Page 18 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

H e would get the next fourteen hours with Scarlett.

Ford’s only goal was not to say something stupid, not to let her in on the fact that when he’d seen her crying, when he’d pulled her to himself, when she’d actually held onto him, something dangerous had shifted inside him.

He’d gone from wanting her in his ear to wanting her in his arms and, hello, no.

Just teammates.

But she was making it a little difficult for him to think.

“I pegged you wrong. I totally thought you’d be a country music fan.

” Scarlett sat on the passenger side in the cab of his truck.

Dressed in a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap, she looked about nineteen, her face and arms tan from yesterday’s picnic in Cruz’s backyard, her legs crisscrossed on the seat.

She wore a pair of aviator sunglasses, the morning sun reflected in the amber glare, and ate Cap’n Crunch out of the box.

He had this weird, eerie civilian throwback memory to one of his rare dates in high school, the ebullient feeling of youth, freedom, and summer nights.

Not that he’d ever sown any wild oats, but if he had, it might feel like this—a pretty girl beside him on the bench seat, the window open, one hand occasionally riding the breeze like a dolphin through the air. She pulled her arm in and rolled up the window.

“What’s wrong with the Ting Tings?” he said. “Can’t a country boy listen to British girl bands?”

He glanced at her, cocked his head, and sang the chorus in a falsetto—“‘ That’s not my name... That’s not my name...’”

She laughed, and it turned his heart buoyant. He’d picked her up before sunrise, in the cool darkness of the dawn, and by the time they turned eastward at Barstow, rose gold was peaking over the mountains in the Mojave National Preserve.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Cruz listens to Italian opera, and Nez is a wreck for books on tape. He listens to them on high speed as he works out.”

“Yeah, well, Nez also owns a Prius. You’re driving an F-150. If this doesn’t scream Montana, I’m not sure what does. Except for maybe the cowboy boots.”

“Cowboy boots are more comfortable than you’d think.

But no, I grew up with Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and Merle Haggard crooning in the barn.

Sad songs about broken hearts and life gone wrong.

I much prefer this—” He flashed into falsetto again.

“‘Are you calling me darling? Are you calling me bird?’”

“Never.” She folded up the cereal bag, grinned, and picked up her cup from McDonald’s, a large Diet Coke. The third she’d sucked down over the past four hours. She hit ice, and the sound garbled in the straw.

He had finished off his bullet coffee an hour ago, but still had some in the Thermos. His stomach growled.

“You want some of my Cap’n Crunch?” She made to hand him the box.

“Seriously? I made some grub for the road. I’ll grab it at the next rest stop.”

“What kind of grub? PB and J?”

“Oats, soaked in almond milk, blueberries, a little baobab powder.”

She made a face. “I’ll keep my sugared cereal.”

“What? So I don’t eat like a twelve-year-old.”

“Road trips are for junk food. Haven’t you ever road-tripped before?”

“Once. To Disneyland.”

And that shut him down briefly, because oh, how he hated talking about it.

So, “But no, we spent summer vacations working. My father had us working on irrigation pipes, moving cattle from pasture to pasture, fixing equipment, and mowing hay. Except for Sundays, we worked from sunup to sundown.”

“You and your dad?”

“And my brothers and sister. Reuben, my oldest brother, is seven years older than me, so by the time he left home, I started pitching in more, but we all started riding when we were old enough to sit in the saddle.”

“Even your sister?”

“Of course. My mother too—we all worked. My mother also ran a big kitchen garden, which we were required to dig up in the spring, hoe, and pull weeds.”

“How big is your ranch?”

“Now? I don’t know. About nine thousand acres when Dad ran it.

Knox took it over when Dad died, about five years ago, and he started breeding bucking bulls.

Bought a champion headed into retirement to seed the line.

He was a bull rider, and the guy just has this knack.

He bred Gordo with one of our cows and produced this champion bucker named Hot Pete.

He was killed recently—some sort of fire I guess.

My mother mentioned it in a letter. Anyway, no road trips for us. Just hard work.”

“No fun at all?”

“Oh, we had fun. We have a river near our place, and we’d go down to this pocket in the river after work, swim there. Reuben would chase us around, try and drown us.”

She glanced at him.

“It was all in fun. I really looked up to him. It killed me when he left home to be a smokejumper.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. My dad was a wildland firefighter, and he probably gave Reuben the bug. We had a fire on our ranch once, and a bunch of hotshots and smokejumpers came in to put it down, so my guess is that’s where it all started.

But my Dad…well, he was sort of a bigger than life guy.

Rode bulls and fought fires and worked as a range cop at one time and was a football star in college. Hard to live up to.”

“I don’t think you have any problems there, Navy.”

Her words found his bones and settled there.

“My brother Tate was actually the first to enlist. He joined the Army right out of high school—I still remember the fight with my dad. Tate landed a football scholarship to Montana State, but he turned it down. Just walked away, and Dad was so lit about it.”

“Why did he turn it down?”

“Dunno. Tate was always the guy who got into trouble—in school, and he hated working the ranch. Has this fear of horses from when he was thrown off as a kid. I think he just wanted to leave it as far behind as he could. So he became a Ranger.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Was in Afghanistan too. But he was Purple Hearted out when his squad got ambushed. I don’t know the whole story—when he got back, I was already in SQT—SEAL Qualification Training—so I’m not sure what happened. He’s fine now, though. Working in personal security, I think for some girl band.”

“And your other brother?”

“Wyatt? He plays goalie for the Minnesota Blue Ox hockey team.”

“Professional?”

“Yeah. He travels a lot—we don’t see him much. But he’ll probably be home this weekend for Rube’s wedding.”

“And is your sister coming home?”

“RJ? I don’t know. I called her a few days ago and left a message. Told her I’d be at the wedding.” He looked at her. “She’s my twin.”

“Oh my, a female version of Ford Marshall. What does that look like?”

“Tough. Smart. Pretty. She works as a travel agent for some company in DC.”

Outside, the landscape had slowly turned from rugged mountains to the mesas of the desert. The road was bordered to the south by Joshua trees, white yuccas, and valleys of purple and white wildflowers.

Adele came over the radio. Hello, it’s me… I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet…

“This is such a sad song,” Scarlett said. “About a woman who regrets breaking up with a guy, but when she tries to go back to him, he’s already moved on.”

“Too much like a country music song.” He turned down the volume. “I prefer songs without any emotional commitment.” They passed a state road sign. “Welcome to Nevada.”

“I hate Nevada,” she said quietly.

He frowned. “Why?”

“Oh. Bad memories.” She turned to him. “No rest areas. Want that oatmeal now?”

“We need gas. We’ll stop in a bit. What kind of bad memories?”

She made a face. “My mom left me at a diner once, overnight in some Podunk town in Nevada.”

“What?”

She lifted a shoulder, drew up one knee, and hooked her hands around it.

“I was seven at the time. Not a big deal—the owner found me. Her name was Peggy, and she gave me a chocolate shake, then let me sleep in her silver Airstream she had parked out back. But it’s my first real memory of being left behind, and it still makes me a little sick. ”

“I don’t understand—did she do this a lot?”

“Unfortunately, yes. She was a California girl who had big dreams of being an actress, but she fell for all the wrong men. Mostly musicians, but a few hippies, and plenty of low-level criminals. She started using, although I’m lucky—she never used when she was pregnant.

She was eighteen when she had me and followed my dad—a folk singer—around California until he dumped her.

She was always trying out for bit parts, practicing her auditions in the living room.

I think she was an extra in a couple movies.

We lived in Vegas for a while, and she worked a couple small shows as a dancer.

Then she hooked up with Terry, who took her up to Salt Lake City.

I think the diner incident happened when they were together—I have a vague memory of them having a fight.

Maybe him leaving her there and her trying to hitchhike to go after him.

I don’t know. But we ended up in Salt Lake for a couple years.

Then he kicked her out, and we lived in a Monte Carlo for a while?—”

“You lived in your car?”

“Mom got a job working second shift at a warehouse—I think it might have been a shipping company—so she’d lock me in the car in the parking lot. She tucked me in, and I felt safe enough.” But she looked out the window, her jaw tight.

He had a feeling she might be skimming over the truth.

He touched the brakes as they came up on a semi, pulled out, and passed it.

“We got our own apartment for a while there. It was a good time. Mom was in recovery and doing well, and she was auditioning again. We’d run lines together—she taught me how to do accents.”

“Like—?” Ford asked.

She affected a French accent. “‘Yes, well, life is not all shoot-shoot, bang-bang, you know.’”

He gave her a blank look.

“Really? Inspector Clouseau. The Pink Panther ?”

“Sorry. We were Gunsmoke and Bonanza people.”