McKettricks of Texas: Tate

by Linda Lael Miller

“Why are you here?” she asked, crumpling a little on the inside.

  Tate drew back a chair for her, waited in silence until she sat. Then he poured hot milk for her, added a dollop of brandy from a dusty bottle stored on the shelf above the broom closet, brought it to the table.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  Libby’s heart began to thrum. Here it comes, she thought, the part where he says he still has feelings for Cheryl, or the kids need him 24/7 or we’re just plain moving too fast and need to take a breather…

  “Okay,” she replied hoarsely, glad he couldn’t see her hands knotted together in her lap because the tabletop was in the way. Then she squared her shoulders, raised her chin, looked him right in the eye, and waited.

  “Drink the milk,” Tate said. “It has to be hot to work.”

  Libby unknotted her hands, picked up the cup, took a sip.

  It wasn’t half bad—but it wasn’t half good, either.

  She made a face.

  Tate grinned, reached across to smooth away her milk mustache with the pad of one thumb.

  Libby set the cup down, felt some of the tension drain from her muscles.

  Tate’s expression changed; he leaned slightly forward, his dark brows lowered but not quite coming together. “What do you know about this Pixie thing?” he asked gravely.

  Libby blinked, mystified. And almost dizzy with relief, because he hadn’t said he and Cheryl were getting back together.

  “‘Pixie thing’?” she echoed.

  Was he asking if she believed in fairies, little people?

  Tate looked deep into her eyes and a grin broke over his face. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I should have laid a little groundwork before I threw that question at you. I’m talking about the Pixie Pageant. It’s some kind of shindig they’re holding at the country club, for charity. Like a beauty contest, but for little girls.”

  “Oh,” Libby said, vaguely remembering a piece she’d skimmed in the Blue River Clarion, the town’s weekly newspaper, “that Pixie Pageant.”

  Tate’s jaw tightened. “Audrey is real set on signing up for the thing,” he said.

  Libby smiled. “What about Ava?”

  “Ava thinks it’s silly and wants no part of it. I happen to agree. But, like I said, Audrey is determined.”

  “A determined McKettrick,” Libby mused, grinning. “Just imagine it.”

  Tate gave a wan grin at that, relaxed a little. “I’ve been dead set against this—Audrey joining up with this Pixie outfit, I mean—from the first. There are so many ways she could get hurt—”

  Libby chuckled, took another sip of the milk-brandy mixture, and set her cup down. “As opposed to some safe activity, like rodeo?” she teased. Tate, Garrett and Austin had all been involved in the sport from earliest childhood.

  Tate sighed, shoved a hand through his hair, leaving moist ridges where his fingers passed. “I get your point,” he said, and sighed again. A pause followed, long and somehow comfortable. Tate finally ended it with, “What do you think I should do? Let Audrey sign up for this thing, or stand my ground?”

  “I think,” Libby said carefully, “that this is a conversation you should probably have with Cheryl, not me.”

  “I know what Cheryl thinks. I want to know what you think, Libby.”

  Her heart beat a little faster. She drew a fast, deep breath and huffed it out. “Why?” she asked.

  “I need an unbiased opinion.”

  “Did you ask Esperanza?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” Tate answered. “I did. And she’s biased.”

  “For or against?”

  “For,” Tate admitted. “She thinks the whole thing is harmless and if Audrey gives it a try, she’ll lose interest. Get it out of her system.”

  “Makes sense,” Libby said, still careful. This was dangerous ground; Cheryl was the twins’ mother, Esperanza had been the family housekeeper forever. But she, Libby, was what to them? Their father’s girlfriend?

  Not even that.

  She was someone he slept with when they weren’t around.

  “Come on, Lib,” Tate urged.

  “What makes you so sure I’m unbiased?” Libby asked, more than a little hurt, now that she thought about it. The term merely meant “impartial,” she knew that, but it sounded so indifferent in this context—she might have been someone stopped by a survey taker, on the way out of a supermarket, for heaven’s sake. Did she prefer laundry detergent with or without bleach?

  Tears scalded her eyes.

  “I’m overreacting,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  Tate looked as though he wanted to touch her, rise from his chair and pull her into his arms, or tug her onto his lap.

  But he did none of those things.

  He cleared his throat. Looked away from Libby, then looked back. “Tell me something,” he said.

  Something tensed in the pit of Libby’s stomach. “What?”

  “If we get together, you and I,” Tate ventured quietly, “you’ll be around the kids a lot. Does that bother you?”

  “Bother me?”

  “If they hadn’t been conceived—”

  Adrenaline stung through Libby’s system. “You’re not suggesting that I blame those precious children for our breakup?”

  “It would bother some women,” Tate said, sounding a little defensive and a lot relieved.

  “I’m not one of those women,” Libby told him, her voice tight. While it was true that she didn’t know Audrey and Ava very well, she had always loved them, albeit from afar, because they were Tate’s.

  “Good,” Tate said. “Now, how about giving me an opinion on the Pixie Pageant?”

  She laughed. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Never,” he answered, but he wasn’t laughing, or even smiling.

  Libby was quiet for a while, thinking. Finally, she said, “Okay, here’s my opinion—you should check the pageant out, talk to the people putting it on, find out exactly what’s involved. If it’s something you can live with, let Audrey compete if she still wants to.”

  Tate sighed. “What if I miss something?” he asked.

  Libby smiled uncertainly. “Miss something?”

  “I’m a man, Lib. I don’t know squat about this Pixie thing. They’ll probably need tutus and stuff—”

  Libby pictured Tate shopping for tutus and put a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Then, seeing that he was truly concerned, she sobered. “Can’t Cheryl take care of that kind of thing?”

  “Cheryl,” Tate said, “is staying in New York for the time being. Right now, she plans on coming back here every other weekend, to be with the kids, but I don’t suppose that will last long.”

  Libby stared at him. “Cheryl is staying in New York,” she repeated stupidly.

  “I didn’t mention that before?”

  “You didn’t mention that before.”

  “Oh.” Tate pushed back his chair, stood. “Well, she is. Will you help me, Lib? With the Pixie Pageant, I mean?”

  Libby stood up, went to him, rested against his chest. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll help you.”

  He grinned down at her, sunshine bursting through a bank of dark clouds. “Do you have any idea how sexy you look in those pajamas and that worn-out bathrobe?”

  Libby made the time-out sign, straightening the fingers of her left hand and pressing them into the palm of her right.

  “What?” Tate asked, sounding innocent, though the twinkle in his eyes was anything but innocent.

  “No sex,” Libby was surprised to hear herself say. “Not tonight, anyway. I’m still recovering from last time.”

  “Recovering?” Tate asked, pretending to be hurt. The twinkle remained, though.

  “Yes, recovering,” Libby said, blushing. “It’s not just sex when we’re together, Tate. Not for me.”

  He raised a questioning eyebrow, looked intrigued.

  Ran his hands down her back and cupped her bottom.

  “Lib?” Tate
prompted, when she didn’t say anything else.

  She caught her breath, found her voice, lost it again.

  Sex wasn’t just sex to Libby, not with Tate McKettrick. But how the hell was she supposed to explain that, without coming right out and saying that she still loved him? That, like a fool, she’d never stopped loving him, even while he was another woman’s husband?

  Even after his and Cheryl’s divorce, Libby had been careful to stay away from Tate. She managed pretty well, too, until the day of the twins’ birthday, when he’d walked into the Perk Up and the earth had shifted on its axis.

  No, for Libby, sex with this one man was cosmic. It was a personal apocalypse, followed by the formation of new universes.

  The one thing it would never be was just sex.

  Libby didn’t even have names for the things she felt when she and Tate were joined physically, and for hours or even days afterward.

  “It’s getting late,” she said, avoiding Tate’s eyes because she knew she’d get sucked into them like an unwary planetoid passing too near to a black hole if she let him catch her gaze just at that moment. “Maybe you should go.”

  He held her close again. She breathed in the scent of him, knew she would be powerless if he made the slightest move to seduce her.

  “You’re okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse, his breath moving through her hair like the faintest breeze. He propped his chin on top of her head, a sigh moving through his chest.

  “I’m okay,” she confirmed.

  He moved back, curved a finger under her chin, and lifted. “Lib?”

  She looked up at him.

  Don’t kiss me.

  I’ll die if you don’t kiss me.

  God help me, I’ve lost my mind.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” he told her.

  She nodded. Tears threatened again, but she managed to hold them back.

  He kissed her forehead.

  And then he drew back, no longer holding her.

  He bent to ruffle Hildie’s ears in farewell.

  Then he left.

  Libby poured the remains of her milk—now cold—down the sink. She listened to Tate’s retreating footsteps, fighting the urge to run after him, call him back, beg him to spend the night. She heard the front door open, close again. Then, distantly, the sound of his truck starting up.

  Only then did she walk through the living room to lock up.

  She switched off the lamps, went back to the kitchen, let Hildie out into the yard one last time.

  Once the dog was inside again, Libby retreated to the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth and shed the robe, hanging it from the peg on the back of the door.

  “What a pathetic life I lead,” she said, looking at the robe, limp from so many washings, the once-vibrant color faded, the seams coming open in places.

  Hildie, standing beside her, gave a concerned whimper, turned and padded into Libby’s room.

  The two of them settled down for the night, Libby expecting to toss and turn all night, sleepless, burning for the touch of Tate’s lips and hands, the warm strength of his arms around her, the sound of his heart beating as she lay with her head on his chest.

  Instead, sweet oblivion ambushed her.

  She awakened to one of those washed-clean mornings that so often follow a rainstorm, sunlight streaming through her bedroom window.

  DAWN HADN’T BROKEN WHEN Tate got out of bed, but a pinkish-apricot light rimmed the hills to the east. He hauled on jeans, a T-shirt, socks and boots. He’d shower and change and have breakfast later, when the range work was done.

  He looked in on his girls in their room, found them sleeping soundly, each with a plump yellow dog curled up at her feet. His heart swelled at the sight, but he was afraid to let himself get too happy.

  Things were still delicate with Libby.

  And Cheryl could change her mind about New York, the apartment, all of it, at any time—come back to the house in Blue River and start up the whole split-custody merry-go-round all over again.

  The thought made his stomach burn.

  Quietly, Tate closed the door to his daughters’ room and made his way along the hallway, toward the back stairs leading down into the kitchen.

  The aroma of brewing coffee rose to meet him halfway.

  He smiled.

  Esperanza was up, then. Maybe he’d have to reconsider his decision not to take time for breakfast, since she might not let him out of the house until he’d eaten something.

  Tate paused when he stepped into the brightly lit kitchen.

  Garrett stood at the stove, wearing jeans, boots and a long-sleeved work shirt, frying eggs. “Mornin’,” he said affably.

  Tate blinked, figuring he was seeing things.

  Even when he was on the ranch, which wasn’t all that often, Garrett never got up before sunrise, and he sure as hell never cooked.

  “You’re dead and I’m seeing your ghost,” Tate said, only half kidding.

  Garrett chuckled. There was something rueful in his eyes, something Tate knew he wouldn’t share. “Nope,” he replied. “It’s me, Garrett McKettrick. Live and in person.”

  Tate fetched a mug from one of the cupboards, filled it from the still-chortling coffeemaker on the counter, watched his younger brother warily as he sipped. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here,” Garrett said. “Remember?”

  “Vaguely,” Tate replied. “To be more specific, what are you doing in the kitchen, at this hour, cooking, for God’s sake?”

  “I’m hungry,” Garrett answered quietly. “And if you never went to bed in the first place, it doesn’t count as getting up early, does it?”

  “Oh,” Tate said. His brain was still cranking up, unsticking itself from sleep.

  “Have some eggs,” Garrett said, looking Tate over, noting his get-up. “Planning on playing cowboy today?”

  Tate felt his neck and the underside of his jaw turn hot, recalling Garrett’s earlier jibe about feeling guilty over the money and the land, making a show of working for a living. He took a plate from the long, slatted shelf and shoveled a couple of eggs—“cackleberries,” their grandfather had called them—onto it.

  They both sat down at the big table in the center of that massive room, and Tate took his time responding to Garrett.

  “Yeah,” he finally ground out. “I’m planning on ‘playing cowboy’ today.” He let his gaze roll over Garrett’s old shirt once, making his point. “Where did you get that rag? From wherever Esperanza stashes the cleaning supplies?”

  Garrett chuckled, glancing down at his clothes. “Found them in the back of my closet,” he said. “On the floor.”

  “Okay,” Tate said, “I’ll bite. What’s with the getup?”

  Garrett sighed. Possibly practicing his political skills, he didn’t exactly answer the question. “The lights were on in the bunkhouse and all the trailers along the creek when I came home a little while ago,” he explained, before a brief shadow of sadness fell over his face. He needed a shave, Tate noticed, and there were dark circles under his eyes. “Except the Ruizes’, of course. That was dark.”

  Tate dealt with his own flash of sorrow in silence. He knew Garrett had more to say, so he just waited for him to go on.

  “I knew the men were up and around, getting ready for a long day herding cattle or riding fence lines,” Garrett eventually continued. “I decided to put on the gear, saddle up and see if I still have it in me—a day of real work.”

  Tate felt a surge of something—respect, pride? Brotherly love?

  He didn’t explore the emotion. “These eggs aren’t half bad,” he said.

  “Well,” Garrett answered, “don’t get used to it. I don’t cook, as a general rule.”

  Tate chuckled, though it was a dry, raspy sound, pushed back from the table, carried his plate to the sink, rinsed it and set it in the dishwasher. Leaned against the counter and folded his arms, watching as Garrett finished his meal and stood.

  “
Everything all right?” Tate asked, very quietly.

  “Everything’s fine, big brother,” Garrett replied. He was lying, of course. From the time he was knee-high to a garden gnome, Garrett hadn’t been able to lie and look Tate in the eye at the same time.

  Now, he looked everywhere but into Tate’s face.

  “Let’s go,” Tate said, after a few moments, making for the door.

  Just then, Austin came down his personal stairway, clad in work clothes himself, though his shirt was only half-buttoned and crooked at that, and he had a pretty bad case of bed-head. Wearing one boot and carrying the other, he hopped around at the bottom of the steps until he got into the second boot.

  “Is there any grub left?” he asked.

  “You’re too late,” Garrett told him.

  “Shit,” Austin said, finger-combing his hair. “Story of my life.”

  “Cry me a river,” Tate said, with a grin and a roll of his eyes, pulling open the back door.

  The predawn breeze felt like the kiss of heaven as it touched him.

  He thought about Libby, sleeping warm and soft and deliciously curvy in her bed in town. Since about the last thing he needed right then was a hard-on, he shifted his mind to the day ahead, and the plans he’d made for it.

  He strode toward the barn, Garrett and Austin arguing affably behind him, glanced back once to see Austin tucking his shirt into his jeans, none too neatly. It was like the old days, when they were boys, and their dad roused them out of their beds at the crack to do chores, not only in the summer but year-round. The Silver Spur was their ranch, too, Jim McKettrick had often said, and they had to learn how to look after it.

  So they fed horses and herded cattle from one pasture to another.

  They shoveled out stalls and drove tractors and milked cows and fed chickens.

  The chickens and the dairy cows were long gone now, like the big vegetable garden. The quarter-acre plot had been his mother’s province; she and Esperanza had spent hours out there, weeding and watering, hoeing and raking. Tate and his brothers had done their share, too, though usually under duress, grumbling that fussing with a lot of tomatoes and green beans and sweet corn was women’s work.

  “You eat, don’t you?” Sally McKettrick had challenged, more than once, shaking a finger under one of their noses. “You eat, you weed, bucko. That’s the way the real world works.”