McKettricks of Texas: Tate (33 page)

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, hold
ing 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…

“Y
OU 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 big 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.

“Go,” Tate said.

They raced to the cordless phone on the kitchen counter, and Ava got there first.

“Don’t you dare dial Mom’s number,” Audrey cried, “until I have the phone from Dad and Libby’s bedroom!”

“Thanks for jumping right in there and taking my side,” Tate told Libby, a wry grin tilting his mouth up on one side. But he took her hand, moved the big diamond in her engagement ring back and forth with the pad of his thumb a couple of times, and then kissed her palm, sending fire shooting through her.

“Don’t do that,” Libby whispered.

An impish twinkle lit Tate’s wonderfully blue eyes. Where he’d been kissing, he flicked his tongue.

Libby groaned.

He laughed, tugged her onto his lap. Nibbled at her earring.

“You look hot in that dress,” he murmured.

“Like a princess, I’m told,” Libby said.

“You’ll look even hotter when I get you out of it, of course.”

She blushed. “Tate.”

He slipped a finger under her low neckline, inside her bra, found her nipple. Grinned. “Do we have to wait until New Year’s to get married?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, his gaze fixed on her mouth.

Libby removed his hand, afraid the girls would come back. “Yes,” she said. “We have to wait until New Year’s. Why?”

“Because I want to make a baby with you.”

He kissed her, long and deep.

She forgot they were in the kitchen.

“You’ll want to get it right, naturally,” she whispered.

“Absolutely,” he responded. “And that means we need to keep right on practicing.”

They kissed until the twins burst into the room again.

“Mom says we
cannot, under any circumstances,
take up barrel racing!” Audrey announced.

“Does she, now?” Tate asked. He didn’t move Libby off his lap, or even stop kissing her, really.

Ava heaved a big sigh. “Come on, Audrey. Let’s go watch TV.”

“Yeah,” Audrey agreed.

“They’re practicing again,” Ava said.

Audrey nodded. “And that’s so boring,” she replied.

They vanished into the living room.

“Boring?” Libby asked, against Tate’s mouth. “I don’t
think
so.”