McKettricks of Texas: Tate

by Linda Lael Miller

  The tick of the mantel clock was hypnotic—steady as a metronome—and it didn’t help that Marva kept pacing back and forth in front of the cold fireplace, arms folded, the hem of her wildly colorful silk caftan billowing at her heels.

  Julie, seated in the wingback chair, was the first to open her envelope, the first to speak. Staring down at the check inside, she whispered, “This is—this is a lot of money.”

  Paige, perched on the edge of a chintz-covered ottoman, couldn’t seem to speak at all. She pressed one hand to the base of her throat, shaking, her eyes squeezed shut.

  Libby didn’t move so much as a muscle. She was too stunned.

  Marva stopped pacing and stood still, sweeping Libby, Julie and Paige up in a single cheerfully magnanimous glance.

  “Paige? Libby? Don’t either of you have anything to say?” their mother demanded, her voice a touch too high.

  Paige opened her eyes, swayed slightly. “Holy crap,” she said.

  Libby straightened her spine. The headache receded slightly, and the floor leveled itself out and stayed still. “Please, Marva,” she said, in a near whisper, “sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”

  Marva plunked down next to Libby, on the couch. Took one of Libby’s hands between both her own, as though the two of them were as close as any mother and daughter, ever. “I added a little something to your share, dear,” she said, in a whisper no one could have helped overhearing, even if they’d been in the next room. “Because I crashed into your little coffee shop and everything.”

  And everything.

  Did I mention that Dad kept asking for you, right up until the day he couldn’t talk anymore, because the hospice nurse and Doc Burt put him on a ventilator, and there was a tube in his throat, and even then he asked with his eyes?

  That until the middle of first grade, Paige thought every ring of the doorbell, every car stopping out front, meant you were home?

  Oh, yeah, and Julie saw you everywhere, for years—in the grocery store, in other cars at stoplights, on the River Walk in San Antonio.

  Me, I just wanted to talk to you. I was so pathetic, I would have settled for a few more phone calls. Letters or postcards.

  Hell, I’d have settled for smoke signals.

  And everything, indeed.

  “I can’t accept your money,” Libby said stiffly, after finding her voice and pulling free of Marva’s grasp.

  Julie glared at Libby from across the small room, fanning her flushed face with her check. “Lib,” she said, “this is no time to let your pride do the talking.”

  Marva fluttered a hand, the gesture taking them all in. “It isn’t my money, anyway,” she said, in merry dismissal. “It’s yours. I had a sizable insurance policy on your father’s life—he and I took it out together, soon after you were born, Libby—and when he died, I collected. Winston—my present husband—is very good with money, and he invested the proceeds and—” She beamed, flinging her hands out wide. “Voilà! You are women of means!”

  Women of means, Libby thought. Bile scalded the back of her throat.

  “How—?” Paige paused, started again. “How could you leave us like that? We were little kids, Marva.”

  “I’ve never claimed to be perfect,” Marva said, mildly indignant. The brilliant smile was gone.

  A short, bristly silence followed. “I should have listened to Winston,” Marva continued presently, frowning thoughtfully into the middle distance. “I thought if I came back to Blue River, well, we’d all get to know each other and bygones would be bygones. After all, we’re all grown-ups, aren’t we?” She sighed, causing her shoulders to rise and fall in an ebullient shrug. “Winston said you wouldn’t react well, and he was right. I miss him terribly, and frankly I’m tired of being the only one around here who even tries to build a relationship. I want to get on with my life. I want to go home.”

  Home, Marva had explained earlier, before the ceremonious presentation of the envelopes, was a condominium overlooking a beach in Costa Rica. Winston was a retired proctologist and, apparently, a very indulgent husband—as well as a financial whiz.

  Since responding to the things Marva had said would have amounted to crossing a conversational minefield, none of the sisters said anything.

  The evening was, for all practical intents and purposes, over.

  Libby left her envelope, still unopened, on Marva’s coffee table.

  She said goodbye, travel safely, and other things she couldn’t quite recall later, when she looked back on the experience.

  She had almost reached the Impala when Julie caught up to her, shoved the envelope at her. Her name was neatly inscribed on the front, in flowing cursive.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she said. “Marva destroyed your business. And, anyway, Dad would have wanted you to have this money. He probably kept up the premiums the whole time Marva was away. Take it.”

  Libby swallowed, snatched the envelope out of Julie’s hand, shoved it into her purse as Paige joined them, shivering a little, hugging herself, even though the night was warm.

  “I wouldn’t make any investments or impulse purchases if I were you,” Libby told both her sisters, as she opened her car door to get in and drive away. “Not before these checks clear the bank, anyway.”

  With that, she got into the Impala and started the engine.

  “Are you coming with me?” Libby asked Julie, who was staring at her as though she’d turned into a total stranger.

  “I’ll go with Paige,” Julie said, recovering enough to offer a thin smile. “She’s a little shaken up.”

  Aren’t we all? Libby thought wearily.

  When she got back to the house, Tate was waiting for her, just as he’d promised he would be. He’d been to the store, too—supper was grilled chicken breast from the deli at the supermarket, along with potato salad and biscuits. Almsted’s, which had abutted Libby’s building, was closed until inspectors could determine whether or not there had been structural damage.

  Hildie, resting contentedly in her usual place in front of the stove, rolled her eyes open in greeting, then closed them again. She’d had a big day, out there on the Silver Spur.

  They all had.

  Once Libby had washed her hands, dried them and sunk into the chair Tate held for her at the table, the day caught up with her, too. With an impact.

  She was exhausted.

  “So?” Tate asked, sitting down across from Libby. “Are you going to tell me what the big summons was all about?”

  “Yes,” Libby said, helping herself to a piece of chicken and some potato salad. “She’s going back to her husband, Winston, the retired proctologist, in Costa Rica.”

  “I see,” Tate said.

  They ate in silence for a while.

  “There’s money,” Libby said. “Sort of.”

  Tate raised an eyebrow. “Sort of?” he echoed. “How can there ‘sort of’ be money?”

  Libby got up, rummaged through her purse for the envelope, handed it to Tate.

  “See for yourself. There should be a check inside. I’m not getting excited until it clears the bank.”

  Tate chuckled at that, started to set the envelope aside, still sealed.

  Libby’s heart climbed into her throat. “Open it,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Please?”

  “It’s yours, Lib. You should be the one to open it.”

  Libby shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Okay,” Tate said. Slowly, probably giving her time to change her mind, he inserted the blade of a butter knife under the flap and slit the crease, pulled the check out without looking at it.

  Libby closed her eyes. Waited.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  Tate gave a long, low whistle of exclamation.

  When he read off the amount, she gasped.

  He handed it across the table. “Looks legitimate to me,” he said quietly.

  Libby briefly examined the check, groped for the envelope and shoved it back inside. Then she put the e
nvelope on top of the fridge, under the cookie jar.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  As if.

  “I suppose it’s too soon to ask if you have plans?” Tate ventured, when they’d both finished eating.

  “Plans?” Libby echoed. He seemed to have withdrawn from her somehow, pulled ever so slightly back into a space she couldn’t quite reach—but maybe she was imagining that.

  Tate stood, began clearing the table, putting things in the fridge, scraping bones and other scraps into the trash bin. “Yeah,” he said gently. “You could do a lot with that kind of money, Libby. You need to think about this.” He sighed. “Without me distracting you.”

  “Distracting me?” She felt the floor tremble beneath her.

  “Libby, you have some new options now, that’s all I’m saying. You need to explore them.”

  To think she’d been hung up on Tate’s earlier statement that he planned on asking her to move in with him, once the house was ready. She’d pretty much decided she’d say “yes,” when and if the time came, but now—now Tate was talking about thinking and options and explorations.

  For Libby, the money hadn’t changed anything, really.

  But maybe it had, for Tate. Maybe he’d liked her better when she was running a failing business, living on a shoestring. Or maybe he’d just felt sorry for her—poor Libby—and now that she was a “woman of means,” as Marva had put it, he could cut her loose, with no strain on his noble McKettrick conscience.

  Dammit, was the man looking for an out?

  She loved Tate.

  She loved his daughters, too—that hadn’t taken long. Two minutes, maybe.

  Yes, there had been dreams. She’d wanted to travel a little, perhaps take some courses online, buy a decent car…

  But all those were things she could have done without leaving Blue River, or at least without leaving Tate.

  “I’m not even sure the check is good,” Libby reiterated, after letting out a long breath. If Tate was having second thoughts, looking for an exit, she could deal with that. She could survive it—just as she had before. “Marva could be delusional—or even some kind of con artist, for all I know.”

  Tate leaned back against the counter, watching her. Sadness illuminated his eyes. “But if it is good?”

  “I don’t know, Tate. Do I have to decide tonight?”

  He crossed the room, leaned down, kissed the top of her head, lightly, in a way that said, See you later. “No,” he said hoarsely. “All you need to do tonight is get some sleep. We can talk tomorrow or—whenever.”

  Whenever? Libby thought. Her disappointment was out of all proportion to the situation. Whenever?

  “Lock up behind me,” Tate said.

  He bent, patted Hildie on the head and started toward the front of the house.

  Just like that, he was leaving.

  Going back to the ranch—alone.

  Libby waited until Tate was down the front steps, through the gate, on the sidewalk—until he’d actually driven away in his big-ass redneck truck—before she engaged the dead bolt on the front door and stormed back to the kitchen. Shot that dead bolt, too.

  Hildie hoisted herself up off the floor, yawning.

  Libby shut off the kitchen lights and led the way down the hall toward her bedroom. By then, she was absolutely certain she’d been dumped again.

  Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am.

  “Never trust a man,” she told the dog.

  Hildie plopped down on the rug at the foot of Libby’s bed, while Libby peeled off her clothes and flung them away. Shimmied into an oversized T-shirt and hauled back the covers on her bed.

  “He’s probably got you snowed,” Libby said, heading for the bathroom, where she washed her face and brushed her teeth. On her return, she resumed the one-sided conversation. “All that McKettrick charm. ‘You’re too tired to walk? Poor old dog. Here. Let me carry you, on my horse—’”

  Hildie sighed, dog-tired.

  Libby climbed into bed. Switched out the lamp.

  A tear trickled down over her right temple, tickling.

  “What exactly did Tate do to make me so angry, you ask? As anyone would. He left. As soon as a challenge comes up—poof!—Tate McKettrick is out of here.” She paused, pulled up a corner of the top sheet to dry her cheeks. “The thing is, Hildie,” she finished, staring up at the darkened ceiling, “I’m in love with the man. What do you say to that?”

  Hildie, of course, said nothing at all.

  Somehow, against all odds, Libby slept.

  HE HADN’T SEEN—or spoken to—Libby in four days.

  Cheryl called on Friday morning—early, even taking the time difference between Texas and New York into account.

  Tate, sleepless since leaving Libby’s house the night of the meeting with her mother, had just started the coffee brewing. Having glanced at the caller ID panel, his usual greeting was gruffer than usual.

  “Tate McKettrick. What do you want, Cheryl?”

  “My,” Cheryl said. “Aren’t we testy?”

  Tate drew in a breath, let it out slowly. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said.

  “How are my babies?” The chirpy note in Cheryl’s voice made him instantly suspicious. He hated it when she wheedled, and that chirp was the equivalent of a fire alarm.

  “Audrey and Ava are fine,” he said evenly. “Looking forward to seeing you tonight. A whole weekend with Mommy. Audrey wants to show you the routine she’s been practicing for the Pixie Pageant. What time does your plane get in?”

  Cheryl was silent for a few moments. “You’re letting Audrey enter the Pixie Pageant?”

  “Yeah,” Tate said. “I might have been wrong, saying ‘no’ out of hand the way I did. She’s giving it a shot.”

  “You, Tate McKettrick, were wrong about something?”

  “I can think of several,” Tate answered. A pause, during which he restrained himself from listing those things he’d been wrong about. It would surprise Cheryl to know she wasn’t number one on that list—that slot went to screwing up what he’d had with Libby in the first place. “Can we cut to the chase now, Cheryl? You didn’t call to shoot the breeze. It’s not even four o’clock out here—the girls are sleeping.”

  A short, stormy silence, during which he could feel the bad mojo building. “Dammit, Tate,” she finally burst out, “you know why I called, and you’re deliberately making it all as difficult as possible!”

  Since there was some truth in her accusation—he had known why she was calling—Tate decided to chill out a little. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll stop making things difficult for you. Go ahead and say it.”

  She sighed, and her voice sounded moist; either she was crying, or she wanted him to think she was. “It’s the job—I’m new—low man on the totem pole—”

  Tate suppressed a sigh. His knuckles tightened around the cell phone. God knew, he didn’t give a rat’s ass if Cheryl ever came back to Blue River, but the girls did. They were only six, and they loved and missed their mother.

  “I’d suggest that Audrey and Ava come here,” Cheryl went into her bravely-carrying-on routine. “But there wouldn’t be much point in that, when I’ll be at the office all weekend.”

  “No,” Tate said. “There wouldn’t be much point in that.”

  “I’ll come next weekend,” she promised, rallying. “And bring presents.” A pause. “Will you tell them that? That I’ll come next weekend and bring presents?”

  “No,” Tate replied. “They need to hear it from you.”

  Cheryl sounded pained. “Why?”

  “Because this is between you and the kids.”

  He heard her draw in an angry breath. “You love making me look bad, don’t you?”

  Tate closed his eyes, held back the obvious retort.

  “All right.” He nearly growled the words. “I’ll explain—this time. But you still need to call Audrey and Ava yourself, Cheryl. They’re your daughters. They miss you, and they’ll want to hear y
our voice.”

  “I’ll call,” Cheryl said, after a long time.

  “Yeah,” Tate said, and hung up without a goodbye.

  Right about then, Austin meandered down his private stairway, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. Scars from two different rotator-cuff surgeries laced his right shoulder, front and back.

  He ruffed up his already mussed hair and gave an expansive yawn.

  “Tell me you stayed out all night,” he drawled, “because nobody in his right mind gets up this early, even on a freakin’ ranch.”

  Tate chuckled, but the sound was rueful. “You’re up,” he pointed out.

  Austin all but staggered to the counter, took a mug from the cupboard and poured coffee into it, even though the stuff was still percolating in the fancy steel-and-steam apparatus Garrett had donated to the cause when their mother’s old electric pot finally conked out.

  “Hell, yes, I’m up,” Austin grumbled. “The bad vibes were practically bouncing off the walls.”

  Tate shook his head, exasperated. “Cheryl isn’t coming home for the weekend,” he said. “I knew things would come to that eventually, but I thought it would take a while. The girls are going to be let down, Austin. Big-time.”

  “Are they?” Austin asked, after rubbing his eyes. “If they’re missing anybody, I’d say it’s Libby.” He took a cautious sip of coffee, made a face at the taste. He’d been doing that for as long as Tate could remember.

  “Why do you drink coffee if you don’t like it?” he snapped.

  Austin chuckled. “Is your tail in a twist or what?” he countered, clearly amused. “And what the hell are you talking about?”

  “The way you grimace.”

  “I grimace?”

  “Yeah. When you drink coffee.”

  Austin laughed, shook his head again. “It’s just something I do,” he said. “Who cares why?”

  Tate sighed. “You’re right. Who the hell cares why?”

  “This is about Libby—this weird mood you’re in.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Austin lifted his cup in a half-assed toast. “I’m psychic. I might just set up my own toll-free number and start telling fortunes. Here’s yours for free—If you don’t get a handle on things with Libby Remington, once and for all, you’re going to wind up as one of those crusty, grizzled old sons-of-bitches who grouse about everything from taxes to the breakfast special at the Denny’s three towns over, train their dogs to bite and post No Trespassing signs on every other fence post.”