McKettricks of Texas: Tate Read online

  “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?”

  AROUND 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.”

  “I imagine that’s so,” Tate said. “But what does it have to do with supper at Libby’s?”

  “We want to stay here and help Esperanza,” Audrey replied.

  “She keeps crying,” Ava added. “I bet she’s used a million tissues today.”

  “Plus,” Audrey said, “Uncle Garrett and Uncle Austin will be here.”

  “Right,” Tate acknowledged, giving the pair another simultaneous squeeze and clearing his throat before standing up. “It’s possible, you know, that Esperanza might want to be alone for a while. And your uncles probably won’t show up for hours yet.”

  “Esperanza needs us,” Ava insisted, her eyes huge with a sorrow she felt but didn’t understand, even though Tate had explained as best he could.

  “We’ll see,” Tate said.

  When they’d all trooped down to the kitchen, he saw that Esperanza was indeed cooking—with a vengeance. Fresh vegetables and stacks of her homemade tortillas, among other things, all but covered the center island, and lard smoked in a skillet on the stove.

  Esperanza sniffled once, approached and straightened his shirt collar. “You look much better,” she said.

  He grinned. “Thanks,” he replied, well aware of the girls crowding in behind him. “How about you, Esperanza? Are you doing all right?”

  “When I am busy,” she responded, “then I am also all right.”

  He nodded; he understood that particular tactic well.

  “The girls,” the housekeeper said. “You will let them stay?”

  Tate raised one eyebrow. “If that’s what you really want, sure.”

  Esperanza nodded. “It is what I really want,” she confirmed.

  Tate believed her. “All this food is for the Ruizes?” he asked, indicating the mountains of produce and other edibles. “They won’t have room for all this—their house is pretty small.”

  Esperanza smiled moistly. “Isabel and her children will have much company,” she said, “and anyway, Garrett and Austin are coming. They are always hungry when they’ve been away from home.”

  He leaned a little, placed a kiss on the top of Esperanza’s head. “I won’t be late,” he said. As he passed the stove, he pushed the skillet back off the flames.

  Ambrose and Buford would have gone along for the ride—they got hair all over the legs of his jeans letting him know they were more than willing—but he decided to leave them at home, since the girls were staying behind with Esperanza.

  Before heading for the garage, he raided Esperanza’s flower garden for a handful of pink daisies and a few sprigs of that white stuff florists always added to bouquets.

  Instead of driving the truck, as he almost always did, he took his green Jaguar—the thing had been sitting in the garage for months, gathering dust. Maybe he’d blow out the carburetor on the last straight stretch before town.

  And maybe not.

  Brent Brogan—aka Denzel—was an equal-opportunity lawman. Best friends or not, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull Tate over and write him a whopping ticket if he caught him speeding.

  Especially in a Jag.

  Tate thought of his daughters, and how they’d grow up with one parent—Cheryl—if he got killed being stupid on the empty road.

  He stayed within the speed limit, all the way to Libby’s place.

  The flowers were starting to wilt, lying there on the passenger seat; he picked them up carefully, wishing he’d taken the time to stick them in a fruit jar full of water or something.

  You’re stalling, McKettrick, he told himself, sitting there in his too-fancy car in front of Libby’s not-so-fancy house.

  Libby appeared on the porch, wearing another sundress, this one pale yellow. The light was just right, and he could see through the fabric. She’d be embarrassed if she knew, so he wouldn’t tell her. Anyhow, he enjoyed the view.

  “Where are Esperanza and the girls?” she called, taking a few steps forward and shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand.

  “They’re busy tonight,” Tate answered. “I like your dress.” And what’s under it.

  “Are those flowers?” she asked, and then blushed.

  “I believe so,” Tate joked, checking out the yard as he came through the gate. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the overgrown lawn, but if he kept staring at Libby the way he had been, she might realize her dress was transparent and put on something else, thus ruining his whole night. “When was the last time somebody mowed the grass?”

  “I keep meaning to get to it—”

  Tate climbed the steps, bent his head to kiss her lightly on the mouth and handed over the flowers. “The lawn looks fine, and so do you,” he murmured.

  She laid a hand on his chest. “The neighbors might be watching,” she whispered.

  “Well, if they have that much free time,” Tate replied, “one of them should have mowed your lawn by now.”<
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  Libby took his hand, pulled him inside.

  “I’ll just put these flowers in a vase and warm up the pesto sauce,” she said, walking away.

  His gaze fell to her delectable backside and got riveted there.

  His groin tightened, and he wished he’d worn a hat so he’d have something to hold in front of his crotch until his hard-on went down.

  Better yet, he thought, he could peel that see-through dress off over Libby’s head, lay her down on a bed or ease her up against a wall and lick every golden inch of her and put the hard-on where it belonged.

  This is not helping, said the voice of reason.

  But Tate was well beyond reason by then.

  And furthermore, he wasn’t hungry. Not for pesto sauce, anyhow.

  Light poured through the kitchen window as Libby stood at the sink, filling a vase from the faucet for the flowers. She might as well have been stark naked.

  Hildie, her dog, gave him a sleepy look from the hooked rug in front of the refrigerator and then sighed and closed her eyes to get some more shut-eye.

  Tate stepped behind a high-backed chair and pulled it in front of him. He just got harder, though, when Libby turned, smiling, and approached to set the flowers in the center of the table.

  Her smile lost a little of its sparkle. She ducked her head a little, to look up into his face. “Is something wrong?”

  Lots of things were wrong.

  There was a damn plastic castle in his yard, and it might be weeks before he could get it moved to the community center.

  Cheryl would be back in a few days, full of fresh poison, and she’d make a point of whisking Audrey and Ava back to town ASAP, because she knew it twisted his insides into a knot when they left the Silver Spur.

  And Pablo Ruiz was dead.

  He lowered his gaze, not trusting himself to speak, not wanting Libby to see what was in his eyes.

  She rounded the table, pushed the chair aside, and put her arms around him.

  Her eyes widened when she felt his erection, and fetching pink color bloomed in her cheeks. “Yikes,” she said.

  Tate chuckled. “‘Yikes’?”

  “I’d forgotten how—big you get. When you’re—when—oh, God, why do I even try to talk?” Her face was on fire now.

  So was his body.

  He placed his hands on either side of her waist. “It’s okay, Lib,” he said, grinning in spite of all the sadness and hopeless need inside him. “We’re both adults, here. And big isn’t a word most men are offended by—not in that context, anyway.”

  Libby was wearing her hair down that night, instead of in a ponytail, and she swept it back off her shoulders—a gesture so inherently feminine that Tate’s condition immediately got worse.

  Or better.

  Her eyes misted over. “What are we doing?” she asked, in a near whisper.

  “Getting ready to make love?” Tate suggested hopefully.

  “It scares me.”

  “Making love?”

  “No,” she said, slipping her arms around his neck and giving a little sigh as she let herself lean against him. “How much I want it. How much I want you.”

  He put his hands to her cheeks, eased her head back for the kiss he planned to give her. “Far be it from me,” he murmured, as their breaths mingled, “to deny a lady what she wants.”

  Libby made a little moaning sound then, part need and part frustration, as he read it, and pulled back out of his arms before he could kiss her.

  “Julie’s wrong,” she said, near tears. “I am stupid.”

  “Never,” Tate said, and he meant it. Libby had every reason not to trust him, with her body or anything else, but she was one of the smartest and most resourceful people he knew. “I’m the stupid one, Lib. I had a chance to wake up every morning until the day I die with you beside me, and I blew it. If it’s any comfort to you, I’ll never stop regretting that.”

  He turned then, fully intending to leave her house and her life and stay gone.

  “Wait,” she said, just as he reached the doorway that lead into the living room.

  Tate stopped, but he didn’t turn around.

  Libby didn’t speak again for so long that he thought she might have sneaked out the back door, leaving him standing there in the doorway like the fool he was.

  “Tate.” The way she said his name—it caught at his heart, and a few other vital organs, too. When they were together before, that tone had meant only one thing: that she wanted him.

  He made himself turn back to her, even though every shred of good sense he possessed advised against it.

  Libby was standing a few feet away, holding out one hand.

  Confused, Tate just stood there, drinking in the sight of her and wishing he could thank whoever it was who’d skimped on the cloth for that dress. It might as well have been made of yellow cellophane.

  She seemed shy, unaware of how beautiful she was. And very uncertain.

  Tate felt as though he’d been underwater too long, and blood thundered in his ears. He was a man poised on the precipice of something big, something life-changing, and as much as he wanted Libby Remington, he was scared. They’d had great sex as kids. But they weren’t kids anymore.

  What if it was too soon?

  What if it was too late?

  What if it wasn’t as good as before?

  Good God, what if it was better?

  Tate knew these renegade thoughts made no real sense, but he couldn’t seem to rein them in.

  Libby smiled, almost sadly. “Is something wrong, Tate?”

  His boot soles might have been nailed to the floor, he stood so still.

  Finally, he shook his head. Libby was the hometown-sweetheart type, the kind of woman a man was proud to take home to the folks, but she’d been a passionate lover, too.

  He took a step toward her, closed his hand around hers. Pulled her against him, so that their torsos collided. And he kissed her. Gently at first, then, slowly and carefully, he turned up the heat.

  Libby trembled—he knew she was torn between pulling away and giving herself to him then and there—and put her arms around his neck again.

  Tate kissed her harder, cupped her perfect little rear end in his hands—he’d have sworn under oath that she was naked under that dress—and hoisted her up a little, her cue to wrap her legs around him.

  She did.

  Tate moaned, tore his mouth from hers, breathless. “Where?” he rasped.

  “Right here, if you don’t hurry,” Libby replied, with a little laugh, a nervous mingling of desire and reticence, kissing him again.

  Too preoccupied to see where he was going, Tate pushed open three different doors before he finally found her bedroom. Walking wasn’t that easy, with a woman wound around him and their mouths welded together, but it was a challenge he meant to meet.

  “Stop,” Libby said with obvious reluctance, just as he was about to lower her sideways onto the bed, push the dress up around her waist and do what came naturally. “Tate, stop. Please.”

  He stopped.

  She unclenched her legs and stood on her feet again, her face flushed, her conflict naked in her eyes.

  “It’s too soon,” she told him miserably. “What if the time isn’t right and we’re not ready?”

  Tate McKettrick was a Texas boy, raised right. If Libby didn’t want to make love, that would be a disappointment, but of course he wasn’t going to force the issue. Waiting would be hard, but Libby was worth it.

  Anyhow, he hadn’t brought condoms, and she probably wasn’t on the pill. They’d been apart for a long time, and a lot had happened in between then and now.

  Libby raised her hands to his face, and just that was almost his undoing. “Time,” she said. “We need a little time first, that’s all.”

  “How much time?” Tate rasped.

  She laughed softly, but her eyes—her beautiful, expressive eyes—were awash in tears. “Enough to make sure we’re not making a mistake,” she said. “Th
ere’s a lot to think about.”

  With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of Libby’s bed, took her hand and pulled her onto his lap. Putting his arms around her, he rested his forehead against her right ear. “Did you wear that dress to torture me?” he asked, partly sighing the words, and partly grinding them out. His breath was still fast and shallow.

  “What?” Was that surprise he heard in her tone, or mischief?

  “Come on, Lib,” Tate said. “I’ve seen toilet paper with more substance than that dress.”

  She laughed. “Toilet paper? Well, that’s romantic, McKettrick.”

  He raised his eyes then, looked into hers, and the realization hit him like a whisky barrel rolling downhill.

  God help him, he loved her.

  She sobered a little, still content, it appeared, to sit on his lap in a dress made out of spun nothing and stitched together with a short length of zilch. “You okay, cowboy?” she asked quietly.

  “No,” he said, because lying to Libby Remington had always been impossible, and that was still so. “Not really.”

  Libby ran the pad of one thumb over his mouth, lightly. “When was the last time somebody held you just because you needed holding, Tate McKettrick?” she asked.

  The question made his throat cinch up tight and his eyes sting. Even if he’d had the voice to answer, he wouldn’t have known what to say.

  She slipped off his lap to sit beside him on the mattress, kicked away her sandals and then scooted to the middle, to lie down. And she waited, without a word.

  Tate hesitated, but the pull of her was too strong. He took off his boots and stretched out beside her, confused by all the things she made him feel.

  Libby had made it clear that she wasn’t ready to make love, yet she took him in her arms and rested her forehead against his chest.

  He was lost in the softness of her body, the scent of her hair and the silken feel of her skin, the solace she seemed to radiate from somewhere in the core of her being.

  I love you, he wanted to say.

  But it was too soon for that, too.

  So he simply lay there and let Libby hold him. Just because.

  CHAPTER SEVEN