Texas.
It was fine and dandy to think about starting over someplace far away.
But could she really call anywhere else “home”? Would she even be able to breathe properly outside the Lone Star State?
“Come home with me, Libby,” Tate said, somehow steering her away from her car and toward his truck without laying a hand on her.
“Tate, I have a dog to feed and walk, and you have children—”
“We’ll pick Hildie up on our way out of town. Along with your toothbrush and whatever else you figure you need to get you through till morning.” He cleared his throat. “The twins are okay. They’re with Esperanza.”
Libby stopped, looked up at him. “Look, I know I agreed to come out to the Ruiz—to your place for chicken and beer, but—” She spread her arms wide, let her hands slap against her sides.
A slight and damnably sexy grin tugged at his mouth, was gone again. “But?” he prompted, his right hand resting lightly on the small of her back, ready to turn her gently, the way he’d turn a mare if she started off in the wrong direction.
“But what?” she challenged.
Tate chuckled. “I was waiting for an excuse. And you’re going to have to do better than that poor old dog. She’d love a road trip to anywhere, and you know it.”
She should have told him right then.
Speaking of road trips…she could have said, I’m thinking of leaving Blue River for a while. You might say I have to find myself. No, that’s too corny. Nobody worries about finding themselves anymore. Which just goes to show how out of touch I am, when it comes to the world outside central Texas.
Libby choked up again. “Tate, what do you want?”
“Not what you think I want,” he told her, opening the driver’s-side door of the Impala so she could get in. “Not just that, anyhow.”
Libby didn’t know which was making her crazier, the conversation she was carrying on with Tate, or the one in her own head. “Good night,” she said. “And thank you for the pizza.”
She reached into her purse, closed her fingers around her keys, took a couple of stabs at the ignition before she managed to start the engine.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Tate said affably, before closing her door and turning to walk away.
Libby watched him climb into his truck, blinked when his headlights came on, bright. He dimmed them, but she was still dazzled.
Almost a minute passed before Libby could see well enough to drive. Tate drove to the parking lot exit, but waited until she pulled in behind him.
She followed him to her house.
What was wrong with this picture?
Libby parked in the garage, off the alley, careful not to look toward the late, great Perk Up Coffee Shop. Wondered if Julie’s car had been pulled from the rubble yet, and whether or not the vehicle could be salvaged.
Tate parked in front of the house.
By the time Libby had unlocked the back door and nearly been run over as Hildie shot from the house like a popcorn kernel from hot oil, Tate was there and ready to follow her up the porch steps and into the kitchen.
“You know,” Libby said to Tate, leaving the door open for Hildie but wishing she could slam it for the sake of emphasis, “some people would consider this stalking. Your walking in here like this, I mean.”
“If you want me to leave,” Tate replied reasonably, “all you have to do is ask.” He opened her refrigerator, scanned the contents, sighed with what might have been resignation, helped himself to a soda, popped the top and raised the can briefly, as though toasting her.
Libby opened her mouth, closed it again.
Tate drank deeply of the soda, swallowed audibly. At least he didn’t belch.
“That Calvin,” he said, “is one cute kid. And a fair hand to have along on a pizza run.”
Libby couldn’t help softening, thinking of her nephew and how glad he’d been to spend some time in Tate’s company. “He’s so smart, it’s scary,” she said.
Hildie, having completed her tour of the yard, scratched at the screen door. Libby opened it to let her in, filled her kibble dish and freshened her water.
“Calvin wants to get to know his dad,” Tate said.
The statement fell between them like a flaming meteor.
Libby stood utterly still. Even though she’d encouraged Julie to work out some kind of visitation agreement with Gordon Pruett, she understood her sister’s reluctance. Gordon might be a good man—or he might be a jerk.
Julie would be taking a big chance by letting Gordon into her life and Calvin’s, but if he chose to force the issue legally, she wouldn’t have a choice
“Calvin said that?” Libby nearly whispered, after a heart beat or two.
Tate nodded. “Is this a problem?”
“It could be,” Libby said simply. She wasn’t comfortable discussing Julie’s private business, and Tate seemed to know that, didn’t press.
Libby shut and locked the back door. Hildie stood looking back and forth between Tate and her mistress instead of curling up on her dog bed, as she normally would have done.
“You have to promise we won’t have sex,” Libby blurted out. Tate was like some big, hard, human magnet, standing there in her kitchen. She felt the pull of him in every cell in her body—any second now, she’d go splat, like a bug on a windshield.
Tate indulged in a rather obvious struggle to hold back a grin, and one of his eyebrows rose into an ironic arch. “Forever?” he asked. “Or just for tonight?”
“Just for tonight,” Libby said. “Forever seems unreasonable.”
He chuckled. “Forever,” he said, “is downright impossible. But I won’t make love to you tonight, Lib. I promise you that much.” He paused. “Not even if you tear my clothes off in an insane fit of unbridled desire.”
“Don’t hold your breath waiting for that to happen, cowboy,” she said, with a lofty sniff.
Please God, don’t let me tear off his clothes in an insane fit of unbridled desire.
“If I have to promise,” Tate said, “so do you.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Libby said. “All right.”
With that, she went into her bathroom and got her hairbrush and her packet of birth control pills. There was no need to take pajamas along, because she intended to sleep in her clothes.
If she slept at all.
They went to the main ranch house, instead of Tate’s “new” place by the creek, and except for a single light burning under the portico, the massive structure was completely dark.
Libby panicked a little. “Tate, Audrey and Ava—”
“It’s a big house,” Tate said. “And besides, we’re not going to have sex anyway, so I don’t see the problem.”
“I don’t want to confuse them,” Libby said.
“Neither do I,” Tate answered, and another grin twitched at his mouth.
“You don’t think it will be confusing when they wake up tomorrow morning and I’m in their house?”
“I think they need to get used to seeing you around,” Tate said quietly.
Libby didn’t dare go there. It was late, she’d been through a lot that day, and if she wasn’t careful, she might say something she’d regret.
For the rest of eternity.
Tate pulled up to one of the garage doors, pushed a button on his visor, and drove in.
Once he’d parked and shut off the truck, he turned to Libby.
She looked neither left nor right. She certainly wasn’t going to look in Tate’s direction.
“Lib,” Tate said, pulling the keys from the ignition, “don’t look so worried. All I want to do is take care of you.”
All I want to do is take care of you.
Libby could barely remember what it was like to be “taken care of” by anyone. Before her dad had gotten sick—long before—she’d felt safe, as though somebody always had her back.
But since then? Not so much.
She straightened her sp
ine, found she still couldn’t look directly at Tate.
He opened the door, rounded the truck, set Hildie gently on the cement floor, opened Libby’s door and unbuckled her seat belt.
“Come on,” he said.
He took her by the hand, led her through the darkened house, up the stairs, into his room. Hildie followed.
There, Tate stripped Libby bare, pulled one of his Tshirts over her head, and tucked her under the covers of his bed.
Then he lay down on top of those same covers, pulled her into his arms, and held her, his embrace strong and sure, until she slept.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LIBBY AWOKE WITH A START, sunlight burning through her lids.
She opened her eyes, found herself almost nose to nose with one of the twins—Ava, she realized. The child was wearing glasses.
“Good morning,” Ava said, grinning.
Oh, dear God. She was in Tate McKettrick’s bed—with Tate McKettrick.
And here was his six-year-old daughter.
Libby blinked, glanced wildly around, having no idea what to say or do, and saw that Tate was still sleeping. He was wearing all his clothes, boots included, and lying on top of the covers, though one leg and one arm sprawled across Libby’s body.
“Good morning,” Libby whispered back to Ava, embarrassed but trying hard to behave in a normal way.
Whatever that might be, in these circumstances.
Tate stretched, his powerful body lengthening as he rolled away from her. He yawned lustily and opened his eyes.
“Hey,” he said to Ava, resting a hand on Libby’s shoulder, as if to console or reassure her. Or maybe because he knew she wanted to bolt.
“Hey, Daddy,” Ava replied, still showing no overt signs of trauma at finding a woman in bed with her father. “Esperanza said to tell you breakfast is ready and Uncle Austin already fed the horses and did the chores and stuff.”
Tate groaned, but it was a comfortable sound, good-natured. “So much for setting a good example as the new foreman,” he said.
“That’s all you’re worried about?” Libby whispered.
He grinned down at her. “If you don’t make a big deal out of this,” he said casually, and there was a subtle singsong note to his tone, “nobody else will, either.”
He was right, of course.
The child didn’t seem curious, let alone traumatized, but making a fuss might change the easy flow of things.
New concerns assailed Libby. She put a hand over her mouth. How could the man wake up with good breath? He had—but she probably hadn’t.
“Go and tell Esperanza we’ll be right down,” Tate told Ava. His voice was easy, as if he and Libby shared a bed every night. “Take Hildie with you—I imagine she’d like to go outside and then have a little of Ambrose and Buford’s dog food.”
Ava nodded importantly. “Come on, Hildie,” she said, with cheerful authority. “Let’s go.”
Hildie got up, gave Libby one questioning glance, and then followed the little girl out of the master bedroom.
Libby tried to get out of bed the moment the door closed behind Ava and Hildie, but Tate pressed her back down with one hand splayed in the middle of her stomach and deliberately kissed her on the mouth.
Thoroughly.
Libby finally turned her face away, even though she’d liked the kiss.
“If you don’t let me up,” she said, “you’re going to be sorry.”
Tate chuckled at that—the threat was clearly an empty one—but he let Libby get up.
She found her way to the bathroom, which was roughly the size of her kitchen and living room combined, used the facilities, and rummaged through cupboards and drawers under the long marble countertop until she found a new toothbrush, still in its package.
She was standing at one of the antique brass sinks, scrubbing her teeth, when Tate ambled in, calm as you please, shedding clothes as he walked. The long mirror over the counter reflected his every move in exquisite detail.
He was completely, wickedly, deliciously naked by the time he reached the shower. In all that time, he hadn’t so much as glanced in Libby’s direction.
She, on the other hand, couldn’t help staring.
From behind the glass door of the room-size shower, Tate grinned at her.
Libby tore her gaze away, flushing to the roots of her hair.
Stomped out of the bathroom and searched until she found her clothes, neatly folded and stacked on the seat of a sumptuous leather chair facing the cold fireplace.
Libby hauled them on, with the exception of her underpants; she wadded those into a ball and stuffed them into her purse.
Libby probably would have sneaked out of the house, sprinted down to the main road and hitchhiked into town, except that she couldn’t abandon Hildie, not even knowing the dog was perfectly safe.
Besides, Ava had already seen her. In bed with Tate.
By now, the little girl had surely told her twin and Esperanza—and that was the optimistic count. Ava had mentioned Austin, saying he’d done the barn chores, so he might have heard, as well. And if Garrett happened to be around, he probably knew, too.
Dressed, but having no real idea what to do next, Libby plunked down on the edge of the bed. At least Tate had kept his word.
He’d slept on top of the covers, in all his clothes.
She’d been underneath them the whole night, clad in one of his Tshirts.
They hadn’t made love. Libby figured she should have been happier about that than she was.
Because the shower was still running, indicating that she could expect a few more moments of privacy before Tate returned, she pressed the T-shirt to her face, drew in his scent. It seemed to seep into her cells and settle there, that lusciously distinctive smell, destined to remain a part of her forever, like her DNA.
Damn.
Just yesterday, at the clinic, despite a lot of misgivings, Libby had basically made up her mind to leave Blue River, start over somewhere else, make something of herself.
Like what? she wondered now.
Nothing occurred to her.
The sound of running water fell away into silence.
A minute or so later, Tate strolled out of the bathroom, barefoot, wearing button-front jeans and not much else. His hair was wet, though he’d towel-dried it and, from the looks of the ridges, he’d run his fingers through several times.
Could it be that he was as nervous as she was?
Surely not.
He crooked a grin at Libby. “Hungry?” he asked.
“I just want to go home,” Libby said, blushing. Looking down at the floor.
What would she do at home?
Dig more weeds?
Cut more grass?
Get down on her knees on the sidewalk in front of her erstwhile shop and paw through the rubble looking for—what? A stray dream? A few tattered hopes?
“No problem,” Tate said, his voice was quiet and so gentle that it made her want to cry. “If you want to go home, I’ll take you there.”
Libby didn’t know what to say after that. Since Tate hadn’t given her an argument, as she’d expected, she was stuck for a response.
The house in town was home—her dad had died there. She and her sisters had grown up under that roof, within those walls—but Julie and Paige had moved on.
She’d gotten stuck, somehow.
Tate disappeared into the massive walk-in closet, returning with one arm thrust into the sleeve of a light blue shirt, the other about to go in. His muscular chest was fully visible, lightly sprinkled with dark hair and tanned by occasional exposure to the sun.
He tossed Libby a pair of jeans and a yellow ruffled blouse; both garments were vaguely familiar.
Libby caught them, a funny little skitter dancing in her heart, let them rest in her lap, her head lowered. “Are these Cheryl’s things?” she asked, thick-throated.
“No,” Tate said gently. “They’re yours.”
Libby’s gaze shot to his face. H
er throat tightened even more, and her cheeks blazed. Of course, Tate wouldn’t give her his ex-wife’s clothes to wear. What had she been thinking?
“You left them here once, a long time ago, when my folks were away,” he reminded her, a grin resting on his mouth and twinkling in his eyes. He probably knew what was going through her mind, or pretty close to it, anyhow. “Esperanza was visiting her cousin, and Garrett and Austin were both gone, too, on the rodeo circuit. We spent the whole weekend pretending we were married—remember?”
Libby felt a bittersweet pang of mingled nostalgia and sorrow. Back then, marrying Tate McKettrick had seemed like a sure thing. They’d nearly eloped several times in their late teens and Libby sometimes wished they’d gone through with the plan.
Sometimes, and only until she came to her senses.
She and Tate had been so young. She’d had to drop out of college and come back to Blue River to take care of her dad after he got sick. Tate might have given up school, too, and eventually come to resent Libby and the demands she made on his time.
And Audrey and Ava wouldn’t have been born.
Inconceivable.
The silence seemed to have weight.
“You don’t really think I can still get into these jeans,” Libby joked, to break the spell.
Tate laughed. “Can I stay and watch you try?”
Libby giggled, waved him away. “Get out,” she said.
He smiled, buttoning his shirt to the middle of his breast-bone. “I was headed downstairs for coffee anyhow,” he said.
“Bring you some?”
She shook her head, stroking the yellow blouse. She’d loved the thing, saved her allowance and babysitting money to buy it. Felt so sexy with all those sun-colored ruffles floating around her. “No thanks,” she said. “Maybe some tea?”
“You got it,” Tate said.
With that, he left the huge room, closing the double doors behind him.
LIBBY HASTENED INTO THE bathroom, shut the door and wriggled into the jeans. They were a little tight, but they zipped up, and the blouse looked as good as it ever had.
Libby’s raised spirits drooped a bit, though, as she considered the prospect of going downstairs and facing Esperanza and the twins.
McKettricks of Texas: Tate Page 26