Page 11 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

She caught his neck and pulled him close, just for a moment. “Take care of yourself, tough guy. No more fights. You’re scaring your mother.”

His arm came around her and he pulled her close, just enough to feel her sigh. Then he let her go and nodded. He took his muffin and his juice and went back upstairs.

It wouldn’t take him long to pack—he owned precious little after his escape from Vegas two years ago and hadn’t accumulated much working odd security jobs around the country.

He’d left a few belongings—a couple books, his favorite work boots, a sleeping bag, and his dog tags—in his truck, which he was storing in San Antonio.

He’d hopped the Yankee Belles’ bus there without a glance over his shoulder.

Now, as he finished off the muffin, he shoved a couple pairs of jeans, a white button-down that still fit him, and a few clean pullovers into his duffel bag.

Added his toiletries, his chargers, and on impulse grabbed his black Stetson.

Then he headed back downstairs, empty glass in hand and duffel over his good shoulder.

Kelsey sat at the counter, peeling the wrapper off her own muffin.

He set the duffel on the floor and slid onto the stool beside her.

“Does she know you’re going to Nashville?”

He glanced at Kelsey, then to his mother, who sat outside, her easel set up.

“Glo.”

Oh. He shook his head. “She fired me. Although I don’t know why.”

“Really? Not a clue, there, Rambo?”

He frowned. Kelsey wasn’t pulling any punches today. “I guess it has something to do with David, the guy she wrote her song about?”

“I told you he was a soldier, right? What I failed to mention was that she was wickedly in love with him. But her mother forbade her to marry him. Said he wasn’t ‘right for the family.’” She finger quoted the last part.

“There’s a lot of complicated history between Glo and her mother.

Her mother never really got over losing her other daughter, Joy.

With Glo the only one left, this could be another power play on her mother’s part. ”

“Power play?”

Kelsey brushed off her fingers. “Glo’s mother has an agenda for her daughter. One that includes marrying the right man, taking over the family business?—”

“Politics?”

“No. The Jackson family has a massive nonprofit organization whose stated goal is to strengthen people to meet the challenges and opportunities for global freedom. Glo is the vice-chair, although she never shows up to board meetings. I think her father is the chair. Reba isn’t allowed to be associated with it since she’s a political figure.

But she’d like nothing more than for Glo to settle down with some rich lawyer and take over the foundation. ”

“How big is this foundation?”

“Glo said that last year they raised over two billion from US corporations, political donors, foreign entities. It’s a huge operation.”

“No wonder Reba has her own security team.”

“You thought it was just because she was running? Hardly. Reba Jackson is worth a cool billion, at least. And as her only heiress, Glo is…well, we probably should have hired you long ago.”

He nodded. “It’s strange that Reba didn’t take her death threats seriously until the bombing.”

“Any more information about the Bryant League?”

“I called Ruby Jane but only got her voicemail.”

Kelsey drew in a breath. “I’m all for you hunting these guys down and keeping my girl safe, Tate.

But tread carefully. Glo’s heart’s been broken before, and I don’t want to see it broken again.

You may be who Glo wants, but make sure you’re who she needs too.

And that means not making trouble for her with her mother. ”

Those words hung on as he hugged her goodbye, then his mother, and finally trekked out to the barn.

Knox was inside, unsaddling his quarter horse.

He threw the saddle on a mount, then unclipped his chaps and draped them over a stall.

“You look like you’re fixin’ to leave.” He took the mare’s reins and led her out to the corral.

Tate opened the gate, and Knox took off her bridle, then released her.

He hung the bridle on a hook. “I suppose you want a ride to the airport in Helena.”

“Truck or plane, I’m open, but yeah, I need to get back to Glo.”

Knox shook his head, but a smile ghosted up his face. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“It’s tattooed on my chest.”

Knox laughed. “Yeah. In case we all forget. Let’s take the ranch Cessna.”

He headed into the house for the keys, and Tate threw his duffel into the back of the truck.

Leaned against it, lifting his face to the heat of the day.

No, he didn’t know the word quit.

But that’s exactly how Jammas had gotten killed. Because Tate had been stubborn, acting on his gut. Leading his team, on a tip, from house after house in the tiny village to find the Taliban barricaded there.

He’d found them. Oh, he’d found them.

He lifted his leg, stretching out his knee, almost an unconscious reaction.

Stubborn and stupid. Seemed like a thin line between them.

Knox returned carrying a briefcase. He put it in the cab of the truck, and Tate went around to get in.

Silence, then Knox got in and glanced at him. “Don’t forget Rube’s wedding.”

“Nope.”

“Stay out of trouble.”

“Yep.”

“You’re doing the right thing.”

Tate looked at him. Knox was driving with one hand on the wheel and raised his shoulder.

“If it was me, I wouldn’t let her go either. I learned that with Kelsey.”

Huh.

“This is everything I have on the bombing in San Antonio.” Knox gestured to the briefcase. “Kelsey won’t talk about it, won’t look at it, and I think I need to get the memories out of the house, so…it’s on you now, bro.”

Tate reached for the briefcase and opened it. Knox’s pictures, newspaper reports, emails, and every detail he’d researched about the near tragedy in San Antonio were neatly piled together. “Thanks.”

Knox pulled up to the Cessna. “Stop these guys, Tate.” He met Tate’s eyes, his mouth a grim line. “And don’t get killed.”

The memory of Knox tackling Slava off his body as his last breath leaked out flashed across his brain. His throat tightened, and he wasn’t sure how to pinpoint the emotion.

Knox got out, did his walk-around and final checks, and soon they were airborne.

Their land undulated below them, their herd of beef cattle lounging on the greening table. Knox kept the bucking bulls—four of them, along with their star bull, Gordo—in their own separate fields.

The hum of the plane was too loud to talk, so Tate let thoughts of Glo take over.

Glo, when he’d first met her, dirty from the bombing, standing sentry outside Kelsey’s ambulance.

Glo, desperate as she searched for Kelsey when she discovered her friend missing.

Glo, sweet as she coaxed Kelsey out of a panic attack.

Glo, onstage, singing her heart out, her fingers flying on her banjo.

Glo, after a gig, sharing a pizza with him, beating him in a game of gin rummy.

Glo, dancing in his arms at the Bulldog Saloon, grinning, laughing.

Glo, calling him Tater, Rambo, and every other nickname she could think of.

Glo, bleeding from a gunshot wound, her face pale.

Glo, hanging onto him as he carried her to help.

Glo, her eyes in his after she’d sung her song about second chances.

Glo, tugging him down to kiss him, her lips warm, her body molding to his.

Glo, weeping as she walked out of his life.

His chest ached, and he reached up and pressed a hand against it as Knox touched down at the Helena airport.

Tate climbed out, grabbed the briefcase and the duffel bag.

Knox got out too. Stood in front of him, a look of unmasked worry on his face. “Okay, so….”

“I’ll be fine. See you in a few.” He held out his hand to Knox.

Knox pulled him in quick, slapped his back. “Stay out of trouble.”

Tate gave him a grin, then headed inside.

He booked his flight at the desk, not even blinking at the price. On his flight, he squeezed himself into a window seat, changed planes in Salt Lake City, then northern Kentucky, and finally landed in Nashville just as the sun hit the back side of the day.

He rented a car and drove out of Nashville to the Jackson family estate, listening to the radio. A Brett Young song lit up the speakers.

I can’t count the times

I almost said what’s on my mind

But I didn’t…

Not anymore. Yes, his promise to Reba thrummed in his brain, but he’d keep the commitment.

He would keep his distance.

But it didn’t mean he couldn’t fall for Glo all over again.

And when this mess was over…

Yeah, no promises there, Senator.

He followed his map to Brentwood and slowed as he drove up to the gated— Oh. My.

He could barely see the house from the road. It sat back nearly a quarter mile, past a pond and rolling hills and a scant forest of maples and oaks. Beautiful chestnut thoroughbreds ran in a large field of emerald green grass.

He stopped at the gate, spotted the cameras, and a voice came over a speaker. “Hello?”

“Tate Marshall, for Senator Jackson. She’s expecting me.”

The gate opened, and he drove along the paved, landscaped road to the big house.

The Jackson estate was exactly that—a sprawling, pristine white Southern plantation-style home, with black shutters at the windows and tall columns that held up a front porch.

He pulled into the brick paved driveway and got out. Sprinklers bathed the front lawn, groomed like a golf course, and as he’d driven up, he’d spotted an expansive pool area behind the house.

A man dressed in a suit—dark skinned, dark eyes, middle aged, and fit enough to be called security—walked from an outbuilding. “Tate.”

He’d met Sylvester Roberts, head of Ms. Jackson’s security, in Vegas. The man extended his hand to Tate.

Tate nodded, met his handshake. “Is she here?”

“The Senator?”

“Actually, no, I’d like to see Glo?—”

“Sorry, Tate, no can do.”

“Mr. Roberts?—”

“It’s Sly, now that you’re on my staff, but don’t get cocky.”

Tate frowned.