Page 23 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

Not that Ford emanated that on purpose, but it simply oozed out of him, a product of thousands of hours jumping out of planes and swimming through dark waters and scaling rough terrain and surviving active shooters, people who wanted to kill him.

So no, Axel Montrose hadn’t a prayer of intimidating Ford.

Ford had let him go then and turned to help her with her duffel bag.

That was a first.

Mostly because she was usually the one helping them with gear, thanks to her job as a supply officer and communications liaison.

He took her big bag from her, not meeting her eyes, and walked it to the front porch, setting it there. And that might have been the end—he might have gotten into his truck and driven away—if her mother hadn’t come outside to greet them.

She still looked like a California beach song.

Sure, she had a few years on Scarlett, but Sammy-Jo Hathaway had a body made for sunshine and bikinis.

Scarlett had long ago realized she’d gotten her curves, including the hips she couldn’t quite get rid of, from the father she couldn’t remember, because Sammy-Jo still sported a size four frame, legs that didn’t quit, and a bustline that most twenty-year-olds would be jealous of.

She came out wearing a sports bra, a pair of leggings, and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, as if she might be caught in the eighties.

Her blonde hair was up in a high ponytail and frankly, her mother looked about twenty-five.

Not forty-three.

And maybe not even high.

Her eyes had lit up. “Scarlett?” She came down the stairs in her flip-flops and threw her arms around her daughter.

Scarlett couldn’t move, just holding on, painfully aware that maybe she’d dreamed up her panic. Sorry, Ford.

But he stood back, his hands in his pockets, smiling.

Her mother backed away, caught Scarlett’s face in her hands. “You’re so beautiful!”

Huh.

Then she turned and looked at Ford. “And this must be that boyfriend you told me about.”

Oh. No. No—uh, her mother was clearly remembering back to the brief romance she’d had almost five years ago. She glanced at Ford, not sure what to say, but he simply held out his hand.

“Yes, ma’am. My name is Ford.”

Then he leaned forward and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek.

Scarlett had to close her mouth before something flew in.

Her mother giggled, Ford grinned, and suddenly he’d been invited for dinner.

To Scarlett’s shock, he stayed. So long that he helped with the dishes, then went outside and played catch with Gunnar, who had come home from practice shortly after they arrived.

The kid had grown up into a rascal with an impossible mop of blond curls, cheeky blue eyes, and a savviness that probably came from having to fend for himself. She recognized a lot of herself in him.

Still, he was young enough to give her a hug. And be impressed by Ford and his wicked bruise.

Because apparently, it was cool to nearly get shot.

It was right after dinner, as night fell, as the dusty winds whipped up, and the stars dripped from overhead, that she’d lost control of her week. Not that she had any real plans, but she’d seen herself alone, trying to unravel her snarled fears about the future.

Ford had gotten up, looked at her mother, and asked a question about a gas station. Axel was lying on the sofa, watching some horror flick, and grunted laughter.

“I think they’re all closed this time of night,” Scarlett said and made a face.

Ford had walked out onto the porch, the night deepening, and then turned to her. “I’ll be right out here if you need me.”

Weird, but she’d nodded because she didn’t know what else to do.

The man had spread out a pad and sleeping bag in the bed of his truck.

Scarlett had expected to see him gone when she arose at first light, but there he was, in the kitchen frying up eggs while her mother, dressed in a bathrobe and hardly anything else, sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and telling him about the time she sang onstage at the Bellagio.

Sure, Mom.

But Scarlett slid up to the table, across from her mother, and Ford appeared with a cup of coffee like he belonged there, in her mother’s tiny kitchen.

It was clean—maybe Ford’s touch—and Scarlett might have settled into the moment, believing that everything would be all right, if her mother hadn’t turned to her and said, “This nice man was sleeping outside in his truck. In our yard, Scar! How did he get there—and aren’t you going to be late for school? ”

Her coffee pitched in her stomach, and Ford offered her a sad look. “She asked me if I played baseball for the local team,” he whispered.

“See, I told you,” Axel said from the open door. He sat on the stoop, smoking a cigarette. “She’s bonkers.” He rotated his finger around his ear. “Bonkers.”

“I think it’s called a disease,” Scarlett snapped and ran a finger under her eyes. “Have you even tried to get her into a treatment center?”

Axel lifted a shoulder. “We ain’t got a car. What do you want me to do—put her on the back of my bike?”

“Where’s the nearest center?” Ford asked as he slid scrambled eggs onto a plate in front of her mother, then her. The man even made a plate for Axel and served him at the door before serving himself. “Gunnar already left for school,” he added.

She had slept like the dead on the sofa pillows in Gunnar’s room and hadn’t heard a thing, apparently.

“Salt Lake City,” Axel mumbled.

Ford managed to find a gas can in the garage and fed the car with enough juice to get them back to Holbrook.

They spent the day driving the 156 miles to the city, waiting for an appointment to talk to the rehabilitation counselor at Pathways of Hope, then traveling back home with the dismal waiting list, Sammy-Jo’s name on the bottom.

Scarlett stared out the window in silence, Ford driving grim-faced, her mother babbling on about the doctor and how she had dated a podiatrist once…

Ford had reached across the seat and touched Scarlett’s hand, just once, ever so briefly, and given it a squeeze.

That night, she found him sitting on the porch and sank down next to him. “I don’t know what to do. I thought last time I left that she was going to be okay.”

Her leg brushed against his, and he reached out and put his arm around her. Easy. Friendly. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do, Red.” He’d turned to her then, however, and met her eyes. “She has to make her own choices. But I’m not leaving here until you’re ready.”

Oh.

His gaze met her eyes. “We don’t leave a teammate behind.”

She didn’t know why she’d experienced the tiniest sense of disappointment. Because yes, she was his teammate.

And frankly, she was starting to like having him around.

Liked hearing him hum the songs on his playlist. Liked seeing the way he listened to her mother, even when she repeated herself.

Liked coming out of the bedroom to see him stirring up eggs or oatmeal or even some kind of smoothie from the ingredients he’d picked up in Salt Lake City.

It made her feel that much safer around Axel.

Although, maybe the little hairs that rose on the back of her neck when he walked into the room could be attributed to her mother’s history with men—the kind who liked to turn their attention toward her daughter—and not actual bad behavior, because Axel barely looked at her when she was in the room.

Spent a lot of time watching television.

But if Ford wasn’t leaving—and she’d attempted the slightest argument, which he shut down with a look and a shake of his head before he went to play catch with Gunnar—then she had to sort it out.

Her mother needed help—that much was clear. And that’s where her brain shut down.

Or rather, the ideas that formed were too painful to consider.

Now, as she watched Gunnar run into the dugout, grab his bat and tee up, she let thoughts roll over the possibilities.

Leave the Navy, move to Rockland, and take over her mother’s care.

She’d rather be taken by terrorists. Okay, not really, but living with Axel felt very much like living under oppression.

Move her mother—and Gunnar—to San Diego, enroll her mother in a treatment facility there.

But Scarlett was gone so often, and Gunnar needed supervision.

He’d invited Ford to watch his game, and by the excitement in his blue eyes when they showed up to the game today, he probably didn’t get a lot of personal fans.

“C’mon buddy, knock it out of the park!” Ford sat next to her, wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and his cowboy boots.

The man fit right into the local wildlife, a few others—fathers or uncles—cheering their boys.

The tiny baseball field sat outside the long school, a creek running in the distance surrounded by scrub pine and juniper.

To the east, a rumple of mountains shaded the valley, and the wind swept a cool breeze across the fading day.

“Here we go, Gunnar!” she said, clapping.

The kid swung and missed, and Ford made a face.

“He’ll hit it,” she said.

“I should have taught him how to hit. We’ve spent all week working on his catch and throw?—”

She looked at him and he shrugged. “Sorry. Personality flaw. I get involved and suddenly I’m taking personal responsibility for the success and failure of the mission.”

“Operation baseball star?”

A tiny smile tugged up one side of his mouth. “Something like that, maybe.”

His gaze lingered on her a second longer, and the ump shouted, “Strike two!”

Ford turned back to the game. “C’mon, buddy! Only swing if it’s good!”

She cheered, too, especially when the ump called the next pitch as a ball.

“I’m thinking about separating from the Navy when my contract is up.”

He looked at her again, frowning. “What?”

“Ball two!”

“I can’t leave my mother alone with Axel—you’ve seen him. He doesn’t have a job—I think he lives off my paychecks, to be honest. But I’m mostly worried for Gunnar.”

“Ball three! Full count.”

She turned back to the game with a cheer for Gunnar.

But Ford drew in a long breath, as if he might be weeding through his words.

“What about…well, who would…” He took a breath then and nodded, as if backing up to form words. “We need you, Scarlett.”

She glanced at him again. His green eyes were in hers, steady, holding them, and for a second, she couldn’t breathe. We need you ?

Or he needed her?

A crack, and Ford focused back on the game. Gunnar had connected with the pitch, and the ball flew up and over the backstop.

“Foul!”

Ford breathed out. “Shake it off, big Gun. Eye on the ball. Connect.”

“I know. And I love my job. Well—I love being involved with what you do.”

The coach from the opposite team had come out to the mound for a conversation.

“What we do, Red. Like save lives and take down global threats and rescue people and pretty much act as the tip of the sword in keeping this world from going to chaos.”

He was sitting on his hands, as if he wanted to gesture wildly and was just holding them in place, trying to keep himself under control. “I can’t imagine going out there without…” He swallowed and met her eyes.

Heat infused her entire body, and not just because of his words, so softly, earnestly spoken, but because his gaze latched on her then, and this time didn’t let her go. As if he might be trying to say something else, but the words were cemented inside his head, unable to break free.

Then the bat cracked, and they turned to see the ball soar across the field into the blue and lavender of twilight.

“Run!” Ford hit his feet and she followed, screaming.

Gunnar threw the bat—somebody ducked—and scampered to first base.

Out in the field, the ball tipped off the outstretched hand of the middle fielder and kept rolling.

Gunnar rounded first and headed to second.

The outfielder took off after the ball and ten feet later, scooped it up. Threw it.

The ball fell halfway to second base, still in the outfield. The second baseman took off to fetch it as Gunnar hit second.

His coach was rounding him to third, and Gunnar slipped, fell, and scrambled back up as the second baseman picked up the ball.

“Run, Gunnar!” Ford hopped down the bleachers to the ground, running along the fencing, his arm swinging. “Go home! Home!”

The coach had the same idea, and Gunnar popped the bag and kept running.

The second baseman threw in the ball to the pitcher.

Scarlett was on the ground now, running beside Ford as they kept up with Gunnar, bouncing along the fence, screaming.

The pitcher turned.

“Slide! Hit the dirt!” Ford shouted.

Gunnar threw himself face first into the plate, diving low.

The catcher grabbed the throw just as Gunnar slid over the rubber.

A breath, and in that moment Scarlett’s gaze fell on Ford.

He was just as fierce as she imagined him out in the field of operation, his expression tight, his pale green eyes on fire, almost daring the ump to call Gunnar out.

But that was how Ford lived his life—all in, playing hard, and getting back up when he fell.

Even if he had to fight back blindly. He never gave up.

And she wanted…no, needed, that kind of man in her life.

More, he’d nearly died—would have died, maybe—if she hadn’t called out the tango on his back.

So yeah, maybe this man did need her.

“Safe!”

The crowd erupted, and as Gunnar was rushed by his teammates, Ford turned.

He swept Scarlett up against him, swinging her around, holding her tight.

Her entire body turned to fire.

He set her back down, grinning, and for a second he looked like he might kiss her, something forming in his eyes.

Then he turned away and ran toward Gunnar, getting down on his level to high-five him, then pulled him into a hug.

Gunnar beamed like she’d never seen before.

Please, Ford, don’t leave.