Tate

by Susan May Warren

  “Love?”

  Glo raised a shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again.”

  Cher let a beat pass, then, “Okay. We need to get you back on the horse. Forget about Tate. Move on.”

  Glo held up her hand. “Thanks, but no. The last thing I need is a fresh horse.”

  “Then what are you going to do? Hold campaign signs? Give speeches?”

  “Please, no. I sing, and frankly, I hate doing solos. I’m not going to give a speech. I’d rather go onstage naked with a harmonica.”

  Cher grinned. “That would certainly trend.”

  Glo shook her head, and her glance fell on a couple who sat down next to the brick fireplace. Young, so much of their lives ahead.

  The last month had left her wrung out and exhausted. “Mother has a fundraising event this weekend and she wants me to attend.”

  “Oh, canapes and men in tuxes. Are you sure you’re not interested in trading up, cowgirl?”

  “Yes. And to prove it, how about you come with me, as my plus-one.”

  “And meet rich, eligible men IRL? Who, me?” Cher’s gaze drifted past Glo a moment and she nodded a greeting.

  “Who—”

  “Don’t turn around, but Sloan Anderson just walked in.”

  Glo ducked her head. “I thought he worked in DC—isn’t he a lobbyist?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s getting coffee, so you can stop turtling. But what’s the deal? Didn’t you two date?”

  “No! He…we were just childhood friends. We played together as kids, and then in college, he sort of became a groupie.”

  “Back when you were playing open mics…yes, I remember now. He would sit in the front row.”

  “He mouthed my songs as I sang them. It was creepy.”

  “Or dedicated. But hey—that’s what you should do. Write some songs and go solo.”

  “What?” She glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, Sloan stood at the counter. He wore a messenger bag over his shoulders and seemed to have filled out in the past couple years. Dark hair, lean body, wide, ropy shoulders as if he worked out. He wore a pair of dark gray jeans and a light gray long-sleeved shirt pushed up to the elbows.

  She turned back to Cher. “I’m not a solo act.”

  “You used to be.”

  “I hated the limelight. I just wanted to sing my songs. Kelsey is our lead singer, and I’m perfectly happy with that.”

  “Except the Yankee Belles are on hiatus, right? Are you sure you’re getting back together?”

  “Uh. Yeah. I mean…” Except Kelsey had returned to the Marshall ranch with Knox and…well, she knew her friend. She’d been looking for a real home all her life after her parents had been killed. Glo wouldn’t blame Kelsey if she wanted to stay.

  And Dixie definitely had something brewing with Elijah Blue, their drummer. She’d seen an Instagram picture of them in Florida at some theme park.

  Her realization must have played on her face, because Cher leaned back, folded her arms. “I always said you had enough of your own ‘glow’ to be center stage. Maybe it’s time.”

  “It’s not time. I’m not—”

  “Ever since I’ve known you, Glo, you’ve had a guitar or a banjo or a Dobro on your lap, penning songs, singing to yourself. You are totally a solo act.”

  Glo drew in a breath. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m a one-hit wonder.”

  “No. You’re not. But I know it feels that way right now. You’re caught in the post-breakup noise of why not me and what if? You’re looking ahead into the future, and it feels gray and dismal.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t a psychology minor?”

  “The school of experience. You just need to regroup. Figure out what you want.”

  “I don’t know what I want…”

  “How about a happy ending to that action thriller?”

  “No. Just one I can live with, I guess. One that won’t leave me alone and brokenhearted. I don’t know that I deserve more than that.”

  Cher raised an eyebrow. “Oh no. You’re listening to the ghosts again. What is it they say about the dead? They always have the last word?”

  Glo looked away. “Maybe they’re right.”

  “Please. So you’re the twin who lived. And the girlfriend who loved a fallen soldier. It doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be happy.”

  Sometimes it felt that way.

  “Heads up. Ex-groupie ten o’clock— Hey, Sloan.”

  Glo found her politician smile.

  Except, hello. Sloan Anderson had grown up. Way up—height, shoulders, and presence. No longer the skinny, wide-eyed fan who showed up to carry her gear and offer her rides after her gigs. Which had been sweet, really.

  This Sloan had a seasoned, almost streetwise aura about him, maybe gleaned from years negotiating on Capitol Hill. He wore his dark brown hair short, but with a styled rumple of curl at the front. A smattering of a five-o’clock shadow hinted at the after-work hour. And he smelled good, as if he’d just showered after a workout. “Hey, Glo. I heard you were back in town.”

  Even his voice had grown up. Deeper, a husk to it she’d never noticed before. It left a little unsettled trail inside her. Huh.

  “Sloan.” She slid out of the booth and gave him a one-armed hug, leaning away from her shoulder wound. He hugged her back, and she noticed, despite herself, the lean planes of his body. “You look good.”

  “You too.” But his gaze fell on the yellow-red speckles of her remaining bruise. It seemed he wanted to say something, but instead he smiled and glanced at her friend. “Hey, Cher.”

  Glo noticed Cher’s gaze run over him, a little interest in her eyes.

  Sloan turned back to Glo. “You in town for your mother’s big party this weekend?”

  She frowned but nodded. “How did you know—”

  “My father’s throwing it. He’s a huge supporter of your mother’s campaign. Thinks she’d make a great president.”

  “She would. She’s dedicated and strong and smart—”

  “Not unlike her daughter.”

  Oh. Um.

  But he winked. “Sorry. I guess I’m still a little starstruck. I saw your video on YouTube. You’ve come a long way since singing for tips at the Bluebird.”

  For some reason, his words found her sore, jagged edges and soothed them. “Thanks.”

  “So, I guess I’ll see you this weekend at the fundraiser?”

  She nodded, maybe a little too enthusiastically, because when she sat back down, Cher was grinning.

  “What?”

  “Yee-haw, honey.”

  “No. Cher. C’mon.”

  “You want to get over Tate?”

  Not especially. But Glo didn’t say anything. She just watched Sloan pull out a chair, put his order number on a table, and grab his iPad.

  The rain had stopped, and a stream of light broke through the clouds.

  Cher picked up her mug, lifted it to Glo. “Giddyup.”

  “Not funny.”

  “We’ll see. Because yes, I’ll be your date to the party. Let the campaign begin.”

  Tate hadn’t woken in a cold sweat for nearly five years. That sense that the enemy had crept up, got a bead on him, and was taking apart his position.

  With a shout, he sat straight up in bed, his heart a fist banging against his ribs. The cry echoed against the whitewashed ceiling of his childhood bedroom, dissolving in the wan, early morning light filtering in through the blinds and striping the floor.

  The sudden movement had brought another shout to his lips, this time from the deep-seated pain in his ribs. But he bit it back.

  No need to bring his mother running down the hall like he might be six years old and broken up after a fall from his horse.

  He’d come a long way since those days.

  Tate eased back, listening to the screams of his nightmare dying. The shouts of his fellow Rangers, the gunfire pinging against the cement walls of a mosque, the taste of dust and blood in
his mouth.

  He could still feel Jammas’s body in his arms, his hot blood coating his skin, his breaths shallow as he—

  Tate flung the covers off, letting the chill of the late-April morning raise gooseflesh and yank him out of his memory, back to the present.

  The one where his body still ached, the pain deep in his bones. Where his cut had healed to a fine, still reddened line. His broken nose had also healed, although darkness hung under his eyes, the bruises fading. He’d ditched the sling from his dislocated shoulder but still favored it, his arm held close to his body.

  But he could move it just fine, thank you.

  And it was time to get back to work.

  Because those screams could just as easily have been Glo’s as she tried to keep Slava from killing him, and if he let them sit one more day in his brain without seeing that she was safe, he might lose his mind.

  He pulled on a pair of faded jeans and a white T-shirt, stopped by the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash water on his face, bypassing the shave, and headed downstairs.

  The early morning light turned the two-story ranch lodge into a fairytale, complete with gleaming hand-hewn logs, a towering stone fireplace, and leather sofas made for lounging. The recently remodeled kitchen was quiet, and he opened the fridge, letting the cool wash over him as he reached for a pitcher of orange juice.

  “Coffee?”

  He nearly dropped the juice at his mother’s voice.

  He closed the fridge and set the OJ on the counter. “Sheesh, Ma, you should work for the CIA.”

  “Thanks, but we already have one person in this family in the spy business.”

  Oh, so Ruby Jane had told her about her so-called analyst position. Well, he supposed that was better than continuing the “travel agent” lie.

  His mother wore her curly brown hair up in a ponytail and looked about twenty-three in her oversized jean shirt and a pair of leggings. She’d clearly been painting, watercolor staining her hands. She set her own cup of coffee on the granite countertop. “Can’t sleep?”

  He retrieved a glass from the cupboard and opened the lid to the juice. “Why?”

  “You haven’t been up this early since…well…let’s just say we had to drag you out of bed to do chores.”

  He poured the juice. “No. No one woke me up. I’d get up and Dad would have taken off with Knox and Reuben and left me behind.” He capped the juice, then replaced it in the fridge. “He already had his mini-ranchers. He didn’t need me.”

  He didn’t mean for the words to come out as a pity party. Maybe he was just in that place, frustrated, edgy, and dark. But frankly, the ranching gene had skipped over Tate—and maybe Wyatt too, and settled on Ford.

  Although Ford hadn’t exactly stuck around, had he?

  “That’s not true, Tate. He just knew how much you hated horses.”

  Hated might have been a tame word.

  “Horses hated me. I have the scars to prove it.”

  She shook her head. “I should have never let your father put you on a horse when you were that young.”

  “Reuben started riding alone when he was five. I was six. I wasn’t too young.” No, he was just a coward. And horses could smell fear. Especially on a child who panicked.

  “Listen, Ma, it’s no big deal. But I got up plenty early when I was in the military.”

  Her mouth tightened into a grim line and oh yeah, she didn’t like to talk about his years in the service. Or the months afterward when he’d returned home broken.

  “Knox is already up and outside, getting ready to ride fence.”

  Of course he was. Because that was Knox. A. True. Cowboy.

  Tate just looked like one.

  “He’d probably like some company.”

  “I’m going to go pack, Ma. I gotta get to Nashville and back to work.”

  He might as well have said he was going to reenlist for the dismay that crested her face.

  “You knew I wasn’t sticking around.”

  “Reuben and Gilly get married in two weeks. You can’t stay?”

  “I’ll come back for the weekend. I promise.”

  He took a drink of his OJ as his mother went to the counter and took the lid off a plate of freshly made muffins. She grabbed a napkin and loaded it with one of her gourmet apple cinnamon muffins.

  “What’s this, a bribe?”

  “If it works.” She winked.

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Always.”

  She caught his neck and pulled him close, just for a moment. “Take care of yourself, tough guy. No more fights. You’re scaring your mother.”

  His arm came around her and he pulled her close, just enough to feel her sigh. Then he let her go and nodded. He took his muffin and his juice and went back upstairs.

  It wouldn’t take him long to pack—he owned precious little after his escape from Vegas two years ago and hadn’t accumulated much working odd security jobs around the country. He’d left a few belongings—a couple books, his favorite work boots, a sleeping bag, and his dog tags—in his truck, which he was storing in San Antonio. He’d hopped the Yankee Belles’ bus there without a glance over his shoulder.

  Now, as he finished off the muffin, he shoved a couple pairs of jeans, a white button-down that still fit him, and a few clean pullovers into his duffel bag. Added his toiletries, his chargers, and on impulse grabbed his black Stetson. Then he headed back downstairs, empty glass in hand and duffel over his good shoulder.

  Kelsey sat at the counter, peeling the wrapper off her own muffin.

  He set the duffel on the floor and slid onto the stool beside her.

  “Does she know you’re going to Nashville?”

  He glanced at Kelsey, then to his mother, who sat outside, her easel set up.

  “Glo.”

  Oh. He shook his head. “She fired me. Although I don’t know why.”

  “Really? Not a clue, there, Rambo?”

  He frowned. Kelsey wasn’t pulling any punches today. “I guess it has something to do with David, the guy she wrote her song about?”

  “I told you he was a soldier, right? What I failed to mention was that she was wickedly in love with him. But her mother forbade her to marry him. Said he wasn’t ‘right for the family.’” She finger quoted the last part. “There’s a lot of complicated history between Glo and her mother. Her mother never really got over losing her other daughter, Joy. With Glo the only one left, this could be another power play on her mother’s part.”

  “Power play?”

  Kelsey brushed off her fingers. “Glo’s mother has an agenda for her daughter. One that includes marrying the right man, taking over the family business—”

  “Politics?”

  “No. The Jackson family has a massive nonprofit organization whose stated goal is to strengthen people to meet the challenges and opportunities for global freedom. Glo is the vice-chair, although she never shows up to board meetings. I think her father is the chair. Reba isn’t allowed to be associated with it since she’s a political figure. But she’d like nothing more than for Glo to settle down with some rich lawyer and take over the foundation.”

  “How big is this foundation?”

  “Glo said that last year they raised over two billion from US corporations, political donors, foreign entities. It’s a huge operation.”

  “No wonder Reba has her own security team.”

  “You thought it was just because she was running? Hardly. Reba Jackson is worth a cool billion, at least. And as her only heiress, Glo is…well, we probably should have hired you long ago.”

  He nodded. “It’s strange that Reba didn’t take her death threats seriously until the bombing.”

  “Any more information about the Bryant League?”

  “I called Ruby Jane but only got her voicemail.”

  Kelsey drew in a breath. “I’m all for you hunting these guys down and keeping my girl safe, Tate. But tread carefully. Glo’s heart’s been broken before, and I don’t want
to see it broken again. You may be who Glo wants, but make sure you’re who she needs too. And that means not making trouble for her with her mother.”

  Those words hung on as he hugged her goodbye, then his mother, and finally trekked out to the barn.

  Knox was inside, unsaddling his quarter horse. He threw the saddle on a mount, then unclipped his chaps and draped them over a stall. “You look like you’re fixin’ to leave.” He took the mare’s reins and led her out to the corral. Tate opened the gate, and Knox took off her bridle, then released her.

  He hung the bridle on a hook. “I suppose you want a ride to the airport in Helena.”

  “Truck or plane, I’m open, but yeah, I need to get back to Glo.”

  Knox shook his head, but a smile ghosted up his face. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

  “It’s tattooed on my chest.”

  Knox laughed. “Yeah. In case we all forget. Let’s take the ranch Cessna.”

  He headed into the house for the keys, and Tate threw his duffel into the back of the truck.

  Leaned against it, lifting his face to the heat of the day.

  No, he didn’t know the word quit.

  But that’s exactly how Jammas had gotten killed. Because Tate had been stubborn, acting on his gut. Leading his team, on a tip, from house after house in the tiny village to find the Taliban barricaded there.

  He’d found them. Oh, he’d found them.

  He lifted his leg, stretching out his knee, almost an unconscious reaction.

  Stubborn and stupid. Seemed like a thin line between them.

  Knox returned carrying a briefcase. He put it in the cab of the truck, and Tate went around to get in.

  Silence, then Knox got in and glanced at him. “Don’t forget Rube’s wedding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Stay out of trouble.”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re doing the right thing.”

  Tate looked at him. Knox was driving with one hand on the wheel and raised his shoulder.

  “If it was me, I wouldn’t let her go either. I learned that with Kelsey.”

  Huh.

  “This is everything I have on the bombing in San Antonio.” Knox gestured to the briefcase. “Kelsey won’t talk about it, won’t look at it, and I think I need to get the memories out of the house, so…it’s on you now, bro.”