Page 10 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

“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.”