“I don’t know, Dad. All I’ve done this week is push Tate away. If I were him, I wouldn’t stick around.”
“Yes, you would.”
She smiled.
“Listen. You spend all your life helping others. I’ve always thought of you as a lioness—you’ll protect everyone else, but you won’t protect yourself. Or let others protect you.”
She drew in a breath, the words stinging.
“I…”
“I get it. What if you ask, and they don’t show up? They say no?”
She looked away, her jaw tight.
“No one is going to say no, Glo. You are worthy of help. Of protection. Of sitting night by night by the pool in a lounge chair, pining.”
“Tate is not pining.”
“That’s exactly what he’s doing. And for what it’s worth, I liked David. And if Tate is anything like David—”
“He’s not as young and naive. But he is brave and sacrificial and…”
“You love him.”
She looked at her dad, his words congealing. “I don’t know if I love him, but…well, he keeps my fire lit.”
“Okay, enough with that metaphor.” Her father laughed. “So…maybe tell him that. Poor man is suffering.”
She leaned over and kissed her father. “You should come around more often.”
“I’m moving back, at least for the campaign. We’ll see if I make it all the way to the White House. First Gentleman…I’m not sure what that looks like.”
“I think the world will be a better place because of it.” She grabbed her yogurt and slid off the stool.
The sun had already bathed the pool area in white light. She put on her sunglasses and found a deck lounger in the shade of an umbrella. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before Tate would stroll by, trying not to look…
And she’d do what?
She thumbed open her iPad.
Maybe she’d start with an apology.
A text message flashed on her screen from Kelsey. Found the perfect dress for the CMGs. The message contained a link.
Glo opened it, then scrolled through the also-boughts. Found one she liked and sent the link in a group message to Dixie and Kelsey.
The maintenance crew was on today, and in the distance the sound of the mower bit at the air. The fragrance of fresh-cut lawn seasoned the morning. She glanced around for Tate, but he was nowhere to be seen.
A text came back with shoe options from Dixie. I can’t believe we might get onstage!
Glo would let Kelsey accept the award. Maybe she’d even stay in the audience. But she did have her own fire, the kind that stirred tunes inside her. Even made her take a mic, sing her heart out to a man in the wings.
Boy howdy, Tate knew how to keep the fire going, and she was a jerk for hurting him. At the very least she needed to apologize. And frankly, not just to Tate.
Sloan deserved the same. Yeah, train wreck of epic proportions.
The French doors opened, and she looked over to see her mother walking over to her. She wore her white linen pants and a bold orange shirt that set off her tan, her amber hair caught back in a loose bun.
“I hope you’re using sunscreen,” she said as she sat down on the edge of Glo’s lounger. “A little tan is fine, but you’re not like me. You burn so easily…”
“I’m in the shade, Mother.”
“I know, I just…” She drew in a breath. “I just want you to be happy.”
Oh. Uh.
“And, I have a campaign problem that I don’t know what to do about. I need your help.”
Her. Help? Glo set down the iPad.
“Nicole got an email from Carter, hoping to coordinate security for the CMGs and…she looked at the calendar. I have an event that day in Atlanta and trying to coordinate the security staff to get back for the awards show…maybe I should cancel the event.”
Glo stared at her. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. You’re my daughter. And you’re getting a big award. And I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you. Security is essential, and you need the entire team. Nicole says the venue is a nightmare, even if she coordinates with the CMG security people. We could hire more people, but to get them trained and up to speed before both events…it’s a logistical nightmare.” She paused. “No, of course I will cancel. I’ll call Nicole and tell her to halt the preparations for Atlanta.”
Glo considered her mother, measuring her, but she had picked up her phone—
“No, Mother, don’t be silly.”
Her mother looked up, her thumb hovering over the Send button.
“I don’t even know if we’re going to win, and if we do, the last thing I want to do is go onstage. No. I don’t need to go. Besides, it’s just going to cause chaos for everyone. It’s just selfish.” She touched her mother’s hand. “Go to Atlanta. Maybe I’ll even go with you. Hold a sign or something.”
Her mother stilled, met her eyes with so much surprise, even warmth in them, it coursed right through Glo, hit her heart, left it a little unwieldy.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Glo’s voice emerged embarrassingly wrecked. “I’m here to support you, Mother.”
“Oh, thank you, Gloria. The folks in Atlanta have worked so hard.” She squeezed Glo’s hand and got up. “I’m so glad you’ve joined our team. We could use your help if we’re going to make it all the way to the White House.”
She went inside and Glo leaned back in the chair, feeling strangely unsettled. But of course it was the right thing to do.
“Apparently, there’s an epidemic going around.”
She turned at the voice and startled to see one of her security standing nearby, quiet, unobtrusive. But he’d spoken, so she pulled down her glasses. “I’m sorry, what?”
“People not getting what they really want.”
“I’m sorry, which one are you?”
“Rags—Art Ragsdale, ma’am. And I know it’s none of my business, but I think you should go to that awards show. Get your award.”
“You’re right, it is none of your business.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Just seems that it’s not selfish to enjoy the fruits of your labor, so to speak. But apparently, suffering in silence is epidemic around here.”
She opened her mouth to retort, had nothing, and closed it. Then, “Are you…I was expecting—”
“Rango, right?”
She raised an eyebrow. “No. Mr. Marshall.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, but he’s not here. He left this morning.”
Left? Left…?
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, when I got up this morning, he was gone. And Sly assigned me to your detail.”
She turned away from him, her throat tightening.
Gone.
Because she’d made him suffer in silence.
Brilliant plan, Glo. Just brilliant.
Operation Angry Tate: mission accomplished.
Ford wasn’t leaving. Not the baseball game, despite the hot sun, and clearly not her life.
Or at least he hadn’t left yet, and going on day five, with him cheering for Gunnar as her brother squinted into the sun in the outfield, Scarlett was starting to get the message.
One she should have spotted on the horizon when thirty seconds after they pulled up, as she’d been retrieving her gear from the back seat, Ford got out.
Then he’d walked around the truck to intercept her mother’s burly boyfriend with a hand out, all gentlemanly, introducing himself as Petty Officer First Class Ford Marshall. With the US Navy SEALs. And yes, he was a teammate of Scarlett.
Sort of like a throwdown, right in her mother’s grassless front yard.
Axel shook his hand, tight-lipped, trying to turn Ford to ash, and although he stood about an inch taller than Ford, maybe six-one, and had the shoulders of a small buffalo, he didn’t possess Ford’s confidence, the buzz under his skin that tremored the very air around him that said: Be. Careful.
> Not that Ford emanated that on purpose, but it simply oozed out of him, a product of thousands of hours jumping out of planes and swimming through dark waters and scaling rough terrain and surviving active shooters, people who wanted to kill him.
So no, Axel Montrose hadn’t a prayer of intimidating Ford.
Ford had let him go then and turned to help her with her duffel bag.
That was a first.
Mostly because she was usually the one helping them with gear, thanks to her job as a supply officer and communications liaison.
He took her big bag from her, not meeting her eyes, and walked it to the front porch, setting it there. And that might have been the end—he might have gotten into his truck and driven away—if her mother hadn’t come outside to greet them.
She still looked like a California beach song. Sure, she had a few years on Scarlett, but Sammy-Jo Hathaway had a body made for sunshine and bikinis. Scarlett had long ago realized she’d gotten her curves, including the hips she couldn’t quite get rid of, from the father she couldn’t remember, because Sammy-Jo still sported a size four frame, legs that didn’t quit, and a bustline that most twenty-year-olds would be jealous of. She came out wearing a sports bra, a pair of leggings, and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, as if she might be caught in the eighties. Her blonde hair was up in a high ponytail and frankly, her mother looked about twenty-five.
Not forty-three.
And maybe not even high.
Her eyes had lit up. “Scarlett?” She came down the stairs in her flip-flops and threw her arms around her daughter.
Scarlett couldn’t move, just holding on, painfully aware that maybe she’d dreamed up her panic. Sorry, Ford.
But he stood back, his hands in his pockets, smiling.
Her mother backed away, caught Scarlett’s face in her hands. “You’re so beautiful!”
Huh.
Then she turned and looked at Ford. “And this must be that boyfriend you told me about.”
Oh. No. No—uh, her mother was clearly remembering back to the brief romance she’d had almost five years ago. She glanced at Ford, not sure what to say, but he simply held out his hand.
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Ford.”
Then he leaned forward and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek.
Scarlett had to close her mouth before something flew in.
Her mother giggled, Ford grinned, and suddenly he’d been invited for dinner.
To Scarlett’s shock, he stayed. So long that he helped with the dishes, then went outside and played catch with Gunnar, who had come home from practice shortly after they arrived.
The kid had grown up into a rascal with an impossible mop of blond curls, cheeky blue eyes, and a savviness that probably came from having to fend for himself. She recognized a lot of herself in him.
Still, he was young enough to give her a hug. And be impressed by Ford and his wicked bruise.
Because apparently, it was cool to nearly get shot.
It was right after dinner, as night fell, as the dusty winds whipped up, and the stars dripped from overhead, that she’d lost control of her week. Not that she had any real plans, but she’d seen herself alone, trying to unravel her snarled fears about the future.
Ford had gotten up, looked at her mother, and asked a question about a gas station. Axel was lying on the sofa, watching some horror flick, and grunted laughter.
“I think they’re all closed this time of night,” Scarlett said and made a face.
Ford had walked out onto the porch, the night deepening, and then turned to her. “I’ll be right out here if you need me.”
Weird, but she’d nodded because she didn’t know what else to do.
The man had spread out a pad and sleeping bag in the bed of his truck.
Scarlett had expected to see him gone when she arose at first light, but there he was, in the kitchen frying up eggs while her mother, dressed in a bathrobe and hardly anything else, sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and telling him about the time she sang onstage at the Bellagio.
Sure, Mom.
But Scarlett slid up to the table, across from her mother, and Ford appeared with a cup of coffee like he belonged there, in her mother’s tiny kitchen.
It was clean—maybe Ford’s touch—and Scarlett might have settled into the moment, believing that everything would be all right, if her mother hadn’t turned to her and said, “This nice man was sleeping outside in his truck. In our yard, Scar! How did he get there—and aren’t you going to be late for school?”
Her coffee pitched in her stomach, and Ford offered her a sad look. “She asked me if I played baseball for the local team,” he whispered.
“See, I told you,” Axel said from the open door. He sat on the stoop, smoking a cigarette. “She’s bonkers.” He rotated his finger around his ear. “Bonkers.”
“I think it’s called a disease,” Scarlett snapped and ran a finger under her eyes. “Have you even tried to get her into a treatment center?”
Axel lifted a shoulder. “We ain’t got a car. What do you want me to do—put her on the back of my bike?”
“Where’s the nearest center?” Ford asked as he slid scrambled eggs onto a plate in front of her mother, then her. The man even made a plate for Axel and served him at the door before serving himself. “Gunnar already left for school,” he added.
She had slept like the dead on the sofa pillows in Gunnar’s room and hadn’t heard a thing, apparently.
“Salt Lake City,” Axel mumbled.
Ford managed to find a gas can in the garage and fed the car with enough juice to get them back to Holbrook. They spent the day driving the 156 miles to the city, waiting for an appointment to talk to the rehabilitation counselor at Pathways of Hope, then traveling back home with the dismal waiting list, Sammy-Jo’s name on the bottom.
Scarlett stared out the window in silence, Ford driving grim-faced, her mother babbling on about the doctor and how she had dated a podiatrist once…
Ford had reached across the seat and touched Scarlett’s hand, just once, ever so briefly, and given it a squeeze.
That night, she found him sitting on the porch and sank down next to him. “I don’t know what to do. I thought last time I left that she was going to be okay.”
Her leg brushed against his, and he reached out and put his arm around her. Easy. Friendly. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do, Red.” He’d turned to her then, however, and met her eyes. “She has to make her own choices. But I’m not leaving here until you’re ready.”
Oh.
His gaze met her eyes. “We don’t leave a teammate behind.”
She didn’t know why she’d experienced the tiniest sense of disappointment. Because yes, she was his teammate.
And frankly, she was starting to like having him around. Liked hearing him hum the songs on his playlist. Liked seeing the way he listened to her mother, even when she repeated herself. Liked coming out of the bedroom to see him stirring up eggs or oatmeal or even some kind of smoothie from the ingredients he’d picked up in Salt Lake City.
It made her feel that much safer around Axel. Although, maybe the little hairs that rose on the back of her neck when he walked into the room could be attributed to her mother’s history with men—the kind who liked to turn their attention toward her daughter—and not actual bad behavior, because Axel barely looked at her when she was in the room.
Spent a lot of time watching television.
But if Ford wasn’t leaving—and she’d attempted the slightest argument, which he shut down with a look and a shake of his head before he went to play catch with Gunnar—then she had to sort it out.
Her mother needed help—that much was clear. And that’s where her brain shut down.
Or rather, the ideas that formed were too painful to consider.
Now, as she watched Gunnar run into the dugout, grab his bat and tee up, she let thoughts roll over the possibilities.
Leave the Navy, move to Rockla
nd, and take over her mother’s care.
She’d rather be taken by terrorists. Okay, not really, but living with Axel felt very much like living under oppression.
Move her mother—and Gunnar—to San Diego, enroll her mother in a treatment facility there. But Scarlett was gone so often, and Gunnar needed supervision. He’d invited Ford to watch his game, and by the excitement in his blue eyes when they showed up to the game today, he probably didn’t get a lot of personal fans.
“C’mon buddy, knock it out of the park!” Ford sat next to her, wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and his cowboy boots. The man fit right into the local wildlife, a few others—fathers or uncles—cheering their boys. The tiny baseball field sat outside the long school, a creek running in the distance surrounded by scrub pine and juniper. To the east, a rumple of mountains shaded the valley, and the wind swept a cool breeze across the fading day.
“Here we go, Gunnar!” she said, clapping.
The kid swung and missed, and Ford made a face.
“He’ll hit it,” she said.
“I should have taught him how to hit. We’ve spent all week working on his catch and throw—”
She looked at him and he shrugged. “Sorry. Personality flaw. I get involved and suddenly I’m taking personal responsibility for the success and failure of the mission.”
“Operation baseball star?”
A tiny smile tugged up one side of his mouth. “Something like that, maybe.”
His gaze lingered on her a second longer, and the ump shouted, “Strike two!”
Ford turned back to the game. “C’mon, buddy! Only swing if it’s good!”
She cheered, too, especially when the ump called the next pitch as a ball.
“I’m thinking about separating from the Navy when my contract is up.”
He looked at her again, frowning. “What?”
“Ball two!”
“I can’t leave my mother alone with Axel—you’ve seen him. He doesn’t have a job—I think he lives off my paychecks, to be honest. But I’m mostly worried for Gunnar.”
Tate Page 13
