Page 20 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

T he woman was on a mission to make him lose his mind.

And it just might work.

Tate didn’t move a muscle, his gaze on everything but Glo as she walked along the Japanese gardens of Cheekwood Estate, hand in hand with Sloan Anderson. A slight May breeze bullied the white Japanese lilacs that bordered the meandering paths dappled in purples and reds from the lingering twilight.

The perfect romantic stroll for a couple in love.

He glanced at Glo, just a check-in, then surveyed the area beyond her, the pavilion and stunted pines on the horizon ahead.

An impulsive stroll after an early dinner at the Watermark, just off Music Row.

At least he didn’t have to try to keep her in his sights at one of the blues joints on Bourbon Street or on the packed dance floor of the Wildhorse Saloon, venues he thought might be more the taste of the woman he knew.

Once knew.

But apparently that woman had vanished, replaced by this upper-crust society woman who preferred dinner and jazz at Sambuca, and Brahms at the Nashville Symphony. Gone were her red cowboy boots, her daring painted-on tattoos, and the twinkle in her eye as she glanced at him standing in the wings.

No, all her glances and even sweet smiles she reserved for Sloan. Tonight she wore a high-collared pink dress, black heels that had to be killing her, and twined her fingers through Sloan’s as she listened to him drone on about the exploits of a senator during his season as a lobbyist.

A voice came through his earpiece—the driver, one of the security staff, waiting at the gate.

“Rango, it’s Swamp. ETA?”

Swamp, aka Baker Flemming from Florida. All the guys had nicknames beyond their formal names. Tate had been dubbed Rango after some cartoon Swamp had seen.

On his shift he worked with Rags—Art Ragsdale; Petey-Boy—Bobby Peterson; and Mitty—Walter Jenkins.

Good guys who had stayed out of his business with Glo but knew something might be up after he’d come in one night a few days ago after a shift of watching Glo swoon over Sloan, taped up, and attacked the hanging bag in the weight room.

Nearly threw out his shoulder again but felt the muscles start to knit together, and by the end, the adrenaline and heat of his frustration had worked into his bones, settled them, and spread out into determination.

Glo couldn’t possibly really like this schmuck. He was smooth and manipulative. And he wanted his own limelight.

Glo needed someone willing to stand on the sidelines and watch her shine.

The bunk room, for the guys who worked full time and didn’t have digs in town, hosted a weight room, sauna, pool table, darts, a kitchenette, laundry, and a communications room that rivaled NASA.

He’d spent more than a few hours doing homework on the Bryant League. Had a call—or few—in to his sister, who seemed to be ignoring him.

The sooner he caught the sniper and the guys who bombed the arena, the sooner he knew the immediate threat had been neutralized, the sooner he could ditch his agreement with the senator, turn his attention on Glo, and make this a fair fight.

The couple stopped in the cool shade of the pavilion, and Glo leaned against one of the corner poles, turning to Sloan. She touched his chest, a playful gesture as she laughed.

The flirting slipped under Tate’s skin, buzzed. He gritted his jaw as he stopped and stood at a distance, his body turned away, searching for threats, although honestly, the unscheduled stop was probably one of the safest moves.

Still, they couldn’t completely shut down the garden without prior notice, so it was on him to keep a heads-up.

His scan brushed over Glo and just as it did, she looked up.

She had the most amazing hazel-green eyes, with glints of gold in the sunshine, darkening as twilight dipped into them, and now they held on to him, just a moment.

Testing?

He didn’t know what to think. And of course, Sloan picked right then to lean in, to cup her cheek and go in for a kiss.

She turned her head, laughing, but Tate couldn’t move, caught in the horror of watching the woman he loved—okay, maybe not loved, but—well, he didn’t know what else it might be called when it felt like his freakin’ heart was being ripped through his ribs, his breath serrated in his chest. He held in the nearly uncontrollable urge to close the gap and yank Sloan away from her?—

And right then Kelsey’s voice ripped through him. Steeling him. You may be who Glo wants, but make sure you’re who she needs too.

He may not be who Glo wanted anymore, but yes, he was who she needed.

Which meant he stood there, a stone falling through his chest as he watched Sloan pull away and kiss her forehead. So far, she’d dodged him, but it would only be a matter of time before Sloan actually landed one on Glo and then Tate’s head just might pop off.

Tate swallowed, anything to loosen his dry throat, and turned away.

Shoot, all the moisture in his throat had gone to his eyes.

This was stupid. Maybe even fatal.

“You okay, Rango? You were making some funny sounds through the comms.”

“I’m fine.” Movement out of his periphery had him looking back at Glo. She’d taken Sloan’s hand again and now they were headed back up the path.

Hopefully home.

Please.

He followed her out and met Swamp’s gaze when he spotted him standing next to the car. The man wore his blond hair longer than most, had a surfer vibe, despite his suit and tie. He opened the door for Sloan and Glo, tucked them inside, and Tate went around to the passenger side, front seat.

The partition was up, and he turned the AC on full blast.

Swamp said nothing as he slid into the driver’s seat and headed back to the Jackson estate. Except, when they pulled up, Glo slid down the partition. “Tate can get out here. Then we’d like to continue on to Sloan’s place. Baker, you can take over from there.”

Tate closed his eyes in pain, argument broaching his lips just as Glo slid the partition closed.

Swamp glanced at him. “I got this. Get outta here.”

Yeah. And maybe Baker was right on the nose.

He should leave. At the very least, Tate needed fresh air.

He got out, and Swamp pulled away, leaving Tate standing in the driveway as the night dipped around him, his hands in fists.

Wow.

He pulled off his tie as he headed back to the bunkhouse.

Slammed the door open. It banged on the wall, and from his twin bed, Rags looked up.

He was tall, lean, and built like a wide receiver.

In fact, he’d been an All-American, Division III, a star, but not NFL material.

Rumor had it that he’d played Arena ball before joining the military and going to sniper school for the Army.

He had blondish-brown hair, a white smile and a country-boy aura that probably worked well for him down at the Wildhorse Saloon on his days off.

He popped out his earbuds, put down his phone, and leaned up. “’Sup?”

“Nothing.” Tate shrugged out of his jacket and hung it in the closet near his bed.

He’d taken the one by the far wall which also allowed him space to empty Knox’s briefcase of evidence, tape it to the wall, and start his own obsession.

Now he sat on his bunk as he toed off his dress shoes, then unbuttoned his cuffs and shirt.

Rags came over, the earbuds hanging around his neck. “Why don’t you quit, dude? We all know you have it bad for Glo. It’s written all over your face—you sort of turn shades of purple every time you see Glo and Sloan together, which lately has been, um, always.”

Well, not always. Today she’d spent at least three hours reading a magazine in her bikini near the pool. Yeah, that had been fun—him, trying not to stare at her legs, those curves as he patrolled the pool area, sweating in his suit pants and white oxford.

He missed his days guarding the Belles.

“I can’t quit,” he said as he stripped off his shirt. Sly made him wear an undershirt, too, and now he untucked it from his pants. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“What about your ranch? Sounds like a sweet gig—Montana, right?”

“It’s not my ranch. It belongs to my brothers Reuben and Knox.

I’m not a cowboy—I hate horses. Got bucked off when I was six and never took to them after that.

” He slid his belt from his loops. “No, I left the cowboying to my brothers and enlisted when I was eighteen. Went to Ranger school right after boot camp. It’s who I was. ” Until he wasn’t.

“How did you get into the security field?”

A fight. Words with his father after he’d returned from Afghanistan. Anger. The story could undo him, so, “Sort of fell into it after I left the military. I met Glo and the band while I was working security for the San Antonio arena.”

“You were on the bus with them?” Rags wore a smile.

“So was their drummer, Elijah Blue. Don’t get any ideas.”

“But that’s how she got under your skin, right?”

And into his brain flashed the memory of Glo sitting on one of the couches, leaning over her guitar, picking out a new tune. Scribbling in her journal, her bottom lip caught in her teeth.

Where was that girl?

“Listen. We got this, bro. Sly filled us in—told us about the shooting and some sort of fight in Vegas Glo was involved in. We understand your commitment, but really…it’s like watching Rocky IV , and Apollo is going down against Ivan Drago. It’s not pretty.”

That eked a smile from him. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m Rocky. I’ll win in the end.”

“Still not sure it’s worth it.”

Rags walked over to the wall. “This must be your art wall from the bombing?”