McKettricks of Texas: Tate by Linda Lael Miller

handling problems Marva herself had created. They fetched and carried and ran errands, but Marva wasn’t grateful for anything. I am your mother, she’d told Libby, in one of her cranky moments, and I am entitled to your respect.
    Respect, Libby had retorted hotly, unable to hold her tongue, is not a right. It’s something you have to earn.
    Tate let himself in, at Libby’s signal, and Hildie started playing up to him as though he were some kind of cowboy messiah.
    “Thanks, Gerbera,” Libby said, realizing she’d missed a chunk of the conversation. “I’ll head over there right away and make sure she’s okay.”
    Gerbera apologized again, said goodbye and hung up.
    Libby replaced the receiver on the hook in the kitchen and went back to greet her breathtakingly handsome guest.
    “Problem?” Tate asked mildly. He filled Libby’s smallliving room, made it feel crowded and, at the same time, utterly safe.
    “My mother,” Libby said. “I need to check on her.”
    “Okay,” Tate replied. “Let’s go check on her, then.”
    “You don’t understand. It could take hours, if she’s in one of her—moods.”
    Tate’s shoulders moved in an easy shrug. “Only one way to find out,” he said.
    Libby couldn’t let him throw away his evening just because her own was ruined. “You should just go home. Forget about supper.” She swallowed. “About my joining you, I mean.”
    He was crouching by then, fussing over the adoring Hildie. She probably wanted to go home with him and be his dog. Libby? That name seems vaguely familiar.
    “Nope,” he said, straightening. “You and I and—what’s this dog’s name again?”
    “Hildie,” Libby answered, her throat tight.
    “You and Hildie and I are having supper on the Silver Spur, just like we planned. I’ll just call Esperanza and ask her to feed the girls early.”
    “But—”
    Tate took in Libby’s sundress, her strappy sandals, her semi-big hair. “You look better than fantastic,” he said. Then he took Libby by the arm and squired her toward the front door, Hildie happily trotting alongside.
    His truck was parked at the curb, and he hoisted Hildie into the back seat, then opened the passenger-side door for Libby. Helped her onto the running board, from which point she was able to come in for a landing on the leather seat with something at least resembling dignity.
    “You don’t have to do this,” she said.
    Tate didn’t answer until he’d rounded the front of the truck and climbed behind the wheel. “I don’t have to do anything but die and pay taxes,” he replied, with a grin. “I’m here because I want to be here, Lib. No other reason.”
    Within five minutes, they were pulling into one of the parking lots at Poplar Bend, behind Building B. Marva lived off the central courtyard, and as they approached, she stepped out onto her small patio, smiling cheerfully. A glass of white wine in one hand, she wore white linen slacks and a matching shirt, tasteful sandals and earrings.
    Libby stared at her.
    “Well, this is a nice surprise,” Marva said, her eyes gliding over Tate McKettrick briefly before shifting back to her daughter. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
    “Gerbera Jackson called me,” Libby said, struggling to keep her tone even. “She was very concerned because you didn’t want to watch your soap operas or eat supper.”
    Marva sighed charitably and shook her head. “I was just having a little blue spell, that’s all,” she said. She raised the wineglass, its contents shimmering in the late-afternoon light. “Care for a drink?”
    Inwardly, Libby seethed. Gerbera was a sensible woman, and if she’d been concerned about Marva’s behavior, then Marva had given her good reason for it.
    Bottom line, Marva had decided she wanted a little attention. Instead of just saying so, she’d manipulated Gerbera into raising an unnecessary alarm.
    “No, thanks,” Tate said, nodding affably at Marva. “Is there anything you need,