Tate

by Susan May Warren

  Go ahead and date Slick, honey.

  Because he may have lost the battle, but he wasn’t about to concede the war.

  Tate was out there, and she was in here and—

  “Sit down, already, Glo. Or go out to the bunkhouse and find him. But you’re making me dizzy.”

  Glo wore her pajama pants and a Belles Are Made for Singing T-shirt, having taken a shower after tonight’s fundraising fiasco, her hair still wet. Cher sat on the bed, finger combing her wet hair. Her friend was staying over in one of the other guest rooms and had also showered, changed into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt.

  “I can’t go out there. It’ll just encourage him.”

  “I think we’re beyond the need for encouragement here, sister. The man saved your life tonight. I’d say he’s all in.”

  All in.

  She could still feel Tate’s body pressing over her, feel his heartbeat thumping through his chest.

  Hear the tiny grunts of pain he tried to hold in.

  Stupid, heroic man. Her eyes burned at the memory of watching him in the office, the muscles in his jaw so tight she could strum them. He’d been in pain.

  And not just from his shoulder.

  Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t get in the way of you and Slick.

  So much hurt in his voice, it put a fist in her gut.

  Glo stood at the window. She’d darkened her room so she could look out and now spied at least two security staff prowling the exterior of her mother’s house, one down by the semi-lit pool area. The darkness wouldn’t allow her to make out his features.

  It could be Tate.

  Or maybe he was inside, still icing his shoulder. The man had worn the ice pack all night, on top of his dress shirt, like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

  But he was never more than ten feet from her, even when she pulled Sloan out to the far end of the pool, after the guests started to leave, and told him that yes, she’d accept those dinner plans.

  Every word out of her mouth tasted sour.

  Especially with Tate standing in the shadows.

  Her plan, even to her own mind, sounded desperate, a scene out of a soap opera. But with her mother holding the reins of his employment—and heaven help her, she’d like to know what “deal” they’d struck—her only hope was to make him quit.

  So yeah, she’d date Sloan. Hold his hand. She’d draw the line at kissing him, but…the whole idea of hurting Tate still made her ill.

  “I’m a terrible person.” Glo ran her hands up her arms and came over to flop on the bed beside Cher. The ceiling fan ran overhead, catching the light of the pool on its gilded blades, cascading it around the room.

  “Okay, maybe a little.”

  She looked at Cher, who raised a shoulder. “That perfectly handsome, wounded man saved your life tonight. You should be sneaking out in a romantic Romeo and Juliet moment to thank him.”

  “They both died.”

  “Okay, bad comparison, but certainly the man deserves a little love from the woman he can’t seem to stop chasing.”

  “The woman who is going to get him killed if he sticks around. He was inches from getting shot tonight—and not just once. He wasn’t even wearing protective gear—and hello, I’m changing that. Tomorrow, all my security details wear armor. He just hovered over me like a human shield—”

  “Um—”

  “If you say that’s his job, I’m kicking you out.”

  “Of your life, or just the room? Because I’m hungry and need a kitchen raid.”

  Glo rolled her eyes. “C’mon.”

  They got up and Glo led the way down the hallway, down the stairs, and across the tile to the massive chef’s kitchen. She left sweaty footprints on the cool tile and stood in the darkness as Cher opened the Sub-Zero fridge, the light cascading over her.

  “Did you know Sloan is my mother’s assistant campaign manager?”

  Cher pulled out a container of yogurt. “Who’s her manager?”

  “The same woman she always uses, Nicole Stevens. She was the one who rounded everyone up and brought in the ensemble to play.”

  “The pretty African-American woman—”

  “With the awesome hair, yes. They met in college. Nicole worked as a speechwriter, then as communications director for the governor before she helmed my mother’s mayoral campaign.”

  Cher peeled the cover off the yogurt. “So, Sloan is back to stay.”

  “We’re going out for dinner tomorrow night.”

  Cher licked the wrapper. “Really. So, we are getting back on the horse.”

  “No. We’re trying to drive the Lone Ranger away. I’m hoping that the more Tate sees me with Sloan, the angrier he’ll get and quit.”

  “Oh, I see. We’re living out country songs IRL. That’s a twist.” She dug the spoon in. “How long before Sloan is on to your evil plan?”

  She frowned. “No…it’s not an evil plan. I like Sloan—”

  “Yee-haw.”

  “Stop talking about horses!” Glo went to the pantry and opened it. What she wouldn’t do for a box of frozen Ho Hos.

  Or better yet, chocolate chip cookies, like Gerri Marshall made on the ranch.

  And of course her brain—and stomach—had to go there. Back to the Marshall Triple M, where Tate had taken her dancing and charmed her with games of gin rummy and carried her in his amazing arms after she’d been wounded.

  Forget the chocolate chip cookies. She grabbed some Fig Newtons—her mother’s version of comfort food—and returned to the granite island. “Listen. I’m not saying my brilliant plan is Ocean’s Eleven. It’s a simple plot. Annoy him enough that he’ll leave.”

  “And in the meantime, break more hearts.” Cher took another spoonful of yogurt, let it slide onto her tongue.

  “I won’t break…cut me some slack. I’m trying to save lives here.”

  “So is Tate, it seems.”

  “Maybe you should leave.”

  Cher grinned. But she put the yogurt down and took Glo’s hand. “Sweetie. Why are you trying so hard to push away a man who clearly cares for you? In fact, he would give his life for you. Don’t you get to be happy…oh honey, why are you crying?”

  Glo pressed her hand to her mouth, shook her head. “Because I…I’m so scared that I already love him, and…it’s just going to end in disaster.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t…nothing ever works out for me. Maybe I’m one of those people who don’t get to be happy.”

  “Of course you get to be happy. That’s crazy—”

  “Is it?” Her mouth tightened. “Take a good look at the debris in my life. Joy. David. Even the Yankee Belles have disbanded.”

  “You’re not disbanded—”

  “We could be. It always happens. I dream big, put my heart into something, and it turns to sand in my hands.” She drew in a deep breath. “I just wish…I wish I could just know that everything will be all right.” She stared at her half-eaten Fig Newton. “I’m not a fan.”

  “They’re certainly not frozen Ho Hos.” Cher gave her a sad smile. “There’s nothing wrong with dreaming big, Glo. Longing for true love.”

  “I found true love once. I don’t know that I can lose it again.”

  “You do have a lot of wreckage in your past.”

  “Tate can’t be the next casualty.”

  Cher blew out a breath. “Okay. So what’s the plan, Danny Ocean?”

  “Commence Operation Angry Tate?”

  “Can I just say, this is a suicide mission?”

  Glo raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  Cher nodded toward the sliding glass door, and Glo turned.

  The man had the ability to stop her heart in its tracks. He’d entered the patio area and slid onto a deck chair, bathed in the wan glow of the pool. He’d changed out of his suit—so, clearly off duty—and wore a pair of jeans, flip-flops, and a black T-shirt. And another ice pack affixed to his shoulder.

  He positioned his
chair to angle toward her window. And wore such a dark, fierce expression, it went right through her, to her core.

  Steeled her.

  The very thought of him sitting out there…all night long…

  If she didn’t stay up all night watching him, she might actually sleep.

  “‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?’” Cher said, almost breathlessly.

  “Stop it.”

  “‘It is my lady. Oh, it is my love….’”

  Glo slid off the stool, shoved the bag of Fig Newtons back in the pantry, and headed toward the stairs to her bedroom.

  But not before she turned for one more look at Tate. He sat with his arms folded, his shoulders bunching, as if he refused to move out of her life.

  Yes, this was a suicide mission, at best.

  5

  He would get the next fourteen hours with Scarlett.

  Ford’s only goal was not to say something stupid, not to let her in on the fact that when he’d seen her crying, when he’d pulled her to himself, when she’d actually held onto him, something dangerous had shifted inside him.

  He’d gone from wanting her in his ear to wanting her in his arms and, hello, no.

  Just teammates.

  But she was making it a little difficult for him to think.

  “I pegged you wrong. I totally thought you’d be a country music fan.” Scarlett sat on the passenger side in the cab of his truck. Dressed in a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap, she looked about nineteen, her face and arms tan from yesterday’s picnic in Cruz’s backyard, her legs crisscrossed on the seat. She wore a pair of aviator sunglasses, the morning sun reflected in the amber glare, and ate Cap’n Crunch out of the box.

  He had this weird, eerie civilian throwback memory to one of his rare dates in high school, the ebullient feeling of youth, freedom, and summer nights.

  Not that he’d ever sown any wild oats, but if he had, it might feel like this—a pretty girl beside him on the bench seat, the window open, one hand occasionally riding the breeze like a dolphin through the air. She pulled her arm in and rolled up the window.

  “What’s wrong with the Ting Tings?” he said. “Can’t a country boy listen to British girl bands?”

  He glanced at her, cocked his head, and sang the chorus in a falsetto—“‘That’s not my name... That’s not my name...’”

  She laughed, and it turned his heart buoyant. He’d picked her up before sunrise, in the cool darkness of the dawn, and by the time they turned eastward at Barstow, rose gold was peaking over the mountains in the Mojave National Preserve.

  “I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Cruz listens to Italian opera, and Nez is a wreck for books on tape. He listens to them on high speed as he works out.”

  “Yeah, well, Nez also owns a Prius. You’re driving an F-150. If this doesn’t scream Montana, I’m not sure what does. Except for maybe the cowboy boots.”

  “Cowboy boots are more comfortable than you’d think. But no, I grew up with Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and Merle Haggard crooning in the barn. Sad songs about broken hearts and life gone wrong. I much prefer this—” He flashed into falsetto again. “‘Are you calling me darling? Are you calling me bird?’”

  “Never.” She folded up the cereal bag, grinned, and picked up her cup from McDonald’s, a large Diet Coke. The third she’d sucked down over the past four hours. She hit ice, and the sound garbled in the straw.

  He had finished off his bullet coffee an hour ago, but still had some in the Thermos. His stomach growled.

  “You want some of my Cap’n Crunch?” She made to hand him the box.

  “Seriously? I made some grub for the road. I’ll grab it at the next rest stop.”

  “What kind of grub? PB and J?”

  “Oats, soaked in almond milk, blueberries, a little baobab powder.”

  She made a face. “I’ll keep my sugared cereal.”

  “What? So I don’t eat like a twelve-year-old.”

  “Road trips are for junk food. Haven’t you ever road-tripped before?”

  “Once. To Disneyland.”

  And that shut him down briefly, because oh, how he hated talking about it.

  So, “But no, we spent summer vacations working. My father had us working on irrigation pipes, moving cattle from pasture to pasture, fixing equipment, and mowing hay. Except for Sundays, we worked from sunup to sundown.”

  “You and your dad?”

  “And my brothers and sister. Reuben, my oldest brother, is seven years older than me, so by the time he left home, I started pitching in more, but we all started riding when we were old enough to sit in the saddle.”

  “Even your sister?”

  “Of course. My mother too—we all worked. My mother also ran a big kitchen garden, which we were required to dig up in the spring, hoe, and pull weeds.”

  “How big is your ranch?”

  “Now? I don’t know. About nine thousand acres when Dad ran it. Knox took it over when Dad died, about five years ago, and he started breeding bucking bulls. Bought a champion headed into retirement to seed the line. He was a bull rider, and the guy just has this knack. He bred Gordo with one of our cows and produced this champion bucker named Hot Pete. He was killed recently—some sort of fire I guess. My mother mentioned it in a letter. Anyway, no road trips for us. Just hard work.”

  “No fun at all?”

  “Oh, we had fun. We have a river near our place, and we’d go down to this pocket in the river after work, swim there. Reuben would chase us around, try and drown us.”

  She glanced at him.

  “It was all in fun. I really looked up to him. It killed me when he left home to be a smokejumper.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. My dad was a wildland firefighter, and he probably gave Reuben the bug. We had a fire on our ranch once, and a bunch of hotshots and smokejumpers came in to put it down, so my guess is that’s where it all started. But my Dad…well, he was sort of a bigger than life guy. Rode bulls and fought fires and worked as a range cop at one time and was a football star in college. Hard to live up to.”

  “I don’t think you have any problems there, Navy.”

  Her words found his bones and settled there. “My brother Tate was actually the first to enlist. He joined the Army right out of high school—I still remember the fight with my dad. Tate landed a football scholarship to Montana State, but he turned it down. Just walked away, and Dad was so lit about it.”

  “Why did he turn it down?”

  “Dunno. Tate was always the guy who got into trouble—in school, and he hated working the ranch. Has this fear of horses from when he was thrown off as a kid. I think he just wanted to leave it as far behind as he could. So he became a Ranger.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Was in Afghanistan too. But he was Purple Hearted out when his squad got ambushed. I don’t know the whole story—when he got back, I was already in SQT—SEAL Qualification Training—so I’m not sure what happened. He’s fine now, though. Working in personal security, I think for some girl band.”

  “And your other brother?”

  “Wyatt? He plays goalie for the Minnesota Blue Ox hockey team.”

  “Professional?”

  “Yeah. He travels a lot—we don’t see him much. But he’ll probably be home this weekend for Rube’s wedding.”

  “And is your sister coming home?”

  “RJ? I don’t know. I called her a few days ago and left a message. Told her I’d be at the wedding.” He looked at her. “She’s my twin.”

  “Oh my, a female version of Ford Marshall. What does that look like?”

  “Tough. Smart. Pretty. She works as a travel agent for some company in DC.”

  Outside, the landscape had slowly turned from rugged mountains to the mesas of the desert. The road was bordered to the south by Joshua trees, white yuccas, and valleys of purple and white wildflowers.

  Adele came over the radio. Hello, it’s me… I was wondering i
f after all these years you’d like to meet…

  “This is such a sad song,” Scarlett said. “About a woman who regrets breaking up with a guy, but when she tries to go back to him, he’s already moved on.”

  “Too much like a country music song.” He turned down the volume. “I prefer songs without any emotional commitment.” They passed a state road sign. “Welcome to Nevada.”

  “I hate Nevada,” she said quietly.

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “Oh. Bad memories.” She turned to him. “No rest areas. Want that oatmeal now?”

  “We need gas. We’ll stop in a bit. What kind of bad memories?”

  She made a face. “My mom left me at a diner once, overnight in some Podunk town in Nevada.”

  “What?”

  She lifted a shoulder, drew up one knee, and hooked her hands around it. “I was seven at the time. Not a big deal—the owner found me. Her name was Peggy, and she gave me a chocolate shake, then let me sleep in her silver Airstream she had parked out back. But it’s my first real memory of being left behind, and it still makes me a little sick.”

  “I don’t understand—did she do this a lot?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. She was a California girl who had big dreams of being an actress, but she fell for all the wrong men. Mostly musicians, but a few hippies, and plenty of low-level criminals. She started using, although I’m lucky—she never used when she was pregnant. She was eighteen when she had me and followed my dad—a folk singer—around California until he dumped her. She was always trying out for bit parts, practicing her auditions in the living room. I think she was an extra in a couple movies. We lived in Vegas for a while, and she worked a couple small shows as a dancer. Then she hooked up with Terry, who took her up to Salt Lake City. I think the diner incident happened when they were together—I have a vague memory of them having a fight. Maybe him leaving her there and her trying to hitchhike to go after him. I don’t know. But we ended up in Salt Lake for a couple years. Then he kicked her out, and we lived in a Monte Carlo for a while—”

  “You lived in your car?”

  “Mom got a job working second shift at a warehouse—I think it might have been a shipping company—so she’d lock me in the car in the parking lot. She tucked me in, and I felt safe enough.” But she looked out the window, her jaw tight.