What—no! She caught his hand. “You’re not going out there.”
He gave her a look. “Yes, I am. But I’ll be back, I promise.” He kissed her hard.
And then she watched the man she loved step out of her life into the darkness.
He’d let down his guard for a blinding, delirious second—
So much for coming home with the news that Glo was safe.
News that Tate hadn’t quite announced before he simply took her in his arms and kissed her. Breaking his promise to her mother—stupid, frustrating promise that it was—and trampling every smidgen of honor that still remained.
Yeah, a real hero.
What had he told RJ? And Glo? Clearly, the truth.
He might not be a hero or even particularly honorable, but he certainly was going to keep Glo safe.
Tate trembled, the adrenaline buzzing through his body as he crept out into the shadows of the pool house. He wished he had his gun, but he couldn’t take that on the plane, and he hadn’t exactly stopped by the security building on his way in to check out a weapon.
Fine. He could handle this joker with his bare hands.
He stayed down, heading toward the shrubbery behind the pool and came across the place where the intruder had hidden.
Yep. He knew his instincts were firing correctly when he’d seen the flash of light—moonlight on a weapon? Or something else, he didn’t know. But when it was followed by the sound of branches breaking he called himself an idiot for letting his guard down.
Again.
So. Easily. Distracted.
He ground his teeth as he crouched in the warm spot, the branches to the shrubbery broken and snapped. How long had the assailant sat there, watching as he’d kissed Glo?
Really, finally, kissed Glo. Two weeks of patience and pent-up agony as he watched Slick hold her hand. Kiss her. Touch her hair.
Yeah, well, he’d been watching—Glo didn’t come alive in Sloan’s arms like she did in his, thank you.
And maybe that was testosterone talking, but Glo was his girl. He knew it in his core.
He’d give about anything for NVGs right now. But the full moon illuminated the open fields surrounding the house, and he scanned the horizon.
Spied, in the far distance, a figure running toward the horse pasture.
He didn’t have time to get keys, sort out vehicles—he took off at a full sprint.
As he ran by the bunkhouse, he gave a shout, and from the back, Rags and Swamp emerged.
“Intruder!” He kept going.
The man had disappeared behind a hill, but there was a quarter mile of pastureland between him and the road. And Tate was fast.
He kept his eyes on the place where the man had vanished, glimpsed a form, also running hard, and his chest began to hurt.
A motor thundered up behind him and he turned.
Rags held his arm out and Tate hooked it, leaped, and landed behind him on one of the estate’s motorcycles.
He gripped the back of the seat, leaning with Rags as they ate up the earth.
He pointed toward the sight of their quarry, growing larger, and Rags gunned it, kicking up soil and grass.
Behind them, Tate heard another bike—probably Swamp, but he didn’t turn to look.
The man grew larger. Lean, tall, but young and fit for the way he was keeping pace.
If he’d come in by car, he might have parked closer.
He came into clear view—the man wore a black shirt, and a camera bounced hard against his back as he ran. He glanced over his shoulder at them, his eyes wide.
“Stop!”
Clearly, that was a no.
“Get close to him!” Tate shouted.
Rags obeyed. Tate drew up his leg to the seat, then leaped for him.
They went down together in a rolling tackle, Tate letting him go so he could find his feet.
He’d gotten the wind bullied out of him a little but gulped back hard as he rounded on the man.
The intruder sprawled in the grass, his hands over his head, his legs brought up to protect his belly.
“Sheesh,” Tate said. “Get up. I’m not going to beat you.”
The man pushed himself up onto his knees, and Tate gave a start. Not a man, but a kid. But young and gaunt, and fear in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
He was breathing hard. “I saw Miss Jackson leave the event tonight and I thought maybe I could get some pictures of her and her new boyfriend.”
Rags had circled back around and now pulled up. “Who is he?” He cut the engine.
“Paparazzi.”
“No, man. I’m a freelancer. I work for the Lincoln. It’s a political website that discusses national issues.”
“Seriously. And taking pictures of Gloria Jackson and her…friend…is political how?”
“If Sloan Anderson has the ear of the future president via her daughter, the world needs to know.”
“Why?”
“Because of his ties to Russia! He has known liaisons with low-level Russian diplomats in Washington.”
“Liaisons, how?”
The kid drew in a breath. “He plays golf with Russians.”
“He’s a lobbyist. Of course he does.” Tate reached down to haul the kid up to his feet. Then he yanked the camera from his neck.
“Hey!”
Tate held his hand up in warning, and the man piped down. Tate opened the screen, scrolled through—oh my, he had shots of their kiss.
His hands in Glo’s hair, his mouth practically devouring hers. And Glo’s arms around his neck, equally as eager.
Delete.
He scrolled more, found the ones of Glo standing by the pool, pouring out her heart as he walked from the shadows. He looked like a freakin’ wounded puppy.
Delete.
He sort of wanted to keep the one of Glo staring up into the sky, as if seeking answers from the moon, her hair glowing, her eyes soft.
Delete.
The next one was of her at some fancy hotel, getting out of her car, then going inside, then—
Wait.
He enlarged the picture.
And his heart simply stopped. There, standing in the crowd was a man with a fire tattoo licking his neck, his gaze trained on Glo.
Tate looked closer. It was definitely taken tonight because Glo wore that same gorgeous blue dress.
He ignored Sloan in the picture.
“I need your camera,” he said to the kid. “It’s got a picture I need.”
“That’s a Nikon D5. It cost me seven thousand dollars.”
Tate wanted to say something like, cry me a river, kid, but Rags interjected, “Let’s go back to the house. We can take the picture off the hard drive, grab the SD card, and wipe the camera.”
Swamp had pulled up on the other motorcycle, and surprise, surprise, Sly was right behind him on one of the four wheelers. He got out and stalked over to Tate.
“I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.”
“Then you should have had someone on Glo’s detail tonight. She was out there alone, or this jerk wouldn’t have been able to sneak in.”
“I did have someone on.” He looked at Rags.
Tate followed with a glare. “You left her alone?”
Rags held up a hand. “Sorry. She dismissed me. I don’t have the same obsession, bro. I’m not going to sit outside on a lounge chair and watch her window all night.”
Tate wanted to go for Rags’s throat.
Would have, maybe, had Sly not caught his shoulder, pushed him back and away from Rags. “No. I get it, but no.”
Tate drew in a breath, shot a look over to Rags, back to Sly. “She doesn’t leave my sight.”
Sly nodded.
“Which means that she goes with me this weekend to Montana.”
Sly raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how it works, Tate. You work for her, not the other way around.”
“I’ll go.”
Tate froze, then turned, and yes, Glo appeared,
seated bareback on one of those pretty thoroughbreds. She wore a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt, diamonds at her ears, barefoot like she might be a modern-day Viking princess.
She could even ride a horse.
Then again, hello. He should have guessed that after seeing the highbrow livestock around her. And didn’t she once mention that her grandfather raised thoroughbreds?
“I’ll go to Montana. With Rango.”
She knew his nickname? It sent a strange, not unwelcome heat through him to hear her revert back to her crazy practice of calling him by funny names.
Like something good might have reset between them.
“No,” Sly said.
“Yes,” Tate replied. “Listen. I know my ranch, and it’s unexpected. We—me and my brothers—can keep her safe there. Trust me. She’ll be safer there than here.”
Sly gave him a look. “Excuse me, but last time she was there, she was shot.”
Tate’s mouth tightened.
“I’ll be fine. I trust Tate. And I need to get away, just for a few days.”
He hadn’t expected that part, or the fact that she’d betray that to any of them. But Sly walked over to her and grabbed the reins of her horse. “You’ll do everything he says, without argument?”
Tate grinned as he looked over at her for her answer. Even added, “Without argument.”
She glanced from Sly to Tate. “You’re not the boss of me, Tator.”
“This weekend I am, honey.”
She sighed, then turned back to Sly. “Fine. Yes.”
Sly considered Tate. “And you’ll keep her safe, no matter what.”
Tate gave him a look. But since he was his boss… “With my very life.”
Sly shook his head. “Okay. But don’t forget your deal, bucko.”
Right, his deal. What deal was that?
“And don’t let your guard down,” Sly added, his gaze flickering to Rags, then back.
His smile fell. Because yeah, Sly was right.
He glanced again at the camera, then at Glo sitting there with the slightest smile of triumph.
Oh boy.
Ford was going to miss his brother’s wedding.
He’d come to that conclusion within twenty-four hours of arriving in town, when he heard the doctor’s prognosis.
When he saw Scarlett break in front of him.
And sure, Ford had stayed for Gunnar and the gleam the kid got when someone—anyone, probably, but especially Ford—showed him any attention.
And he’d stayed for Sammy-Jo, who needed someone to collect her memories with her, to care that they were fading, turning her world smaller with each day.
He’d stayed, of course, for Scarlett because he didn’t exactly know how he’d cope with leaving behind a mother who might not remember him the next time he returned. Or worse, giving up the one thing he’d worked his entire life for—his career—to return home and watch his mother throw her life away. So he stayed because she needed a friend.
But mostly he stayed because of Axel.
Because the man set his teeth on edge the way he now watched Scarlett’s every movement. He didn’t even bother to hide it from Gunnar, from Sammy-Jo, even from Ford.
Which is why Ford kept the boyfriend card on the table. Why he put his arm around Scarlett just often enough to make it believable without going over any personal lines between them.
Why, after that first night when he’d seen Axel consume an entire six-pack, he’d carried his sleeping bag onto the porch, right under Scarlett’s open window, just in case he heard anything.
Why he’d slept poorly that night, his dreams a poor place for his fears to linger.
And, why he stayed up on the porch, sometimes listening to an audiobook, watching Axel until the man turned off the glow of the television and went to bed.
Truth was, he couldn’t leave her. Because he still heard her voice in his head. Gary.
But for a moment there, at the ball game, he’d nearly bolted. Panicked as his heart pulled a Rambo on him and went renegade, wanting to cast the truth at her feet. I don’t know how I’d do my job without you. I mean I would, but it would…it would stink.
The words almost tipped his lips. And it would stink, but he was a pro and he’d get the job done—Hooyah—even if she wasn’t on the other side, feeding him quiet information. Truth was, he could probably figure out how to do his job without Scarlett. He just didn’t want to.
Worse, he knew how terrible it sounded. Because she was in a no-win situation with her mother, and of course, all he’d thought about was himself.
So, if she decided to leave, he’d suck it up. He didn’t do vulnerable and needy, and his panic belonged in some sappy television show they always got wrong about Navy SEALs. Something that might happen, but no one really wanted to admit.
Still, his brain had tangled up into a mess of catastrophes and left him with nothing but staring at her, trying to figure out what to do next.
Until Gunnar had hit that home run today and he was saved by the seven-year-old.
Ford even got a hug out of it, one that lingered rebelliously in his head.
What he’d come to, after a day of pacing it out in his brain, was…he had no right to tell her that she couldn’t…well, do whatever she needed to.
In the meantime, he’d keep a keen eye on Axel, even if he had to sit on this cold porch all night, again.
He went out to the truck and retrieved his sleeping bag and self-inflating pad and settled down below Scarlett’s window.
The temperature hovered in the low sixties, and her window was open to the night, no AC in the house. He lay down, folded his arms under his head, staring out at the sky, the stars so bright they fell in a cascade of diamonds.
He’d slept under skies all over the world, but none felt right until he stretched out under this part of the world. How many times had he slept out on the range with Rube, Knox, Tate, and Wyatt—and even Ruby Jane. He’d longed to be like his brothers—cowboys, tough as leather, afraid of nothing.
Wow, he missed them. And the thought of calling his mother tomorrow and telling her that he couldn’t make Reuben’s wedding put a knife through his ribs.
But he couldn’t leave Scarlett in this mess. Not until she got her feet under her, figured out what to do.
Maybe not even then. Because this week had been a weird sort of vacation, detaching himself from his everyday routine of PT, training, lunch, more training, maybe lifting in the gym, occasionally picking up a game of basketball. A few of the guys liked to sea kayak, so he sometimes joined them.
Had taken a few surfing lessons.
But mostly, he spent his time alone, in his thoughts, reliving scenarios. Often in the gear room caring for his kit, his weapons.
His entire life was his job—he’d breathed being a SEAL since Tate became a Ranger. Had seen the pride in his father’s eyes after Tate graduated from Ranger school and wanted that too.
But he’d missed out on so much. His father’s death being the biggest regret. He’d gotten the news from Knox, who’d been out on the circuit trying to make a name as a professional bull rider. And Reuben had been smokejumping and Wyatt playing in the minors, Tate working as a bodyguard, Ruby Jane in college and he—he’d still been struggling through SQTs back then, trying to qualify.
His father had never seen him receive his trident.
His throat tightened at the memory. Ford, Dad died. Heart attack while he was out moving cattle.
Which meant he’d been alone. Not one of his sons around to help him.
Ford sighed and threw a hand over his eyes.
And that’s when something crashed in the kitchen—glass breaking, then a shout. “Get away!”
Ford found his feet in a second, still not in his bag, and hit the front door.
He slowed at the sight of Axel with his arm around Scarlett, leaning over her from behind, his other hand moving over her body. He’d clamped one of her arms to her torso.
The other
was free for her to use.
“Get—off—me!”
She slammed her foot into his ankle, hard, and he shouted. Then she made a fist and swung it behind her, aiming for the soft parts.
She must have hit something because he cursed and doubled over.
And she rounded out of his grasp and slammed her open palm in his chin, reeling him back.
“You—” He called her a word and that was just it.
Ford took two steps and yanked the man into a sleeper hold, pressing hard on his carotid artery and jugular vein. “Don’t struggle.”
Of course, Axel struggled, slamming his elbow into Ford’s chest. Ford saw a few stars, the pain of his busted rib crashing through his brain, but he held on.
Oh, the man reeked. More than beer—he’d probably graduated to one of the bottles of whiskey atop the refrigerator.
In seconds, Axel’s legs started to give out.
He went down like a noodle, and Ford caught him before he hit his head on the floor.
“Wow—how did you—how—that was so cool.”
Not the reaction Ford had expected from a kid watching his dad hit the floor, but, well, maybe he’d been through more than Ford wanted to guess. “He’s okay, Gunnar. Just asleep.”
The kid wore a pair of pajama bottoms, no shirt, and now crouched next to Axel, touching his face. “When he wakes up, will he be angry?” His voice trembled a little.
Oh. Ford looked at Scarlett, who stood next to the counter. Slowly she put down the kitchen knife she’d grabbed. She swallowed, a little white.
“You okay?” Ford said, standing up and putting his foot on Axel’s chest. He would normally flip the guy and put him in flex-ties, but well, technically Ford had broken into his home.
Scarlett should do the honors.
“Call the police—” Ford said.
“What is happening—oh, Axel!”
Ford saw the horror reflected in Scarlett’s face as her mother ran out of the bedroom.
He turned toward Sammy-Jo and wished he hadn’t. The woman wore a low-cut, black silky nightie and a shower cap. He wanted to throw a blanket over her, but she knelt beside Axel, her hands on his chest, and started to scream.
“Mom. Mom—it’s okay. Ford didn’t hurt him. He’s fine—”
But Sammy-Jo began to wail, her hands over her face. “He killed him! He killed Axel!”
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