Page 14 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

W ith one article of clothing, Glo became a new woman.

A woman who fit into her mother’s world of politics, glad-handing, glamour, and power.

Glo barely recognized herself in the mirror, and even if she looked closely, she couldn’t make out the dark circles under her eyes or any remnants of her bruise.

Apparently, her mother had magicians for makeup artists.

Although, they could do little for the red streaking her eyes, despite the Visine she’d added. She was getting better—last night she hadn’t woken in the middle of the night, gasping, the memory of Tate clawing for breath haunting her.

No, she’d simply kept replaying the look on his face as she broke both their hearts.

Maybe, someday in the future, she’d be able to piece hers back together. Get a decent night’s sleep.

Until then, she’d fake it. Paste on a smile and slide into the black Versace gown. And sure, the slit up her thigh felt a little high, the neckline a little low, but she wasn’t herself in so many ways these days, it felt like another layer of pretense.

Her mother, making her over into the woman she needed Gloria Jackson to be.

Aka, the daughter who should have lived.

Yes, Joy would have been the perfect fit for their mother’s world. Even with her physical limitations, she was the life of the party, her love of life drawing people to herself.

Glo, more than often at these events, stood in the quiet shadows, plotting her escape.

But she was the only one left, so apparently, Reba was throwing all she had at her remaining daughter. Including a velvet jewelry box that held diamond earrings and a matching diamond choker.

Sort of like a dog collar.

Glo put it on and gave herself a final look.

The broad dressing room mirror reflected the elegance of the guest bedroom—the tray ceiling, the dripping gold chandelier, the king-sized bed with a brocade white cover, the antique side tables.

And outside, the stretch of lawn that bordered the pool area, all the way to the horse barn.

And if she forgot she was back on the Jackson family estate, her grandparents’ portrait hung over the bed—Bishop and Alma watching over her as she slept. If that didn’t give someone the urge to run…

Oh, she shouldn’t be so cynical. Even if they possessed the warmth of an Eminem rap song, it didn’t mean they hadn’t made a positive impact on the world.

They had founded the Jackson Family Foundation, had supplied antimalarial drugs to Africa, and funded hundreds of scholarships for low-income students in Tennessee.

The foundation had started a twenty-million-dollar clean-water project that provided hundreds of wells all over Africa and the Middle East and subsidized schools and orphanages in war-torn Sudan, Uganda, and even Croatia and Slovenia.

They even had a disaster relief fund that distributed help all over the world.

So yeah, Grandfather Bishop hadn’t been exactly cold. He’d just been driven.

Apparently, like father, like daughter.

Glo cast a look at her cowboy boots, then slid into the black heels, pulling on the back straps as she leaned on the doorframe.

Grabbing her clutch, she headed toward the hallway.

It curved around the two-story entry on one side, the massive family room on the other.

Below, she spotted Cher talking with—Dad?

He must have heard her steps on the wood floor because he looked up and smiled at her. “Hey Glo-light. How you doing?”

She wanted to run down the stairs like a ten-year-old. Instead, she navigated it in her five-inch heels and glided over to him.

He wore a tuxedo, his hair graying at the edges.

Shorter-than-average, but well-built and fit, Michael Beckett, her father, was an odd mix between history teacher and poet, preferring to keep his hair long, caught in a man bun, donning gold-tinted sunglasses, and wearing jeans, T-shirts, and Converse tennis shoes.

Glo wasn’t sure how her mother fell for him, or why she didn’t take his last name—inserting it into her own in the middle. Or why she’d insisted on Glo being a Jackson. Still, her mother changed around her father. Turned into a gentler version of herself.

And, Michael Beckett could clean up when he wanted to.

“You got a haircut,” she said as she hugged him.

“Spiffing up for your mother’s big day.” He held her at arm’s length. She’d covered her healing gunshot wound with the strap of her dress, and the bruising had dissolved.

“You flew in just for this event?”

“Got here a couple hours ago. Nearly got stopped at the gate by the new security crew—your mother’s surely amped up the detail.”

“She’s freaking out about this Bryant League stuff.”

“She briefed me. Said you were attacked?” Concern filled his gray-green eyes. “Maybe I should stick around and keep an eye on my girl.”

Dad. Warmth flooded through her, and she caught his hand. “Maybe I should go home with you, back to Winona.”

“I’d love that. But I think you have other things to do…like attend the CMGs? Maybe win an award? I’m so proud of you.”

Sometimes her dad could make her feel like the only one, and her eyes heated. She blinked back moisture before she destroyed her makeup.

Cher, of course, looked like she might be a runway model in a pair of silk shorts and a glittery silver top, a pair of five-inch heels that made her legs appear a mile long. She wore her red hair down and curly.

“IRL works for you,” Glo said, giving her an air-kiss.

“Are we ready?” Senator Jackson’s voice echoed down from the hallway above and Glo turned, spotted her mother descending the stairs.

The senator wore a simple body-hugging dress that accentuated her height as well as her trim shape. A high collar and no thigh slit for her, but diamonds at her ears and a thick diamond bracelet on her wrist.

Elegant, in command, and the future president, if her mother got her wish. And frankly, she deserved it. No one got the job done like Reba Beckett Jackson.

“You two ladies look breathtaking.” Her mother came over and gave her husband an air-kiss, then slid her hand into his. “Thank you for being here for this.”

“I always knew you had it in you, RB.”

“Thanks, Mickey.” She blew out a breath, her only hint at nervousness, nodded to them and headed to the front door.

“What’s the big deal?” Cher said as she followed them out.

“She needs funds, and tonight there are a number of big donors as well as the other senator from Tennessee and a few congressmen. She’s hoping for their endorsement and the funding to give her the push to beat Senator Isaac White in the polls.”

“The conservative from Montana?”

“That’s the one. He’s Mother’s biggest contender.”

They followed Reba out of the house where two limousines waited. Glo headed for the second one while her father joined the senator in the first one.

“Why aren’t we riding together?”

Glo gave her a look. “Because my mother likes to arrive alone. I’m not sure why she’s letting Dad ride with her—maybe it plays well with the conservative audience. No one is supposed to know, maybe, that my parents have lived apart since I was sixteen.”

The limos were flanked on either side by their security detail, men dressed in tuxedos, wired up for communication, watching as she and Cher climbed into their transport.

They all looked alike. Clipped close haircuts, wide shoulders, sleek and powerful, and distant, and she couldn’t help but wonder what Tate would have looked like in a tailored tux.

Handsome to the bone, no doubt.

She slid into the car and scooted over for Cher.

Their driver closed the door behind them, and the parade set off.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ve never been to the Anderson estate?”

Cher shook her head.

“If our place is Southern plantation, the Andersons are all Edwardian pomp and glamour. I used to think it was the white house my mother kept referring to—it’s all white, with Palladian windows and a flat-roofed portico over the door.

Inside, well, think massive chandeliers, Turkish carpets, so many rooms you can play hide-and-seek for hours. ”

“You and Sloan?”

“We were ten. We also Rollerbladed down the main hallway. And their pool could host the Olympics.”

And since Cher had grown up in East Tennessee, in a tiny two-bedroom mobile home, her quiet Wow seemed understated.

But even with all the glamour of her mother’s world, Glo would still trade all of it for her breezy attic bedroom in the old Victorian her dad owned in Winona, Minnesota.

Three blocks from the Catholic university where he taught.

Maybe she should go home with him. Run from the ghosts that had followed her to Nashville.

Not to mention the ones that still prowled the estate.

Cher was quiet as they pulled into the long drive that led to the Anderson fortress. The sun was falling, the dinner slated for twilight on the massive patio that surrounded the pool.

White-gloved valets met their caravan, and while the security detail headed for the employee area, their personal detachment pulled up ahead of them.

She got out and noticed Sly, the head of security, stepping up beside her mother. She didn’t know who was assigned to her—probably one of the new guys he’d hired when she returned home. She didn’t bother to look as she and Cher headed inside.

The sounds of a string ensemble filtered down the tile entry as they were greeted by her mother’s campaign manager, an African-American woman named Nicole, who’d been with her for eons, since her first campaign.

“I’m so sorry, Senator. I know how you like a mic at these events. I could only secure a lapel mic.”

“No. I hate those things,” her mother said. “I’ll just have to talk loud and hope that people want to listen to me.”

Glo followed her mother through the house and emerged to the applause of the crowd already gathered in the twilit backyard.