my husband’s office. And it turned out I had a knack for the business end of things. I’m a good manager and I’ve got a talent for investing.” The truth was that she’d tripled their assets in the years she and Henry were married. “I sold my husband’s practice when he became too ill to work. So except for managing my investments, I guess you could say I’m between jobs.”
“You’re free, then,” he said quietly. “To go wherever you want to go…”
He was right, she supposed. She was free. Not that she had any plans to move. She liked San Antonio and she’d been happy there.
And it was getting dark. Time to say goodbye. She set down her glass. “You know, it is getting kind of late and—”
He cut her off by picking up the spray bottle on the table in front of them. “Try this. All natural. Citronella or something. You become invisible—to mosquitoes, anyway.”
“But I really think we should—”
“Come on. Give it a try.”
She glanced out over the grass where Brody lay on his back, laughing in delight, as Fargo wiggled all over him, trying to lick his face. And when she looked at the man beside her again, she found herself reaching out, taking the spray bottle—and using extra, special care not to let her fingers touch his in passing. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure—spray your ankles, too. Mosquitoes just love a nice, tasty ankle.” She dutifully scooted her chair out enough to give her ankles and her bare thighs a couple of good squirts. That handled, she scooted in again and sprayed her arms, then lifted her hair to spray her neck. When she set the bottle on the table again, he asked, his voice low and a little bit husky, “Better?”
“So far, so good.” She glanced over, saw the look of admiration in his eyes and felt underdressed in her modest tank-style swimsuit and simple button-front coverup. She also couldn’t deny the thrill of pleasure that went shooting through her—that he was looking. That he liked what he saw.
Oh, she really should go…
Tucker sat back in his chair and rested his elbows on the wrought-iron arms. “Hungry mosquitoes or not, it’s damn beautiful out here.” He stared off, past Brody and Fargo, toward the shadowed rim of trees.
Get up and get out, she thought. But she didn’t. She studied his strong profile for a moment, thinking how handsome he was, then followed his gaze to the trees and beyond, out into the wide, clear Texas sky. A glow of orange and purple still lingered, the last of a glorious swiftly fading sunset. “Beautiful. Yes…”
“You know, I’ve seen the coral gardens off Bora Bora. I’ve climbed the Eiffel Tower, stood at the foot of the Sphinx. But I never could see the beauty of my own damn backyard—not when I was a kid, anyway.”
She knew why; most folks in town did. She turned her gaze to him again. “Because of Ol’ Tuck, right?” Ol’ Tuck was Tucker’s grandfather, Tucker Tate IV.
Tucker grunted. “Granddaddy and I were born not to get along.” Tucker’s grandfather had been famous for his hardheadedness, both in business and with his family. He’d ruled the Double T ranch house with an iron hand.
“Your grandfather was a tough one,” Lori said.
Tucker shrugged. “He was always pretty good to Tate, in his own overbearing, ornery way. But he never did much care for me.”
She had to actively resist the urge to reach out and press a reassuring hand on his hard, tanned arm. The battles between Tucker and his grandfather were the next thing to legend in Tate’s Junction. Tucker was constantly making the mistake of standing up to Ol’ Tuck. Nobody did that and got away with it.
Tucker said, “He always believed I was the result of my mother’s affair with some stranger. That got to him, that he had to raise his flighty daughter’s illegitimate son and pretend I wasn’t what he knew damn well I was. Hah. Fooled him—or I would have, if he wasn’t already gone when we learned the truth.” Tucker’s grandfather had died three or four years ago. The truth about Tucker’s father had only been discovered last summer. Tucker added, grinning, “I’m no more a bastard than my brother is—meaning, if I am, then Tate is, too.”
Bastard, Lori thought. It was an ugly word. One that had little meaning, really, not anymore. Except to hidebound traditionalists, like Ol’ Tuck. And Heck Billingsworth…
Tucker continued, “As far as we can figure out, our father married more than once. Who he married first is a question yet to be answered.”
Lori wasn’t listening. She looked out at her son rolling around on the lawn and reminded herself that he was a great kid, that she’d done the best she could and that judging by the way Brody was turning out, the best she could do was pretty damn good.
Tucker must have picked up the direction of her thoughts, because he said, “Sorry. No offense meant, I promise you…”
It was one of those moments—and there had been several during the evening—when she could have led right up to telling him that Brody was his son. She opened her mouth. And lied some more, by omission. “No offense taken. Honestly.”
He looked at her—a deep look. “Sure?” She nodded. He said, “And here I am, yammering on, just assuming that your mother or Lena filled you in on all this when we found out about Blake Bravo last year.”
Lori had heard all about it. Her mother and her sister had taken turns on the phone with her, both of them thrilled to have such a great story to tell her. “Lena did tell me. Mama mentioned it, too. And yes, I heard that the news had everyone talking.”
The story went that the Blake Bravo, notorious kidnapper of his own brother’s son, was also Tate’s and Tucker’s father. Blake was supposed to have died right after Tate was conceived, but he didn’t die then. He lived for over thirty more years, making his home in Oklahoma all that time. As it turned out, Blake was the man that Penelope Tate Bravo had run off with when she got pregnant with Tucker.
“Imagine,” said Tucker, dark eyes shining now, “I’ve got family I didn’t know I had and I’ve got them all over the place. A bunch of Bravo cousins in Wyoming, and one down in the Hill Country—she’s married to a veterinarian. I’ve got half brothers in Nevada and another one, Marsh, up in Norman, Oklahoma. There are two cousins—sisters—and their families, in Northern California. And then there’s the most famous branch of the family, the Los Angeles Bravos. They’re richer than we are, which is pretty damn rich, you can take my word for it. And let’s not forget Dekker, the notorious Bravo Baby, the one my dear, doubly departed daddy kidnapped all those years ago. Dekker’s in his thirties now, a private investigator up in Oklahoma City.”
“That’s a lot of family,” she agreed.
“And it’s not all, believe me, not by a long shot. I have a great-uncle, James, who had seven sons. And Blake had more children. Tate and I and our half brother, Marsh, are almost certain of that.” He looked so pleased with himself.
She found his enthusiasm contagious. “You love it,” she said, grinning along with him, the nagging truth she hadn’t told him almost—though never completely—forgotten. “You love having all that family.”
“I do,” he told her. “Tate had some problems with it at first, with the
