McKettricks of Texas: Tate (32 page)

“
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 your 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.”

Tate couldn’t help a wan grin. “That was colorful,” he said.

“What’s the problem between you and Libby?”

“What if I said it was none of your business?”

“I’d keep right on asking,” Austin said, smiling over the rim of his cup.

Tate sighed. “She came into some money.”

“And that’s bad?”

“I suppose not. It gives her a lot of options, Austin. She could leave, start herself a whole new, Tate-free life someplace else.”

“And you’d rather she didn’t have any choice but to stay here with you?”

For all the chewing and mulling he’d done, Tate hadn’t
thought of that. “No,” he said hoarsely. “I just want her to stay. To
want
to stay.”

“And she doesn’t?”

“I don’t know—I don’t think
she
knows, either. Libby is deciding what she wants. I’m trying to give her enough space to do that.”

“Space is good,” Austin agreed. “But too much of it might make Libby think you just don’t give a damn, one way or another. Talk to her, Tate. Tell her what you feel, and what you want.
Then
say you’ll give her space to think things over.”

“You might be the next Dear Abby.”

Austin laughed. “I applied,” he joked. “Too much bull on my résumé.”

“Hilarious,” Tate said.

“Yeah,” Austin said. “I’m a one-man tailgate party. Bring your own six-pack.”

“Speaking of bulls,” Tate said. “You’ve given up on the idea of tracking Buzzsaw down and riding him, haven’t you?”

Austin shook his head, set his coffee mug aside with a thunk. “Nope,” he said. “I know the stock supplier who owns him. Buzzsaw and me, we have a date with destiny.”

Tate’s gut tightened. “Let this go, Austin,” he said quietly. “That bull almost killed you before. Why give him a second chance?”

Austin’s eyes were grave. “You know why.”

“All you have to do is turn your back. All you have to do is walk away.”

But Austin shook his head again, and Tate knew that particular conversation was over.

M
ARVA LEFT TOWN, ON SCHEDULE
.

A day later, a moving van pulled up in front of her con
dominium, and her furniture and other household goods were removed.

Just like that, she was gone.

Again.

Libby, Julie and Paige drove all the way to Austin in Paige’s car, just to deposit the checks Marva had given them. That way, they had each other for moral support, and it would be considerably less embarrassing than walking into First Cattleman’s Bank in Blue River and finding out there was no money, carefully invested by a fiscally minded, retired proctologist.

The checks were good.

They plunked down on a bench in front of the bank, the three of them in a row, stunned.

“We’re rich,” Julie said.

“Not rich,” Paige clarified. “Comfortable.”

“I’m a teacher,” Julie countered. “You’re a registered nurse with state-of-the-art skills. Maybe this kind of money says ‘comfortable’ to you, but it says ‘rich’ to me.”

Libby laughed. “Hot damn,” she said.

She could go anywhere, do practically anything.

She had choices.

“What are you going to do with your share?” Julie asked, probably relieved that Libby hadn’t torn the check into little pieces and tossed them into the breeze.

“Buy a new car,” Libby said.

“That’s all you want?”

“It’s not all I want,” Libby answered, smiling to herself.
And sometimes you have to go after what you want, and have confidence that you’ll get it.

The clarity was sudden, and it was glorious.

“Let’s get lunch,” she said. “I have things to do at home.”

“Don’t we all?” Paige agreed.

They had salads at a sunny sidewalk café.

Libby bought a cell phone and, between Paige and the salesman, figured out how to operate it.

And then they drove back to Blue River.

“You look like a woman with a purpose,” Paige said, dropping Libby off at the back gate.

Inside the house, Hildie began to bark a relieved welcome.

Libby merely nodded; she knew her mysterious smile and wandering attention had been driving her curious sisters nuts all morning.

Waggling the fancy phone, which was probably capable of polishing the lenses of satellites deep in outer space, she smiled and unlatched the gate with her free hand.

“Call you later,” she said.

Paige honked her horn in farewell and drove away.

Libby hurried up the walk and unlocked the back door.

Hildie spilled out gleefully, greeted her with a yip and squatted next to the flower bed.

While the dog enjoyed a few minutes of fresh air, Libby changed out of her go-to-the-bank-in-Austin dress and sandals and pulled on comfy jeans, a short-sleeved black T-shirt and tennis shoes. She brushed her hair and pulled it back from her face.

She put on lip gloss.

“Come on,” she said to Hildie, grabbing up her purse and the new cell phone and the keys to the ratty old Impala. “We’re on a mission.”

During the drive, Libby rehearsed what she’d say when she reached her destination.

I love you, Tate McKettrick.

Let’s give “us” a chance.

Now that we’re all grown up, let’s make it work.

She’d done a lot of thinking in the days since Tate had left her to consider her options. She’d realized he hadn’t so much dumped her as assumed she was going to dump him. But she wasn’t, and she trusted that he’d respond to her rehearsal speech just the way she wanted him to.

She stopped at the small house first; there were signs that Tate had been there, pounding nails and splashing paint onto the walls, but he wasn’t around at the moment.

Libby called Hildie back from the creek where she’d been exploring, and they moved on to the main place.

There were trucks everywhere, parked at odd angles, but Libby didn’t see anyone, either by the barn or in the spacious yard.

She was standing there, beside the Impala, trying to decide whether to knock on the kitchen door or check out the barn, when she heard the small, shrill scream.

Libby’s heart actually seized in her chest.

For one terrible moment, she couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

The scream came again, smaller now, more terrified.

And it was followed by the sound of the stallion trying to kick his way out of the pen again.

Libby broke into a run. “Tate!” she yelled. “Somebody—anybody—
help!
”

She rounded the corner of the barn.

The stallion was kicking in all directions now, raising dust, a whirling dervish.

And through that choking dust, Libby saw one of the twins—Ava, she thought—wriggle under the lowest rail and right into the stud pen.

Jesus,
Libby prayed,
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…

She slammed against the side of the pen, grabbing the rails with both hands to steady herself.

Ava huddled within inches of the stallion’s flying hooves, sheltering one of the pups with her little body.

Raising her eyes, the child spotted Libby.

Libby flopped to her belly in the dirt, but she clearly wasn’t going to fit under that fence. She bolted back to her feet and started up the side, hand over hand, rail to rail.

“Tate!” she screamed, once more, as she reached the top.

And then she was over, landing in a two-footed crouch in the churned up dust and dried manure, Ava within reach.

The stallion froze, quivering all over, sizing her up.

Libby knew the respite was only temporary.

She could barely see for the dust, and her eyes scalded. Her heart pounded, and her throat felt scraped raw.

Moving slowly, she got Ava by one skinny upper arm, pulled.

Ava held on to the puppy.

The stallion snorted, laid back his ears.

A bad sign, Libby thought, strangely calm even though her body was stressed to the max. A very bad sign.

She pressed Ava and the pup behind her, against the rails. Pinned them with her back, spread her arms to shield them as best she could.

“Easy,” she told the stallion, hardly recognizing her own voice. Her nose itched. She thought she might throw up. But she didn’t dare move her arms. “Nobody wants to hurt you.”

“Hold on, Lib.” The voice was Tate’s. He was just behind her.

Thank God he was there.

Thank God.

“Daddy,” Ava whimpered. “I know I gave my word as a McKettrick, but Ambrose dug a hole under the stud-pen fence and got inside and I—”

“Hush,” Tate said, very gently.

He started up the rails, making the same climb Libby had.

Libby became aware that Austin was there, too, fiddling with the padlock on the pen’s door. A rifle rested easily in the crook of one of his arms as he worked.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

The stallion began to get agitated again, tossing his head, snorting. Pawing at the dirt with one front hoof, then the other.

Tate was over the fence, in front of Libby.

Shielding her and Ava and the little dog, he spoke to the stallion. His words were quiet, and their meaning innocuous—it was the tone of his voice, the energy Tate projected, a sort of calming authority, that made the difference.

The pen gate slowly creaked open.

The stallion turned his huge head in that direction, then back to Tate.

The danger was by no means past.