Tate

by Susan May Warren

  Like she was on his team.

  Four strokes and a breath. Four more, a breath. She wore goggles, and out of her periphery, in the quick moment it took her to gulp air, she spied the shore she paralleled. The buoy would be ahead another one hundred yards.

  She’d already completed the on-land test—the push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. Flying colors, but she’d always excelled in the core activities.

  Endurance. That’s what she failed at. Looking past the current pain to the goal. And knowing that she was making the right decision, not sure if her next step might crumble under her.

  Life was a series of white cords versus blue cords, hoping she clipped the right one to keep the world from blowing up around her.

  The white one. For hope.

  She wasn’t sure why she’d said that—a gut feeling, maybe, although after inspection, the bomb squad had deduced that the chip hadn’t been intended to trigger a bomb, but rather to activate the transmitter inside the senator’s lapel mic.

  A transmitter that would trigger the bomb set inside an innocuous vase of decorative flowers in the senator’s VIP suite. A bomb meant for the senator alone, regardless of the collateral damage.

  Tate had uncanny instincts to have figured it out in the split second between entering the room and launching himself and Glo off the balcony.

  But she could have picked the blue cord, and nothing would have gone boom.

  It made her wonder if she worried too much about the impending boom in her life. If it kept her standing outside the room, staring at what she wanted through the window. And sure, Ford was trying to keep her safe, but maybe she was tired of being safe.

  Fifty more yards. Her chest had tightened, her breaths coming in a burst of flame.

  Tired of trying so hard, of taking care of everyone, of denying what she really wanted.

  Ford. And yeah, the happy ending that came with him. Sure, it would be complicated, but…well, Ford knew how to navigate complicated. And I’m all in…as long as you are.

  White cord or blue cord. It didn’t matter as long as she was with Ford.

  Teammates, and more.

  She hit the buoy, grabbed the rope, breathing hard. Her instructor floated in a kayak nearby, clocking her. He gave her a thumbs-up.

  “You have a three-minute rest, then you’ll be towing your instructor Chief Petty Officer Peters to shore.”

  She cast a look at the man she’d be towing. He was about Ford’s size, wide shoulders, blond hair. He wasn’t smiling.

  She gathered her breaths, put her head back in the game. One more evolution.

  You got this.

  Two hundred yards to her future.

  She blew out a few more quick breaths, filled her lungs a final time, then nodded her ready.

  The instructor sank in the water.

  She dove down for him, expecting him to lie limply, in need of rescue, but he grabbed her.

  Remember, whatever you do, don’t let me get a grip on you to pull you under.

  She ducked her head and sent her hands into his elbows, dislodging his hold.

  He let her go, and she turned him around, her arm around his chest as she kicked for air.

  The ocean had turned choppy as the morning drew out, but it worked to her advantage as she towed her victim to shore. Keep me planed in the water. Scissor kick.

  Ford’s voice filled her head as she swam, her strokes even, her hip under her victim to keep him afloat. I like you in my ear, what can I say?

  She heard the other trainees—two women, seven men—shouting at her from shore.

  You look amazing, by the way.

  Oh, brother. But still, the memory of him taking her hand, weaving his fingers through hers…

  She felt amazing.

  Her feet hit the beach. She dragged her instructor through the waves, pulling him all the way to the beach, then collapsed beside him, dragging in hot breaths.

  A shadow cast over her. Another of her instructors. He wore a Navy hat, shorts, and a sleeveless shirt and gave her a hard look.

  Please—

  “You passed, Petty Officer Hathaway.”

  She rolled over in the sand, onto her elbows, wanting to weep. Her victim bounced back to life.

  “Who taught you how to get out of the swimmer’s grab?” Peters said.

  She climbed to her knees. “My teammate.” Probably it wouldn’t be prudent to add my boyfriend.

  No, that sounded weird.

  But what if…maybe it was time to do something crazy. To cut the white cord.

  To release her hope in a happily ever after.

  She walked over to a nearby picnic table where she’d left her gear. The other trainees were getting their times, talking with the instructors. She picked up her towel and wiped her face with it, then wrapped it around her shoulders.

  Chief Petty Officer Peters came up to her, holding a water bottle. He rinsed out his mouth and spit onto the ground. “There’s an opening in the upcoming rotation to Rescue Swimmer School in Pensacola. It starts next week. I can get you in, if you’re interested.”

  Next week. She nodded.

  “Good job today.” He gave her a smile and headed over to the group of instructors.

  Next week. And then she’d get her RS certificate, move on to aviation training and…

  No more sitting on the sidelines.

  Overhead the sky was clearing with the morning, blue with a scattering of clouds that looked hand-stirred from the heavens. A few beachcombers wandered the shore picking up shells, seagulls cried overhead. A dog barked, running to catch a Frisbee.

  “Hey, Hathaway, want to catch breakfast?” One of the trainees called to her from the gathering nearby.

  “Nope. I have other plans.”

  Like calling Ford with the good news. Maybe cajoling him over for some very unhealthy Cap’n Crunch.

  Taking him up on that desire she’d seen stirring in his eyes when he dropped her off at home last night, after their debriefing with the FBI, who’d shown up way after the firemen put out the fire and bagged the body of the bomber. Thankfully, Ford had seen the altercation between them and defended Tate’s actions to the police.

  Ford had walked her to the door, the gentleman he was, as if they’d been on a crazy, high-action date, and stood on her doorstep like he had nearly a month ago when he’d offered to road trip her to Idaho. When he decided to walk into her heart and stick around like he meant it.

  She’d perched on the step above him, almost eye level with him. He’d pulled off his tie and coat, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing his powerful, tanned forearms, and propped one foot on her step. “Thanks for…well, you saved my life, again.”

  She laughed. “Pick one? Really?”

  “You picked the right one.” He winked.

  Yes, yes, she did. And he’d been standing right in front of her. The wind had stirred the scent of his aftershave, and he wore a hint of a five-o’clock shadow, his chest pulling at the buttons on his shirt, and she’d just wanted to step close, run her hands over those amazing shoulders, feel his arms close around her.

  Lower her lips to his and taste that amazing smile.

  Oh, she wanted more than right now.

  What was she thinking—she wanted forever.

  And she almost took it, right then. Except for Ford, who’d taken a breath, backed away as if reminding himself of the last time they’d had this moment.

  “Good luck tomorrow, Red. I’m rooting for you.” He took a step off the porch.

  And what was she supposed to do, leap into his arms?

  Maybe. Instead, she’d nodded. “Thanks.” And watched him walk away.

  Not today. Today she was invincible again.

  She hiked up the beach to her car, the sand warming her bare feet, and unlocked her door, dropped her gear in her trunk. Then she got into the hot front seat, leaving the door open as she retrieved her phone from the glove box.

  She pulled up her messages to text For
d, sending him a quick I passed, and was about to follow up with her invitation when she spotted the voicemail. Unknown number, a 801 area code, the same as her mother’s from her days in Salt Lake City.

  She opened the app and listened.

  “This is State Trooper Troy Smith. I’m leaving a message for Scarlett Hathaway. Please call me as soon as possible…” He left his number, and she took a breath and dialed it.

  He answered on the second ring and she identified herself.

  He paused. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s been an accident…”

  Scarlett leaned her head on her hand and listened to her future explode.

  If someone wanted to take a shot at Glo, it would be tonight, right here in the middle of the San Diego Convention Center, as she took center stage after her mother accepted the vice presidential nomination.

  Which was the only reason Tate agreed to go out onstage with her. Sure, the place was jammed with security, including their own force of Navy SEALs who’d agreed to step in for the evening—thank you, Ford. They mingled, plainclothed in the audience, their eyes peeled for trouble.

  But Tate wasn’t taking any chances. He had no plans to leave Glo’s side.

  Ever.

  “You look nice,” Glo said as she turned to him, smoothing down his lapels.

  “I still can’t understand why you wanted me in cowboy boots and my hat. I look like…”

  “Calm down, Rango. You look like a hero.”

  He cocked his head, gave her a look, and she pulled off his Stetson and set it on her head, grinning up at him.

  “Now that looks better. And, I like this.” He touched the daisy she’d temporarily inked on her shoulder. She wore a white, off-the-shoulder lace dress that showed off her tan, and a pair of boots. “And this.” He pointed to the Dobro, the instrument twined behind her. “Got a little something planned for the campaign?”

  “Just tonight. Tomorrow, we’re back on the NBR-X tour.”

  He could admit to some surprise today when Knox and Kelsey had shown up at the Hyatt, where Glo and the campaign team had relocated after yesterday’s horror. Tate was still bunking on Ford’s sofa but had risen early to take Glo to breakfast.

  To lay down the ground rules.

  He would be her security detail on the campaign trail. No questions, no argument, and especially no firing.

  Because he also planned on getting close and personal with her. The kind of close and personal that included a ring and vows and a permanent say-so in her life.

  If that sounded okay with her.

  And no, he hadn’t produced a ring—not yet. But he was a man who kept his promises.

  Dixie and Elijah Blue had arrived early in the afternoon with most of the equipment, and Tate had sat in the sound check.

  Apparently, it was time for the Yankee Belles to get back together. He’d never been prouder of Glo than when she stood up to her mother and told her that she wouldn’t give a speech tonight.

  That instead, she’d sing.

  Which, after all, was what she was good at.

  And yes, she liked the limelight, but only if she could share it, thank you. Besides, she had the perfect song for tonight, if her mother would just trust her a little.

  Meanwhile, future VP Reba Jackson was onstage before thousands—no, millions, if they counted the television audience—giving her acceptance speech.

  He’d missed most of it—the background of her life, the callouts to various supporters, the stumping against the other candidates—but Glo took his hand and walked him to the edge of the wings.

  Reba wore a red dress, striking and powerful on her slim frame. She held the podium with both hands, as if she might be driving, and she probably had her speech memorized, despite the teleprompters.

  He wasn’t sure what she’d just said, but the audience—some in crazy hats, others with foam fingers—was alive, raising blue-and-white political signs. It felt like a football game, and for a second, the old buzz of standing at the edge of his high school stadium and hearing the roar of the crowd sluiced under his skin.

  As if he might be at the edge of the biggest game of his life.

  Maybe he was. Loving Glo. Being the man she believed in.

  “You know what is going to change this country?” Reba said now. “People who won’t give up. People who are willing to sacrifice and commit and keep showing up, even when it gets hard. People like my daughter’s boyfriend, Tate Marshall, a former US Ranger who didn’t give up when his unit was attacked, who fought his way out of an enemy village, towing a fellow soldier on his back, even though he was injured himself, and got both of them to safety. A true American hero who just yesterday saved my life and the life of my daughter.”

  Tate couldn’t move.

  “Tate, just step out here for a moment, and let America thank you.”

  What—uh—

  Reba turned in his direction from the stage, and his chest hollowed. “No—”

  “Yes,” Glo said, looking up and grinning at him, her voice low. “Just…receive it, Tate. C’mon.” She tugged his hand. And then, when he didn’t move—still stunned—she pulled him out onto the stage.

  “Try not to look like you’re going to throw up,” she said, and he swallowed, forcing a smile.

  “Wave, Tate!”

  A voice shouted from behind him, and he turned to look.

  Knox stood on the side, next to Ford, Reuben, and Gilly, and even—his mother? What? Gerri was grinning, tears cutting down her face. Smiling.

  Glo looked up at him. “Surprise.”

  “What did you do—?”

  “I didn’t do anything. You did. You showed up.”

  “I showed up because I love you. Not because I’m some great hero.”

  “Aw, Tate, that’s what you don’t see. You don’t consider yourself a hero, because it’s what you do. It’s just who you are. But you are a hero and we all know it. It’s time the world did too. So just wave for Pete’s sake!”

  He took a breath.

  And lifted his hand to the world.

  The applause thundered down over him, a wave of respect and acceptance, and he couldn’t breathe. Reuben’s words in the kitchen the night before he got married pressed into his mind. When you show up with nothing and discover that you’re loved because of who you are—that’s when you realize what it means to be a son of God… It’s pretty breathtaking…

  The words washed through him, hot and bold.

  A son of God.

  That’s when you discover that you’ve inherited more than you could possibly imagine.

  Yes. And as he stood there, put down his hand, he simply let the applause wash over him. Let it sink into his pores, his bones, his cells.

  I’m proud of you, son.

  Maybe his father’s voice, maybe something more, but his throat tightened.

  Thank you, Father.

  Glo tugged his hand and turned him back to the wings.

  His brothers stood there. So much alike—tall, wide-shouldered, dark haired. Strong, brave, wise—true cowboys.

  And he’d spent his entire life wanting to be like them. Proving that he fit into the family.

  Out of all his boys, you were too much like him. Stubborn and tough and didn’t know when to quit.

  So maybe he was more like his dad than he’d ever realized. Huh.

  Tate entered the wings to the high fives and one-armed hugs of his brothers. His mother parted them and pulled him into a hug. “It’s about time. Your father would be so proud. He always told me that you’d blow my socks off, if we could just keep you alive.”

  Tate swallowed the heat burning his throat. He leaned away from her, met her blue eyes. His blue eyes. But he had his father’s grit.

  And his Father’s name. And that made all the difference.

  “Thanks for putting up with me, Ma.”

  “Oh, Tate. You were the most fun.” She winked and kissed his cheek.

  Reba had returne
d to the mic, winding up her speech as Glo dragged him away into the shadows.

  “Surprised?”

  “Glo, I—”

  “Love me. I know. Me too. I just wish I had a medal to give you.”

  Then she stood up on her toes and kissed him, her arms around his neck.

  And he was the guy who got all the luck, got the girl of his dreams, got the happy ending.

  In fact, maybe he was even the hero of the story.

  Glo leaned back, her eyes shiny. “Now hang on to your hat, cowboy. Because it’s time to get this party started.”

  Then, as her mother waved her arms to the crowd’s applause, Glo grabbed her band and headed to the stage.

  And Tate stood on the sidelines, keeping his eye out for trouble.

  Night hung over the skyline of San Diego, the breeze fragrant with ocean and the sultry smells of early summer.

  He should be out riding his motorcycle, Scarlett’s arms wrapped around his waist.

  Instead, Ford was stuck at the after-party of tonight’s big political performances, in the conference suite of the Jackson campaign, country music and conversation winding out onto the balcony.

  He didn’t know why his gut tightened as Scarlett’s prerecorded voicemail message came over the line. Again. “Leave a message, I’ll get back to you.”

  His message couldn’t be left over the phone.

  I need you, Red.

  That truth had never felt more solid, more compelling than when he’d held their lives in his hands and turned to her. Her voice in his ear, soft, sure—yeah, he needed her.

  He should have told her last night as he’d stood on her front steps. She still took his breath away in that black dress, and when she’d looked at him with such light in her eyes, laughing when he told her that she’d saved his life, again, he’d just wanted to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her to himself.

  Taste that laughter.

  You picked the right one, he’d said. But really he meant…Pick me. Right here, right now. And sure, tomorrow might be complicated, but she was worth it.

  They could figure it out.

  But maybe not until she passed her PRT. He knew what it felt like to need to focus on a mission, to not let anything distract him from the goal.

  The breeze had swept her perfume his direction. He’d taken a breath, needing to put some space between them.