by Addison Fox
They had a park when her grandparents were young, but it had fallen into disrepair. Those days of Buddy Holly’s West Texas had faded for quite a while and it was only in the past few years that the town council had seen fit to bring a bit of it back. A nostalgic yearning? Belle asked herself as she pulled into a parking space. Or just the realization that it was time to face the future?
Whatever it was, the sounds of children playing filled the air as she stepped out of the car and she knew it was the right choice to come here. Midnight Pass had a future. A good one, if the people she’d come to know over the past decade were any indication.
That reality made Tate’s attitude all the harder to bear. He was so focused on the dangers of her job, he’d taken no time to recognize the good parts. The people she met. The lives she’d affected. And the lives that had affected her.
Since joining the force, she’d met any number of people from the Pass. Good people who wanted to make a difference. There was Sandy Ramirez, the young mother who ran the coffee shop downtown. Random vandalism just before she opened her shop could have shut her down for good, but Belle had helped find the men responsible, and then had organized a group more than willing to help Sandy set the shop to rights.
Then there was the Vasquez family, longtime rivals to the Reynolds. They had faced a series of poachers on their lands, but through diligent police work, Belle’s colleague had caught the man responsible—a cousin who’d tried to make trouble for the family. Vasquez beef was back in high demand, just as it had always been, because committed cops had seen to it that the family received justice and their commitment to uncovering a crime.
“It’s a fine day for the park.”
Belle turned to see Tate standing behind her, the sun highlighting the back of his head like a halo. A traitorous snap of heat skittered down her spine, even as she wondered how he’d found her.
Or why he was even there.
“Hey.” She grasped at something to say, but realized there wasn’t anything but small talk. Especially not after their bickering the night before. “Just enjoying the day.”
“Me, too. I was sick of my own company and just wanted out of the ranch.”
Belle was surprised at how closely his thoughts mirrored hers, and he gave her the opening that she wanted. “I attended Jesse Abrogato’s funeral this morning. It left me sad and out of sorts, and I figured some fresh air and sunshine might do me good.”
“I didn’t know you had to go to those.”
“Technically I don’t. But I thought it might give me a chance to check out the situation. See if the killer was somewhere in the room, watching like an audience member.”
His eyes grew dark at her admission, and she braced for another round of “what you do is dangerous,” but he refrained from saying anything contentious. “Find anyone?”
“No. And I wasn’t there by myself. Although I attended as the department representative, there were plainclothes in the back. And more officers nearby on call.”
“Sounds like quite an operation.”
“One that’s all too necessary.”
“You see anything out of place?”
“Nope. Not a thing.”
Tate’s attention drifted to a group of children playing on a swing set. Their shrieks and screams as they pumped their legs, forcing them higher and higher into the air, grew louder. They both watched them through the cycle, going high, then low, then high again, before their momentum finally slowed and they all came to a stop in a heap of giggles and kid-level trash talk.
“I remember being that little,” he said. “That carefree.”
“Me, too.” With the admission came a memory of the two of them on the swing sets at school recess, along with a few of their classmates. She and Tate had egged each other on, higher and higher, sneakers pointed toward the sun.
It had been so easy then. Of course, it was supposed to be. They were children. And they had the worries of children.
It was only when those worries had grown far too serious in much too short a time that they’d all been forced to grow up. Her mother’s worsening addiction. His father’s poor choices in raising beef outside of normal practices.
“You ever think about how easy it used to be?” She turned to him as she asked the question, intrigued to see the flash of memory wash over him. His stubble-filled jaw firmed and when he turned to her, the normal teasing in his gaze was nowhere in evidence.
“I do think about it sometimes. Those days before I knew what my father really was. The days before my brothers and sister and I had so much responsibility. Those days when we believed the Reynolds name mattered.”
“It still matters. You and Ace and Hoyt and Arden have seen to that. You’ve made it count for something.”
“Some days I think you’re right. Others I realize we still have a lot of work to do.”
“Has something happened?”
“You mean besides a murder happening on my property?”
“But, Tate, that’s not about you. Or your family. That’s about a bad person who made a violent choice and dragged you all into it.”
“Maybe so.” He shrugged. “But it certainly feels personal.”
It wasn’t personal. Belle knew that. Empirically, she did and somewhere deep inside believed he did, too.
But it sure as hell felt personal.
* * *
Tate watched the way the spring breeze blew Belle’s hair around her face. He wanted to reach out and touch one of those smooth tendrils, but he kept his hands firmly at his sides. He had no right to touch her. More, he had no right to think about touching her. They had an attraction, yes, but it simply had no room to breathe between them.
They’d both seen to that. It wasn’t just the bickering or verbal swatting at each other. It was that firm, implacable line that neither of them would budge on.
But oh, how he wanted her.
And in the moments of madness when he forgot that he even had a line to stand on, he realized just how good things truly were between them.
Pushing aside those feelings of want and what couldn’t be, he let his mind drift to the simple days she’d reminded him of. Laughter and teasing on the schoolyard. Working through math problems during study hall. Even those endless hours they spent in physics class when he understood the meaning behind physical principles, but had no idea how to write out the definitions for their tests.
She’d worked with him then. So patient and so determined to help him succeed. While she wasn’t the only person in his life who supported him, she was the first one outside of his family to champion him.
His mother had certainly loved her. Betsy Reynolds had always made a point to ask about Belle. Whether it was a casual request while eating cookies and drinking milk after school, or more probing questions about who he was going to take to the school dance, his mother had seemed to understand the connection between her son and Belle Granger.
More than that, she’d sensed his feelings even before he could put them into words.
He missed his mother every day, but at that moment, it was a sharp, acute need that settled beneath his breastbone and stole his breath. And it only added to that feeling of being at odds that he’d woken up with.
“My mother loved you, you know.”
He saw that he’d caught her off guard, and was pleased for it.
“Your mother?” Belle pushed at those tendrils, sweeping them behind her ear.
“Yes. She thought the world of you. And she always made a point to ask about you.”
“Well, that’s a funny coincidence.” Belle smiled, her dark eyes all soft and misty. “I thought the world of her, too. She was one of the most beautiful, gentle women I have ever known.”
That pain beneath his breastbone subsided slightly, easing as her words sunk in. Those moments when it hurt so bad—when he missed his mother so clear
ly—he would’ve thought it would be hard to talk about her. But instead, he found that talking about her actually eased the pain.
It was talk about his father, on the other hand, that hurt. That left him feeling bereft and edgy and empty.
“I remember that time she brought cupcakes for your birthday.”
Belle’s words crashed right through the memories of his father, effectively knocking them over like bowling pins.
“Which birthday?” he asked.
“We were in second or third grade, I think.” The corners of Belle’s mouth twitched up as she got into her story. “She brought chocolate and vanilla, and what I think was carrot.”
“You know carrot with cream cheese frosting is my favorite.”
Belle shook her head. “A weird choice for a kid, but yes, I do remember.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “Carrot. Yick.”
“They’re delicious.”
“They’re gross. But I realize that’s a useless argument with you. Anyway, she’d only put a few carrot ones into the box, but Johnny Tambor and Amber Michaels ended up getting them.”
Tate got into the story, the memories flooding back. “And both had already taken large bites before basically spitting them out.”
“Because—” Belle poked him in the shoulder “—no one likes carrot cake.”
“Certainly not eight-year-olds.”
“And by the time your mother realized they’d been mis-distributed, it was too late.”
Tate shook his head, projecting his best impression of puppy dog eyes. “I was a puddle of tears in the birthday boy seat, stuck with my vanilla cupcake.”
“Poor, poor little Tate.”
“Eight-year-old trauma at its finest.”
The memory went a long way toward easing the grief over his mother. Even more than that, it had given him a small reprieve from the adult tensions that seemed to pervade his life. The murder on the ranch. The lingering embarrassment over his father’s dealings that had been like a shroud over the entire enterprise of Reynolds Station. And the impasse with Belle.
For a few precious moments, he was eight again. No responsibilities or hurts beyond a vanilla cupcake in place of a carrot one. The memory of that long-ago birthday had reminded him of one other thing. A funny little incident that had been long forgotten, yet now filled his mind’s eyes as if it had happened yesterday.
When he’d walked through the door at the end of that school day, there had been a plate full of carrot cupcakes greeting him on the kitchen table.
* * *
Tate walked into the kitchen later that afternoon and could’ve sworn he smelled the lingering scent of carrot cake. It was silly, and not remotely possible, yet it left him with a small smile he couldn’t fully shake. When he left earlier, he’d been tired and out of sorts. Now, although he was little melancholy, he’d gained his equilibrium again.
“You look way more human and quite a bit less like a bear,” Arden said.
“I never look like a bear.”
Arden just snorted, before adding, “Look in the mirror much?”
Since he knew she hated it, he ruffled her hair as he walked toward the fridge to snag a beer. “I may get the jackass award, but I’m very rarely a bear. Ace and Hoyt battle rather well for that title.”
“Fair point.” Arden smoothed her hair. “Where have you been?”
“The park.” Tate opened his beer and took a deep swig before taking a seat next to her.
“Well, the fresh air did you good. Our grizzled brothers should take a lesson and head over there, too. Especially if it has such transformative effects.”
“The fresh air and a really nice conversation about mom did the trick.”
He saw how the mention of their mother stilled Arden’s motions, her blue eyes clouding for the briefest of moments. “Mom?”
“I went to the park to clear my head for a bit, and found Belle sitting on a park bench.”
“Oh?” Those clouds moved on quickly as a strange eagerness filled their place. “What was she doing there?”
“Clearing her head, too. Must be the day for it.”
“She’s had a lot on her mind. We all have.”
“She went to the funeral.”
“Of the guy?” Arden took a deep breath. “The one that was killed?”
“That’s the one.”
“I didn’t realize she was required to go to those.”
Tate ignored the fear, keeping it firmly bottled inside. “She went looking for anyone suspicious.”
“Did she find anyone?”
“I don’t think so. Or at least she didn’t say she did.”
Come to think of it, Belle had changed the subject rather quickly. Had she seen something at the funeral? Or did she just know it was dangerous ground to keep that conversation going between the two of them?
Since he’d found her in the park instead of running down bad guys, Tate chalked it up to their own problems.
“So you talked about Mom instead?”
“Belle reminded me of a particularly funny story from the year I turned eight.”
“She remembers that long ago?”
“I guess she does. I’d forgotten myself, but it came back pretty quickly when I was forced to remember how I missed out on one of Mom’s carrot cake cupcakes.”
“I don’t think I know the story. Was there a tantrum? Tears?”
“Definitely tears. And a lot of sulking.”
“You do love your carrot cake.”
“Always have.”
Again, it struck him that conversations about carrot cake and swinging on swing sets and memories of school were so easy. So simple. He wasn’t afraid of being an adult, nor did he really want to go backward, but there were moments when it surprised him just how hard it all was. How no one prepared you for that reality.
“And there you go, looking so thoughtful again.” Arden laid a hand on his forearm. “Are you okay?”
“Just acknowledging that horrible realization that being an adult isn’t often very fun.”
“Except for the sex. It’s sort of like a reward for being a grown-up.”
Tate laughed in spite of himself and in spite of the fact it was his baby sister mentioning the subject. “There is that.”
“I bet sex with Belle is a lot of fun.”
He pointed his beer at her. “Don’t go there.”
“You certainly won’t go there.” Arden shook her head. “And for the life of me I have no idea why. Literal sparks fly off the two of you when you stand next to each other.”
“I think you need to look up the definition of literal.”
“And I think you need to get your head out of your ass.”
Despite his best efforts, the pleasant mood he walked in with was moving determinedly in a sour direction. “Are you truly trying to spoil my good mood?”
“What are little sisters for?”
“Support? Hero worship?”
“Oh, you stubborn man. Can’t you see that’s exactly what I’m doing?”
Figuring a hasty retreat was better than sitting there delving into things he did not want to discuss, Tate stood up. “I’m taking my beer into the other room and catching an early-season ball game.”
“Good. I can have the kitchen to myself again.”
“Why would you want that?”
“I was already planning what I was going to cook for dinner. Now I can have some peace to do just that.”
“You’re cooking?” Tate asked. “Seriously?”
“I do that from time to time, you know.”
“Yeah, but I thought after the last round you had no interest in cooking for us heathens again.” Tate remembered the wicked battle that had ensued when Ace had dared to mention the mashed potatoes were a little thick.
“I’ve gotten over my anger over potatoes and boorish brothers who remark on them. And besides, I’m in the mood to cook something.”
“Far be it for me to argue over a home-cooked meal. I was planning on a sandwich for dinner, so Chef Boyardee would be an improvement.”
“Sandwiches are for lunch, not for dinner. And Chef B should be for never. We’re going to have something good. I may even serve wine with it.”
Arden’s stubborn interest in cooking a meal finally penetrated his thick skull. It was so obvious, yet he’d missed it at first. Like the rest of them, she was as out of her element as they were. Their lives had been upended and maybe a few hours together, over some home-cooked food, would let them forget for a while.
On impulse, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, surprised as always by just how soft her skin was. She was his baby sister, but she was also a grown woman. And in the same way he had concerns, so did she. Adult concerns.
Grown-up concerns.
The sorts of things that kept one up at night.
“A home-cooked meal with wine sounds perfect.”
“Go enjoy your ball game, even if it’s too early in the season to count. I’m gonna finish making my plans and then run out to the market, so I’ll see you later.”
“I can run for you.”
“It’d be a shame to waste that beer. I can go, no problem.”
Tate walked into the living room, snagging the remote control as he went. He settled into the couch and took another swig of his beer. Being an adult wasn’t so easy, but it was a lot easier when you shared the load with others.
And, as his sister had so wisely pointed out, there was sex.
He might be short of that of late, but there was also liquor and comfy couches. As he stretched out with his beer, he fought the image of sex with Belle that Arden had managed to plant in his head.
And took what comfort he could in his welcoming couch and an impending home-cooked meal.
Chapter 10
Belle knocked on the front door of the Reynolds ranch house and wondered if she should have gone to the kitchen door. Why was she so nervous? The thin tissue paper that wrapped around the base of the flowers she held was growing warm from her hands and she had nearly reconsidered coming about six times on the drive over.
