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.
MARVA LEFT TOWN, ON SCHEDULE.
A day later, a moving van pulled up in front of her condominium, 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 upp
er 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.
The pen was small, the stallion still riled. Sweat glistened on his hide, and his eyes rolled, all whites except for tiny slits of dark along the upper lids.
Libby let her forehead rest against the back of Tate’s right shoulder.
Behind her, Ava and the puppy squirmed.
Austin moved away from the pen gate, wide-open now, and cocked the rifle.
Dear God, was he going to shoot the horse?
She must have wondered aloud, because Tate answered her. “Only if the stallion turns on us, Lib,” he said.
Libby closed her eyes, clutched at Ava and the pup, holding them in a sort of backward hug, and waiting—waiting for the stallion to make up his mind.
Had Pablo’s heart pounded like this?
Or had death come too swiftly for fear to take hold?
“Come on, now, horse,” Austin said mildly, backing farther out of the path of freedom. “You come on now.”
The stud took one step toward the gate, then another.
Quivered again, from behind his ears, laid sideways now, all the way to his flanks and down his haunches.
Then, with breath-stopping suddenness, the enormous and terrifyingly beautiful beast kicked out his hind legs, high and hard, missing Tate by inches.
And bolted and ran.
Cowboys stayed clear, though one rider opened a series of corral gates, clearing the way to the range beyond, the hills beyond that.
Tate finally let out his breath, turned around to look into Libby’s eyes.
Ava set Ambrose on the ground, and he promptly fled.
“Daddy,” she whispered, as Tate hooked an arm around her, lifted her and held her tightly against his side. She buried her face in his neck, sobbing.
Tate’s gaze was riveted to Libby’s.
“I love you,” she said. “Maybe this isn’t the right time to say so, but I do. I have choices. I can go away or I can stay here, and this is where I want to be. I really, truly, forever love you, Tate McKettrick.”
The white flash of his grin made a dazzling contrast to his unshaven face and the stud-pen dust embedded in his skin and lightening his hair.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, throwing back his head, giving a whoop of joyous laughter.
“Hardly romantic,” Libby said, pretending to be indignant.
“I’m saving the romantic stuff for when we’re by ourselves,” he answered.
Austin handed off the rifle to another cowboy and took Ava from Tate. She clung for a moment, then attached herself to her uncle.
“Where is Audrey?” Libby asked.
“Rehearsing for the Pixie Pageant,” Tate answered, taking her hand.
Hildie was still shut up in the Impala, crazy to get out.
Tate opened the door for her, and promptly hoisted her into the back seat of his truck. He did the same with Libby.
“What about Ava?”
“She’ll be fine with Austin and Esperanza,” Tate answered, getting behind the wheel and starting up the big engine.
They drove to the other house.
Not a contractor in sight.
Tate lifted Hildie to the ground, and she immediately settled under a shade tree, the picture of canine contentment.
Progress had been made on the inside of the house—the kitchen was coming together, boasting granite countertops, glass-fronted cupboards and travertine tile floors.
There was still no furniture, but the shower in the master bath was working fine, and a sizable blow-up mattress stood in the center of the largest bedroom.
Tate opened the etched-glass shower door, reached in to turn the brass spigots.
Water shot, like a hard rain, from the matching showerhead, which looked as though it was roughly the same diameter as a manhole cover.
When Tate was satisfied with the temperature of the water, he tugged Libby closer, hooked a finger in the neckline of her T-shirt.
“I love you, Libby,” he said gruffly. “I mean to spend the rest of my life proving that to you but, for now, it’ll have to be sex.”
“Oh, no,” Libby joked, kicking off her shoes, unfastening her jeans, wriggling out of them.
Tate laughed, pulled her close.
They began to kiss.
And undress each other.
And the water from the big brass showerhead poured down over both of them, washing away the worst of the dust.
Washing away, it seemed, the mistakes and the heart breaks and the disappointments of the past.
The foreplay was brief; they were both too desperate for contact to drag things out. Tate teased Libby to the absolute verge of a climax, then took her against the slick wall of the shower, the first thrust as hard and deep as the last.
Long minutes later, they both erupted, mouths locked together, tongues sparring, shouts of release ricocheting from one to the other.
They sank to the floor of the shower when it was over, leaning into each other for support.
“Will you marry me, Libby?” Tate asked, both of them kneeling under the fall of water. “Please?”
She nodded, traced his jaw with the tip of one finger, tasted his mouth. “Yes,” she said. “I want a big wedding, on New Year’s Eve.” She nibbled at his lower lip. “In the mean time, though,” she said, caressing him intimately, loving the way he groaned—and grew—in response, “let’s keep working on sex until we get really, really good at it.”
Tate gasped. “We’re—pretty—good at it now.”
Libby kissed him. “Practice makes perfect,” she said.
September…
“YOU LOOK LIKE A PRINCESS in that sparkly blue dress,” Ava said, a mite wistfully, as she and Libby made their way backstage at the Pixie Pageant, just a few steps behind Tate.
Libby smiled, squeezed the little girl against her side. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. “You’re not unlike royalty yourself, as it happens.”
Up ahead, she saw Tate lean down to catch Audrey up in his arms. Libby’s heart clenched with love as he straightened, this man she would marry on New Year’s Eve.
They caught up, Libby and Ava; the four of them were together.
After tearful explanations over the phone, Cheryl had sent an impressive bouquet from New York; she was working on a b
ig case and hadn’t been able to get home for the pageant.
She and Libby e-mailed each other fairly regularly, always about the girls. Libby took a lot of pictures, uploaded them and sent them to Cheryl.
“I lost,” Audrey announced cheerfully, as Tate set her back on her feet.
“Nobody wins all the time,” Ava said consolingly.
Audrey shrugged. “It was fun,” she said, “but I’m ready to move on.”
Libby and Tate exchanged smiles at that.
“Could we get pizza?” Audrey asked her dad.
“Yep,” Tate said. “We can get pizza.”
They stopped on the way home, picked up the steamy, fragrant boxes—Hawaiian with extra cheese. Back at the house, Hildie, Ambrose and Buford greeted them with a lot of barking and jumping around.
The meal was happy cacophony, around their kitchen table. Audrey was still wearing her tutu, leotard and full stage makeup.
“So,” Ava asked her twin, with real interest, “what are you going to do next, now that you’re not into beauty pageants anymore?”
Audrey gave the question due consideration, even though it was clear to Libby that she’d already made up her mind. “Rodeo,” she said.
“Rodeo?” Ava echoed.
Tate put down his second slice of pizza and opened his mouth to speak.
Libby laid a hand on his arm.
“Barrel racing, I think,” Audrey went on.
“I want to do that, too!” Ava decided.
“Mom won’t like it,” Audrey warned. “Not unless we get to be rodeo queens.”
Libby hid a smile behind a paper napkin.
“Barrel racing,” Tate repeated, after clearing his throat.
“We’ll need lessons,” Ava said, ever practical.
Tate caught Libby’s eye. Help, his expression said.
“You’ll be fantastic,” Libby told the girls. “You’re McKettricks—rodeo is in your blood.”
Tate gave her a This isn’t helping look.
“Can we call Mom and tell her we’re going to be barrel racers?” Audrey asked excitedly.
“Yeah, can we?” Ava chimed in.
McKettricks of Texas: Tate Page 31
