chair and stumbled in the general direction of his part of the house. The place was Texas-big, which meant they each had their own private wing, and it was not only possible but common for them to live for months under the same roof and still keep pretty much to themselves.

  “He’s drunk,” Austin confided drunkenly.

  “Ya think?” Tate asked.

  Suddenly, Austin was sober. His blue eyes were clear. “I didn’t sleep with Cheryl,” he said.

  Tate gave a great sigh. “I believe you,” he said. And it was true.

  “Hallelujah,” Austin said, with some bitterness.

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to hit the sack, either,” Tate told him. “You’re going to have one bitch of a hangover tomorrow, if there’s any justice in this world.”

  Austin laughed. “Lucky for me there isn’t,” he said, and poured himself more Scotch. “You were with Libby Remington tonight, weren’t you?”

  “Officially none of your damn business,” Tate proclaimed.

  “Might as well admit it. Somebody turned you inside out tonight, big brother, and I’m betting it was Libby.”

  “Okay.” Tate sighed, his energy flagging now that he and Austin had settled the Cheryl incident. “It was Libby.”

  Austin grinned. “You’re a couple again? That’s good.”

  Tate’s jaw clamped, and he had to take a second or so to unstick the hinges. “It’s not that simple,” he said.

  “Because—?”

  “Because I sold her out,” Tate rasped. Basically, he thought, he was no better than Cheryl. He hadn’t been married to Libby when he’d gone swimming in the romantic equivalent of a shark tank, letting things go way too far with the wrong woman, but they’d had an understanding. She’d trusted him completely, and he’d betrayed that trust.

  He’d wounded her on a deep level, and he wasn’t naive enough to think that had changed, just because Libby had wanted sex. Libby had always enjoyed sex, and unless he missed his guess, she’d been doing without for quite a while.

  On the other hand, maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  She was a beautiful, desirable woman, and he wasn’t the first—or the last—man to notice.

  “Sounds to me,” Austin observed dryly, after taking a few moments to mull over Tate’s grudging admission that he had indeed been with Libby that night, “like all must be forgiven. Lib’s nobody’s fool—none of the Remington women are. If she took you into her bed, big brother, she’s willing to forget the past, and that’s a rare thing, especially for a woman.”

  The summer after he’d graduated from high school, Tate recalled, Austin had dated Libby’s youngest sister, Paige. For a while there, things had been hot and heavy, if any part of the rumors flying around town had been true, but in the end, Paige had had the good sense to throw Austin over when she’d enrolled in nursing school that September and he’d gone right on risking his neck at the rodeo.

  “At what point,” Tate rasped, irritated, “did I say that Libby and I went to bed together?”

  Austin chuckled. The sound, like the expression in his eyes and the set of his shoulders, was different somehow. His little brother had changed in ways Tate couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  “You didn’t need to say it,” Austin replied. “Your shirt was still half out of your pants when you came through the door a little while ago, your hair’s furrowed from her fingers, and I’d bet money you’ve got a few claw marks under your clothes, too.” He paused, obviously savoring Tate’s silent but furious reaction to his blunt observations. “Even without all that, I’d know by the look in your eyes.”

  “You’re wasted on rodeo,” Tate all but growled. “You ought to be with the CIA or something.”

  Austin smiled. “Is all this going somewhere?” he asked. “You and Libby, I mean?”

  Tate sighed. “Damn if I know,” he said. “It could have been just one of those things.”

  “Or not,” Austin said.

  “While we’re reading each other’s minds,” Tate ventured, “I see by my crystal ball that you haven’t been in rehab most of these long months, as you led the rest of us to believe. Who is she and how serious is it?”

  Austin wore a muted version of his old devil’s grin while he decided whether he wanted to answer or not. “She’s a waitress in San Antonio,” he revealed, after considerable pause, “and it’s over.”

  “You still think about Paige Remington every once in a while?” Tate knew he was pushing his luck, but that was a McKettrick family tradition, so long established that it was probably hereditary by now.

  Austin looked away. “Yeah, sometimes,” he admitted, and Tate thought they were getting somewhere, for a moment or two. As if. “When that happens, I wear garlic around my neck and nail the doors and windows shut at night.”

  Tate decided to let the subject drop. Shoved a hand through his hair, pushed back his chair. “Guess I’ll look in on the kids and then turn in for the night. You’d better do the same, because with Pablo’s funeral coming up in a few days and people coming from half a dozen states to pay their respects, things are bound to get wild around here.”

  Austin nodded, stood up, ready to head for his wing of the house. “What about the stud, Tate? Why’s he still on the place, after he trampled Pablo like that?”

  Tate thought of his little girls, asleep upstairs, and wouldn’t let himself imagine the things that could happen if the devil-stallion ever got out of that pen. “The state vet took blood samples. He’ll decide whether the stallion ought to be put down or not when the paperwork comes back.”

  Austin huffed out a breath. “You know what Dad would have done,” he said. “Taken a rifle out there and dropped that horse in his tracks with a single bullet to the brain.”

  “Granddad, maybe,” Tate answered, shaking his head. “But not Dad. What happened to Pablo was an accident, Austin. Something spooked the stud, just as Pablo went to lead him down the ramp from the trailer and through the corral gate. Anyhow, you know Pablo wouldn’t want him destroyed.”

  Austin reflected a few moments. “You know I hate to see any animal put down if there’s a choice, Tate,” he said, his eyes clear as he met his brother’s gaze, “but sometimes it has to be done.”

  “I know that,” Tate said, though maybe he sounded a little peevish.

  Austin’s grin flashed; mercurial changes were a way of life with him. “I could ride that paint,” he said. “Settle him down a little.”

  “The hell you will,” Tate snapped, because grin or no grin, he knew the chances were 80 percent or better that his brother wasn’t kidding. “Buzzsaw damn near killed you, and now you want to give that crazy stud a shot at breaking your neck?”

  “Good ole Buzzsaw,” Austin replied. “If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll ride that son-of-a-bitch to the buzzer. I’ll trail him from rodeo to rodeo if I have to, but I’ll draw him and I’ll ride him.”

  Tate went cold, through and through. “You can’t be serious,” he marveled. “You get on that bull again, and it will be the last thing you ever do.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” Austin said.

  “Like hell it is,” Tate argued, with more heat than he thought he had in him after all those go-rounds with Libby. “It’s your dumb-ass McKettrick pride. You’re a world champion, several times over, so there’s nothing more to prove. Every cowboy gets thrown sooner or later, and Buzzsaw isn’t the first bull to pitch you into the dirt, so why not let well enough alone?”

  “There is something to prove,” Austin countered quietly. “To myself.”

  Tate shook his head. “What? That you’re certifiable?”

  Austin looked Tate directly in the eyes. “I’ve never been scared of anything much in my life,” he said. “But I’m scared of that bull. And th
at’s something I can’t live with, Tate. You know what Dad always said—if you get thrown from a horse, you’d better get right back on, because if you don’t, the chances are good you never will.”

  Tate’s gut clenched. He was the eldest; he’d always been the protector. Austin had just announced that he planned to commit suicide, and short of using some kind of unlawful imprisonment, Tate wouldn’t be able to stop him.

  Still, he couldn’t let it drop. “Dad was talking about cow ponies, Austin,” he reasoned, “not devil-bulls with blood in their eye.”

  Austin shrugged one shoulder. “Buzzsaw will be in the finals in Vegas this December, and so will I. There’s got to be a showdown. And I’ll draw him for my ride, because it’s meant to be that way.”

  “Unless you don’t enter,” Tate said, chilled. “And you’re a damn fool if you do.”

  “I’ve been called a lot worse,” Austin answered. And then he turned and walked away from Tate, on his way to the stairs leading to his private living space on the second floor.

  For a long time, Tate just stood there, his jawline tight, his fists bunched at his sides. At the moment, unlawful imprisonment looked like a viable option.

  Then he shut out the lights and went upstairs.

  Audrey and Ava were asleep in their beds, with one dog each curled up at their feet.

  Quietly, he approached, straightening Audrey’s covers and then Ava’s, kissing each of them lightly on the forehead, so they wouldn’t wake up.

  Cheryl would be back in a few days, he thought, trying to resign himself to giving up his daughters again. Renewed by her time away from Blue River, she’d have rearmed herself, come up with new arguments for why the twins ought to compete in the Pixie Pageant. She’d work hard to wear him down; she probably knew the effort was destined for failure, but that would only inspire her to get sneaky.

  And Cheryl was real good at sneaky.

  Audrey stirred in the midst of some dream, gave a soft sigh.

  Her mother’s daughter, she’d been working on him over the past few days, angling for his permission to enter the pageant, just as Ava had warned that she would. Was he just being bull-headed, refusing to sign, as Cheryl said?

  Little-girl pageants offended him—he hated the costumes and the emphasis on looks—but surely they weren’t all bad. Otherwise-sensible people—he did not include Cheryl in that category—allowed their kids to participate. Seemed to view it as a confidence builder, like playing on a soccer team or something.

  Sure, there were few winners and a lot of losers, but that was life, wasn’t it?

  On top of all that, this particular shindig was local, not a stopover on the pageant circuit. They were holding it at the Blue River Country Club, a place as familiar to him as the post office or the feed store.

  Maybe he’d been wrong, made the decision too quickly.

  Audrey opened her eyes just then, smiled up at him. “Hi, Daddy,” she said sleepily.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he said, his voice coming out hoarse. This fathering business, he reflected, was not for cowards. You made one hard decision and there was another one coming along right behind it.

  “Did you have fun at Libby’s house?” his daughter asked, stretching.

  Ava, in the next bed, slept on, dead to the world.

  “Sure did,” Tate told her.

  “Esperanza cried all night,” Audrey confided, worried. “I don’t think she’s ever going to stop.”

  Tate’s throat tightened, aching right along with his heart. He could only shield his daughters from the hard realities, like death, for so long. “She’ll probably do that for a while,” he said quietly, leaning to kiss her forehead again. “But things will get better in time, you’ll see.”

  Audrey nodded, yawned and closed her eyes. “’Night,” she murmured.

  Tate made as little noise as he could, leaving the room and closing the door behind him, assailed by the knowledge that while things would eventually get better, they might just get a whole lot worse first.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN SATURDAY AFTERNOON rolled around, every business in town was closed for Pablo’s funeral. Esperanza, Tate and both his brothers were among the first to arrive at the small Catholic church that would soon be bulging with mourners from every walk of life.

  Since Cheryl had arrived home that morning, a day early and in a weirdly tractable state of mind, Tate had reluctantly allowed her to take the kids back to her place ahead of time. An open-casket funeral was no place for a couple of six-year-olds; they wouldn’t understand about Pablo lying there in a box, still and waxy in the suit he’d bought to wear to his daughter’s graduation from medical school.

  A furious ache grabbed at Tate’s heart as he walked slowly up the center aisle to pay his respects before the service got started. He and his brothers, along with one of Pablo’s nephews and two of Isabel’s, would be the pallbearers when it was time to carry the coffin outside to the hearse parked squarely in front of the churchyard gate.

  There would be no graveside ceremony. Pablo had long ago arranged to be cremated, and despite church regulations he’d left written instructions with Isabel that he wanted his ashes spread on the Silver Spur, where he’d lived and worked and raised his children. When she’d shared that request with Tate, he’d called to make the arrangements.

  Up close, Pablo fulfilled all the funereal clichés. He looked natural, as though he were merely sleeping, and his expression was strangely peaceful, but when Tate touched his friend’s hand, he felt a chill so cold it burned like dry ice.

  “We’ll look after Isabel, Pablo,” Tate said, in a ragged whisper. “We’ll see that she and the kids have everything they need.”

  A hand landed on Tate’s right shoulder, and he was startled, since he hadn’t heard anyone approaching. He turned to see Brent standing behind him, Denzel-handsome in a freshly pressed uniform.

  “This isn’t your fault, old buddy,” Brent said. His intuition was a force to be reckoned with; sometimes it seemed to Tate that his friend could read minds.

  “If only I hadn’t told Pablo I’d buy that stud if it went up for sale,” Tate answered. Isabel had just arrived, a small, veiled figure, surrounded by sons and daughters and sisters and cousins and solicitous friends. “I should have been out there to help unload that horse. Would have been, if Pablo had just called to let me know he was bringing him in.”

  Brent dropped his hand to his side. “I’ve got some regrets myself,” he said. “Sooner or later, you’ve got to let go of the if-onlys, Tate, because you’ll go crazy if you don’t.”

  Tate nodded; he was familiar with his friend’s regrets, most of which centered around his young wife, who’d been shot in a scuffle on the concourse of an outdoor mall. He left Brent beside the casket and made his way to the front pew, where the Ruizes were settling in. Nico, the eldest son, lithe and dark and intense as a matador, put out his hand in greeting. Back when they were all kids, Nico had spent a lot of time at the main ranch house with Tate and his brothers, but over the years, they’d drifted apart.

  “Thanks for being here, Tate,” Nico said, swallowing hard to control his emotions.

  Tate would have traveled from any part of the planet to say goodbye to Pablo Ruiz, and Nico knew that. Saying thanks was just a formality.

  Tate nodded, too choked up to speak.

  Isabel, already seated, her face nearly invisible behind the layers of black netting comprising her veil, put out her frail hands to Tate, and he squeezed them with his own, felt her trembling. He nodded to Mercedes, who was weeping silently, and the younger boys, Juan and Ricardo. They were still in high school, Tate knew, and the luminous sorrow in their nearly black eyes tore at him.

  How well he remembered the ache of that bleak and fathomless loss of a parent—he still felt it sometimes, when he was riding alone on the range, along trails he’d traveled so many times with his dad, or when he saw women around his mother’s age, dressed up for church or some luncheon out
at the country club. Sally McKettrick had dearly loved any occasion that gave her an excuse to wear a splashy hat, a pastel suit and high heels.

  Some change in the atmosphere made Tate scan the pews as he left the Ruizes, intending to take his place alongside Esperanza and his brothers and brace himself to get through all that was to come.

  His gaze settled on Libby—he hadn’t seen her since the night they’d skipped supper to make love—and even in those grim circumstances, she warmed something inside him. Her dress was navy blue and her hair swept away from her face, caught up in back with some kind of clip. Julie stood next to her, clad in dramatic black, and Paige was there, too, wearing a dark brown pantsuit, her short cap of glossy black hair catching colored light from the stained-glass windows.

  Tate took a step toward the three sisters, his attention focused solely on Libby, but the aisle was already crowded, and he couldn’t get through.

  “Tate,” he heard Esperanza whisper. “Here we are.”

  He looked to his right, saw the housekeeper sitting in a nearby pew, between Garrett and Austin, who appeared to be supporting her with the pressure of their shoulders. Garrett studied the Remington women as they found places and sat down, but Austin stared straight ahead, with determined disinterest, toward the altar and Pablo’s gleaming casket.

  Just before Tate joined the others in their pew, Libby’s gaze found and connected with his. Nothing in her expression changed—he might have been a total stranger instead of the man who had so recently shared her bed—but an invisible cord seemed to stretch between them, drawing taut and then snapping back on Tate with an impact that made him blink.

  He took a seat next to his family.

  Other mourners crowded into the church, and it got so warm, even with the laboring air-conditioning system, that people began to sweat. The organist took her place and sonorous music joined with the oppressive heat, creating a humid stew of sound.

  Tate longed to loosen his tie, but out of respect for Pablo and the Ruiz kin, he refrained.