McKettricks of Texas: Tate (10 page)

Idiot,
Libby thought.
Why don’t you just jump up onto the running board of that truck like some bimbo with hay in her hair and invite him to join you in an appearance on the
Jerry Springer
show?

Maybe the episode could be called, “Women who chase after men who stomped on their hearts.”

Tate flashed that legendary grin, the one folks claimed had been passed down through his family since the original patriarch, old Angus McKettrick, had broken his first heart back in the 1800s.

“Six o’clock,” he confirmed. “We’ll see about the kids.”

Still ridiculously flustered, Libby finally registered that a number of her regular customers had gathered inside the Perk Up since she’d stepped outside with Tate, and they were peering out through the window as he drove away.

Embarrassed to be part of a spectacle, she hurried inside.

She could close up at five, she was thinking, hit the deli counter next door at Almsted’s for cold chicken and potato salad and—whatever. She would improvise.

In the meantime, there were orders to fill.

What did kids like to eat? Libby wondered, her mind busy planning supper while her hands made lattes and frappes and iced mochas by rote. Hot dogs? Hamburgers?

The regulars had barely left when a tour bus full of senior citizens pulled up. They were on their way to San Antonio, Libby learned, to see the Alamo.

It was hectic, juggling all those orders, but Libby managed it, and stood waving in the doorway as the bus pulled away.

Long before Julie got back, sans King Calvin, the scones plus four bags of cookies hastily purchased at Almsted’s were gone.

“What took you so long?” Libby asked, but she smiled a little as she waggled a handful of cash just plucked from the register.

“I had to walk Harry and put a load of towels in the washer,” Julie answered, her eyes widening at the sight of all that loot. “What did you do, jimmy open an ATM?”

B
ONE-TIRED AND SICK
to his soul, but looking forward to seeing Libby again just the same, Tate made a point of passing Brent’s office on the way out of town.

Beth Anne Spales, the dispatcher/secretary the chief had inherited from a long succession of predecessors, stood in the small parking lot, watering droopy pink flowers in terracotta pots. She wore a floppy sun hat and gardening gloves, and waved when she recognized Tate’s truck.

His mind tripped back to last night.

He’d called Brent as soon as he’d found Pablo’s body, then he’d concentrated on rounding up the agitated stallion, shutting it up in the corral. The chief had arrived quickly, as had the county coroner, whose regular job was running the Blue River Funeral Home.

The task of telling Isabel what had happened to Pablo fell to Tate.

He’d driven over to the house by the creek, unsurprised to find lights burning in the windows, late as it was. Isabel would have waited up for Pablo; by then, she’d know something was wrong.

Except for telling Garrett and Austin about the car accident that had taken their parents’ lives, and telling Libby that he’d gotten another woman pregnant and meant to marry her, relaying to Isabel the news that Pablo was dead was probably the hardest thing Tate had ever had to do. Tiny,
quiet, dignified Isabel had
yowled
when he told her, like an animal caught in the steel teeth of a trap.

Now, in the bright light of a new day, Tate pulled up to the only stoplight in town, which happened to be red and would be for a while, since the timing device had quit working on New Year’s Eve of 1999, thus convincing the nervous types that Y2K, with cataclysmic results, was indeed upon them. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel while he waited, breathing slowly and deeply.

He felt sick.

Someone honked a horn behind him, and Tate sat up straight, frowning when he saw that the light was still red. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he spotted Brent, driving the squad car.

“Pull over,” Brent instructed, through that damn bull-horn of his.

Tate cursed under his breath and maneuvered the truck into the bank parking lot to his right. Buzzed down his window.

“I don’t know what my crime was,” he said, as Brent approached the driver’s side door, “but it sure as hell wasn’t speeding.”

Brent flashed him the Denzel grin, though he looked even worse than Tate felt. “You shouldn’t be on the road in the condition you’re in,” the chief said. “You’re wiped.”

“You shouldn’t, either,” Tate replied.

Brent sighed. Tucked his thumbs into that honking service belt of his. His badge looked dull in the bright light of day. Resting one foot on Tate’s running board, he took off his sunglasses and squinted at his friend, looking worried. “You doin’ okay, here, McKettrick?” he asked. “I know you were close to all the Ruizes,
especially
Pablo. You must be pretty broken up.”

“I’ll be all right,” Tate said.
Eventually.

“Isabel’s in a big hurry to hold the funeral and move herself and those boys in with her sister, out in L.A.,” Brent said. “Did she tell you that?”

“No,” Tate answered. Thinking of the Ruiz house standing empty left him feeling as though he’d been punched in the gut. The place had been a second home to him and his brothers while they were growing up. Along with Nico, they’d fished and splashed in the cold water of the creek, stuffed themselves with apricots from Pablo’s fruit trees, “camped out” in the Ruiz living room in sleeping bags. “No,” he said again. “She didn’t say anything about that. Seems like a pretty sudden decision.”

Brent nodded. “It’s her life,” he said. “I just hope she’s not being too hasty.”

Tate agreed, and the two men parted ways.

Tate pondered Isabel’s plans to move off the ranch as he drove toward home, navigating the familiar country roads by instinct. He nearly stopped off on the way to remind the woman that there was no hurry to clear out. He’d been planning on deeding the place over to Pablo anyhow, as soon as the old man retired.

In the end, though, Tate decided it was Isabel’s own business if she wanted to live elsewhere. For all he knew, she’d hated living in the country all along, and here was her chance to live in a city.

When he pulled in next to the barn at home, Audrey and Ava and both dogs rushed him, were on him as soon as he stepped down out of the rig.

“Hey,” he said.

“Can we ride our birthday ponies?” Audrey asked.

“Please?” Ava added.

Tate considered, decided a ride would be a good thing for everybody. He’d have to keep an eye on the pups, make sure they didn’t try to weave back and forth between the horses’ legs.

He’d planned on a few hours of shut-eye before going to supper at Libby’s, but if they weren’t out on the range too long, he and the kids, they could still make it.

“All right,” he said, “saddle up.”

The twins saddled their ponies with minimal help, having had lots of practice tacking up Bamboozle, while Tate threw a saddle on an old gelding named Bluejack.

Audrey and Ava were already outside, mounted on their matching “birthday” ponies, when Tate ducked his head to ride out through the barn door.

It was only then that he remembered the paint stallion, still in the holding pen at the back of the barn.

“Stay clear of the pen,” he called to the girls. The steel fence surrounding the holding pen was twelve feet high, the poles set in concrete, and there wasn’t more than six inches between the slats, though Ambrose or Buford might be able to dig their way under, he supposed. It didn’t seem likely that they would.

Over the years, that pen had held bulls and many another stallion—some of them pretty determined critters. The steel surround had always held.

Still,
this
stallion was hell-born, a killer.

The huge animal tossed his head back and forth, snorted and pawed at the ground with his right front hoof. He looked ready to charge that fence, steel or no steel, concrete fittings or none.

A shudder ran down Tate’s spine as he caught up to his daughters and rode on the side nearest the stallion.

“Is that the horse that stomped on Mr. Ruiz and crushed his heart?” Audrey asked, her blue eyes huge as she looked up at Tate. Her golden pony pranced fitfully beneath her, and no wonder—the poor little filly was a fifth the size of that stallion, if not less.

“That’s the horse,” Tate confirmed, his voice grating past his throat, fit to draw blood in the process. “Who told you Mr. Ruiz’s heart was crushed?”

“I heard Esperanza telling somebody on the phone,” Audrey said. “She didn’t know I was listening.”

“I see,” Tate replied.

Ava looked back as they moved farther and farther from the pen and the pacing, whinnying stud, churning up clouds of dust.

“Why is he still on the Silver Spur,” Ava asked reasonably, “if he hurt Mr. Ruiz?”

“Some of the ranch hands say he ought to be shot,” Audrey observed worriedly. “Because he’s a demon and won’t ever be any different.”

Tate knew, of course, about the talk going around the bunkhouse and the trailers along the creek, but he also knew Pablo wouldn’t have wanted the horse destroyed. No, Pablo would have said the stud was wild and ought to be let out to run the range, siring foals and making a legend of himself.

The decision wasn’t Tate’s alone—the paint had killed a man, and the authorities would have a say in whether the animal lived or died. If the choice was his to make, Tate would have agreed with Pablo.

Some horses weren’t meant to be tamed, just like some people.

“For now,” Tate told his daughters solemnly, “here’s all you need to know about that stud. Stay away from him, and keep your dogs away, too.”

Ava looked back over one shoulder. “He doesn’t look very happy,” she said.

“I don’t imagine he is,” Tate agreed. “Do I have your word? You’ll both stay as far from that stud as you can, no matter what?”

Both girls lifted their right hand, as though giving a oath.

“Unless we don’t have any other choice, of course,” Audrey said, after Tate had bent to open the wire-and-post gate so the three of them could ride through, headed for the range.

“Audrey,” Tate said sternly, “I want your word—as a McKettrick.”

Audrey rolled her eyes, then nodded.

Ava said, “You have my word.”

Tate put the stallion from his mind then, rode with his girls and found that it cleared his head and his soul, just like always.

An hour later, back at the house, he dragged himself up to his bedroom, kicked off his boots and collapsed facedown on the bed, hoping to catch a little sleep before going back to town to have supper with Libby.

The twins joined him, and so did the dogs.

And just the same, he slept like a dead man.

D
URING THE NEXT LULL
,
Libby locked up the shop for an hour and drove her car to the auto shop for the exhaust system repair, Julie following in her pink bomb to provide feminine moral support and a ride back.

Libby left the Impala with a mechanic and joined Julie in the Mary-Kay-mobile. She’d paid the cost in advance, using the profits from the coffee, scone and cookie sales she’d made to the people from the tour bus, but if the car needed extra work, especially something critical, she would have to use a credit card after all.

Julie reached over and patted her arm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Gordon’s check cleared this month. I can help you out if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Libby murmured, feeling like a charity case. “But doesn’t that money go into Calvin’s college account?”

“Most of the time,” Julie said, checking all the mirrors before she backed out of her parking space. “It’s no big deal, Lib. Pay me back when you can.”

Relief coursed through Libby, but it didn’t soothe all the places that ached. Things had seemed so wonderfully ordinary that morning when she’d taken Hildie out for her walk. Two kisses from Tate McKettrick the night before and she’d been walking on air.

The grass had been greener, the sky bluer.

Impossible things had begun to seem possible.

And then Gerbera had told her about Pablo Ruiz’s death.

“Do you ever feel,” she began, “as though no matter what you do, it’s never going to be enough?”

Julie pulled right back into the parking space she’d just left, popped the elderly Cadillac into Park and shut off the engine. “Was that the voice of a depressed woman I just heard?” she asked. She spoke quietly, but at the same time she clearly meant to get a straight answer.

“I’m not exactly
depressed,
” Libby said, thinking of Calvin getting out of playschool soon, and the shop closed for business and Hildie needing to be let out into the backyard for a little while. “
Overwhelmed
is more like it.”

“Oh,” Julie said. “Well, yeah, I know all about over whelmed.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Libby said, with true admiration. “Raising Calvin alone, holding down a teaching job—”

“We all do what we have to,” Julie replied when Libby fell silent, out of steam. “And I’ve wondered the same thing about you now and again, sister dear. You run the Perk Up by yourself most of the time, robbing Peter to pay Paul, and then there’s Marva giving a grandstand performance every couple of weeks. Add on the way you always foster the overflow from the animal shelter and, hello, you make Wonder Woman look like an underachiever.”

Libby blinked, surprised. “Wonder Woman?” she echoed, with an effort at a smile.

“You’re too hard on yourself, Lib,” Julie went on, after nodding once, with conviction. “No matter what comes at
you, you just keep on trucking. I happen to admire that quality in a sister, or anybody else.”

“Well,” Libby responded, honestly puzzled, “what
else
can I do?”

Julie snapped her fingers. “See?” she said. “It doesn’t even
occur
to you to quit. Do you think everybody’s like that? My God, Lib, when Dad was sick, you were always there for him and for Paige and me, too. You were unstoppable, even after a body blow that would have dropped a lesser woman to her knees.”

The body blow, of course, was Tate’s defection to the Cheryl camp.

“That was pretty bad,” Libby admitted, remembering. Bad? She’d lost fifteen pounds and a lot of sleep, developing dark circles under her eyes. She’d dated a string of losers, too, ready to settle for Mr. Wrong if only to spite Tate, because there was only one Mr. Right and he was taken.

Fortunately, Julie and Paige had intervened, threatening to lock her up in a closet, bound with duct tape, so she wouldn’t be able to ruin her life before she came to her senses. For good measure, they’d planned to spoon Ben & Jerry’s into her until she regained every pound she’d lost and ten besides.

Julie leaned far enough to tap lightly on Libby’s temple with an index finger and ask, “What’s really going on in there?”

Back when he was healthy, their dad had done that whenever one of his daughters got too introspective, or came down with a case of what he called “the sullens.”

“Tate’s coming to dinner tonight, at my place,” Libby said. “And that pretty much cinches it: it’s time to book a suite at the Home for Stupid Women and learn the secret handshake.”

Julie erupted with laughter. “Forget it,” she said. “The waiting list is probably way too long.”

Libby laughed, too—as she wiped away tears with the heel of one palm. “Just my luck,” she said, sniffling. She straightened her shoulders, raised her chin. “We’d better get going. Calvin will be through soon.”

Julie started up the car again, and they were on their way. “There’s one bright spot in all this,” she told Libby.

“Oh, yeah? What would that be?”

“You’ll get to have sex.”

“Sex?”

“You know,” Julie said, with a sly grin. “That fun, sweaty, noisy, slippery thing men and women do together, usually but not always in a bed?”

“Tonight isn’t about sex, it’s about
dinner,
” Libby said, turning red. “He’s bringing the kids, the dogs and maybe even the housekeeper.”

“You know damn well you’re going to end up in bed with Tate McKettrick, sooner or later,” Julie insisted. “And my money’s on ‘sooner.’ Whenever the two of you are together, the air crackles.”

“And you think I should just
go for it
, after all that happened?”

“That’s exactly what I think. A lot of men aren’t worth a second chance, but Jim and Sally McKettrick’s boy? Definitely the one to bet on.”

“The sisterly thing to say would be, ‘Stay away from him. He hurt you once, and he’ll hurt you again,’” Libby admonished.

“If that sister happened to be a cynic, maybe.”

They reached the community center, and Julie parked the car. Calvin was on the playground, with a flock of other kids, engaged in a game of tag. Mrs. Oakland supervised, carrying a clipboard and wearing a whistle on a string around her neck.

“You’re telling me you’re not a cynic?” Libby countered.

“You, the woman who’s about to skip town to avoid a confrontation with her son’s father?”

Julie sighed deeply, her hands tight on the steering wheel, watching Calvin with her heart in her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, very quietly. “Time to face the music.” Then she turned to look at Libby. “And how was my plan ‘cynical’?”

“Think about it,” Libby said. “You didn’t even consider the fact that Gordon might have turned over a new leaf, now that he’s married and maybe even ready to settle down for real. You cared enough once to make a baby with him, but now you just assume he’ll be nothing but trouble. If that isn’t cynical, I don’t know what is.”

Julie smiled smugly. “Well, listen to you, Libby Remington,” she said, as Calvin spotted them, spoke to Mrs. Oakland and, when the woman nodded her permission, ran toward the car. “Admitting it’s possible for a man to
change.
Even one like, say,
Tate McKettrick.
”

“Shut up,” Libby said.

“No possible way,” Julie retorted. “And watch how you talk to me, or I won’t help you cook a gourmet dinner that will have a certain dark-haired cowboy begging for your hand in marriage.”

Libby’s eyes widened. “You’d do that?
Prepare a gourmet dinner just to make me look good?
”

Calvin reached the car and lugged open the back door to scramble onto the seat.

“Of course I would,” Julie said, before turning to smile at Calvin and ask him how his day went.

“I’m ahead in the polls!” he exulted.

“That’s it,” Julie answered. “No more
Meet the Press
for you, buddy.”

Libby laughed. “Here he is now,” she quipped, looking over her shoulder at Calvin, who was busy buckling himself into his car seat. “The man who would be king.”

“W
HAT WOULD YOU SAY
to a partnership?” Libby asked Julie, later that afternoon, the two of them practically lost in the wilderness of pots, pans and bowls that was Libby’s kitchen. Instead of reopening the shop, they’d raided Julie’s cupboards and freezer for the makings of dinner, stopping at the supermarket for the few things she didn’t already have.

“A partnership?” Julie echoed, dipping a spoon into a kettle of pesto sauce to do a taste test. “What kind of partnership?”

“At the Perk Up,” Libby said, realizing too late what she was asking of her sister and wishing she hadn’t brought the subject up at all. It wasn’t as if the place were a runaway moneymaker—now that she had to compete with the famous franchise, she was operating in the red, for the most part.

Calvin’s laugh, accompanied by a lot of happy barking from Hildie, came through the screen door.

“Never mind,” Libby backpedaled, embarrassed. “It was just a thought.”

“How about sharing that thought with me?” Julie inquired. She’d changed into shorts and a pink top while they were at her place, and her eyes were a silvery gray.

“It seems silly now.”

“I can do silly,” Julie grinned. “In fact, it’s a way of life. Keeps me sane. Talk to me, Lib.”

“I was just thinking—well, your scones are so popular, and you’re not working at the insurance agency this summer, so…”

“Oh,” Julie said, getting it. She puffed out her cheeks, the
way she always did when something surprised her and she needed to stall for a few seconds so she could think.

“I told you it was silly.”

“We could sell lots of other things besides scones,” Julie mused, as if Libby hadn’t spoken. “Soup and sandwiches and salads. Change the name of the place, serve high tea—”

“What’s wrong with the Perk Up?” Libby interrupted, thrown off. She’d done a lot of brainstorming to come up with that moniker.

“Well,” Julie said, with kind forbearance, “it’s not very original, now, is it?”

Libby sagged a little, around the shoulders. “I guess not,” she admitted. Then, “Wait a second. You’re actually considering my offer?”

“Of course I’d go back to teaching in the fall,” Julie said. “That will mean cutting back to part-time here, doing the baking at night and on weekends. But, yes. I think the idea has merit.”

“You do?”

Julie grinned, glanced at the stove clock. Wiped her hands on her apron before taking it off. “Yep,” she said. “Calvin and I are out of here. My, how time flies when you’re making pesto.”

“You’re going to
leave?
”

Julie widened her eyes and mugged a little. “Uh,
yeah,
” she said. “The salad is in the refrigerator. There are hot dogs, in case the kids don’t like pasta. You do know how to heat hot dogs, don’t you?” After Libby tossed her a look, she went on, undaunted. “All you have to do is boil the noodles and zap the pesto in the microwave and
voilà!
Pasta à la Julie.”

“Stay,” Libby pleaded.

Julie ignored her, walking to the back door and whistling through her teeth. “Yo, Calvin!” she called. “Time to boogie!”

“Julie—”

Julie turned, her arms folded. “You can do this, Lib,” she said firmly. “Go change your clothes. And—hey—why don’t you go wild and wear some lip gloss?”

A
ROUND FIVE O
’
CLOCK
, showered, semi-rested and shaved, Tate studied his reflection in his bathroom mirror. “What the hell are you doing, McKettrick?” he asked himself, resting his hands on the countertop and leaning in.

There was no time to come up with an answer—a light rap sounded at his door. “Are you decent?” Audrey called, from the other side.

Tate chuckled. Was he decent? Well, that depended on who you asked.

He adjusted the collar of his cotton shirt. He’d almost gone with a suit, one of the tailored numbers left over from his days with McKettrickCo, but in the end, he’d opted for his usual jeans and plain shirt. He didn’t want to seem too eager, and besides, he’d be going to a good friend’s funeral in a couple of days. One suit in a week was plenty.

“Who wants to know?” he teased.

“Audrey McKettrick, that’s who!” his daughter yelled in reply.

“
And
Ava McKettrick!” cried the other daughter, not to be outdone.

“Come in,” he said.

The door flew open and the twins and their dogs crowded through the gap.

“Uncle Garrett is on his way,” Audrey reported.

“Uncle Austin, too,” Ava added.

“I know,” Tate answered, steering the pair and their faithful animal companions into the larger space that was his room. He sat down on the side of the bed to pull on his boots.

“Are they coming because they want to go to Mr. Ruiz’s funeral?” Audrey asked.

“Yes,” Tate said simply. He’d called them both, late the night before, to tell them what had happened. Pablo had been like a member of the family, and he’d really stepped up when their folks were killed. For a while, he’d functioned as a sort of surrogate father, and Isabel had mothered them as much as they’d allow.

Ava hiked herself up to perch on the bed beside him, and Audrey took the other side. “It’s sad when somebody dies,” Ava said solemnly.

“Yeah,” Tate agreed. “It’s real sad.” Since the twins hadn’t been born yet when their McKettrick grandparents passed away, he wondered what, if anything, they knew about death.

“Our goldfish died,” Audrey confided. “Mom flushed them.”

“Things like that happen,” Tate said.

“They don’t flush
people,
do they?” Ava asked, clearly concerned. “When they die, I mean?”

Tate wrapped an arm around both his girls, held them close for a moment. “No,” he said gently. “They don’t flush people.”

“People are too
big
to flush, ninny,” Audrey told her sister, leaning around Tate to look at Ava.

“No name calling,” Tate ordered. Then he noticed that the girls were still in their playclothes. “Better clean up your acts,” he said, “if you want to go to Libby’s with me.”

“Esperanza is cooking,” Ava told him. “She says Mrs. Ruiz will need to have lots of food on hand, with so many people coming to visit.”