Page 25 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

“Sorry, bro. And while you were unwrapping your chopsticks, I ran a general search on all Bryant League activity. There’s nothing even on the radar for months. The last known event was a bombing at a recruitment station in Abilene, Texas, over a year ago.

“Could be the same guys—it’s Texas…”

“Are you sure that Kelsey’s stalker wasn’t the same guy who shot Glo in Montana?”

“No. But Kelsey clearly saw the gauged ears that Knox described in his drawings of the bombing suspects. They’re just not that common.”

“Getting more so, but…okay. I’ll keep looking. But you might want to start considering that the bombing in San Antonio was exactly what the police say—an act of desperation by an angry man.”

“An angry rodeo clown? I don’t think he’s good for it, despite the evidence. I think he was the fall guy.”

She picked up her carton of rice. “Yes, I see the irony. But, even the shooting at the house could have been her stalker. It was dark, and who knows what Kelsey saw.”

Tate was finishing off his Kung Pao chicken. “Then who attacked us at the Anderson fundraiser?”

“Anyone have a vendetta against Senator Jackson?”

“Probably. She’s a senator after all.”

“Maybe you should start searching a little closer to home. But here’s the good news…

if the Bryant League has nothing to do with any of this, then Glo is probably relatively safe.

Which means she doesn’t need your protection.

You can quit working for the senator and you and Glo can ride away on your shiny white horse. ”

She stopped mid-bite. “Oh, sorry. Your shiny black motorcycle.”

“I can ride a horse, RJ.”

She kept her mouth closed, but her eyes laughed.

“I was six.”

“I wish I was old enough to remember. But the stories—oh, Knox and Rube were merciless.”

“I broke my wrist. Of course I cried.”

She looked at him, then something of kindness crested her face. “Just because you aren’t a cowboy doesn’t make you a failure.”

He drew in his breath. “I know.”

“Do you? Because you got it in your mind when you were six that you weren’t cut out for ranching. And you told yourself that you had to be awesome at something else. And nearly died proving it.”

“It was war?—”

“Long before the war, Tate. Let’s talk about that motorcycle you fixed up and spent hours driving around the ranch. Your wall of BMX awards.”

“Until I broke my shoulder and Ma forbade me to ride it.”

“That’s my point. Then there was your glory on the football team.”

“Rube played football. He was the captain.”

“He wasn’t a running back. Hello, three state records and two concussions. But do you take advantage of that athletic scholarship and go to Montana State, like Knox? No. You join the military. Become a Ranger , for Pete’s sake. Trying to prove something, again.”

He looked away. “I was serving my country. And I was a good Ranger.”

“You were an amazing Ranger. A decorated hero?—”

“I wasn’t a hero.”

“Yeah, actually, you were. Your Bronze Star? Your Purple Heart?”

“All but one of my squad was killed—and I was their team leader. Heroes don’t get people killed.” He didn’t know how the conversation landed here, in his regrets. His wounds. And now he’d lost his appetite. “Are you coming home for Rube’s wedding this weekend?”

She stared at him a long moment. Then she set down her carton, wedged the chopsticks inside.

“Okay, Tate. Let’s not talk about your insatiable need to be better than Rube and Knox.

Let’s not talk about the fact you’re still six years old inside and angry, hurt, and embarrassed after being bucked off a horse.

Let’s talk about superficial things that won’t let you see that you don’t have to do anything to be awesome.

Or loved. We’re already crazy about you, just because you’re you.

Hardworking, reliable, brave, and heroic.

So yeah, I’ll try and make it to the wedding. ”

He looked away.

“But we’re still…working. At work. So…I probably have to work .”

He looked back at her. “And I guess we won’t talk about your need to keep up with Ford. To save the world.”

Her eyes flashed. “I am saving the world.”

He didn’t think she was kidding, and a cold hand tightened around his chest. “In Italy or the Czech Republic?”

She looked away, took a breath. “Listen, if I don’t make it, I’ll try and Skype in.”

“You’re as bad as Ford.”

“No, I’m worse. Ford is going to be there. He called me from San Diego. He’s going to surprise you all.” She looked back at him and offered a conciliatory smile. “Surprise.”

He offered one back. “You’re terrible.”

“But I know all the best delivery places, right?” She gestured to his food.

“Yeah, you do.” He touched her hand.

She turned hers in his and squeezed. Met his eyes with warmth in them.

We’re already crazy about you, just because you’re you. He looked away. “I gotta go, my Uber is five minutes away.”

“What—you’ve been here a total of three hours.” She let go of his hand as he got up.

“I’m headed back to Nashville. It’s time for Glo’s silly game to end.”

“Go get ’er, tiger.” She punctuated her words with a fist and a swing of her arm.

He rolled his eyes. “Answer your phone once in a while.”

She got up and gave him a hug. “Stay out of trouble.”

Oh, there probably wasn’t a chance of that.

“I’ll try.”

She’d always known her mother’s life glittered. Glo just never realized that she might glitter with it.

Or, that she wanted to.

“You look gorgeous tonight, Gloria,” Sloan said as he opened the door to her limousine.

She didn’t know when he’d stopped referring to her as Glo in public, but she noticed it now as she took his hand and climbed out of the car under the awning of the glorious and historical Hermitage Hotel in downtown Nashville.

A top-hatted doorman stood at the ready, and a few flashes went off as Sloan led her to the door.

He was dressed in a burgundy tuxedo jacket, this time with his collar buttoned, his bow tie perfectly symmetrical under his shaven chin.

The man looked every inch a millionaire’s son, and for the first time she saw Sloan not as the neighbor next door, but as a man who embodied the future he’d tried to unfurl in front of her.

Apparently, one he had hopes she’d want to run into with him.

She caught a glance of her reflection in the massive glass doors. She wore a strapless, royal blue satin dress that hugged her body, all the way down to her silver stilettos, a vintage diamond broach at her neck, and diamond studs at her ears.

Yeah, she’d upped her game since joining her mother’s campaign gigs. But her feet hurt, and frankly, she just might topple over if she didn’t hang onto someone.

She slid her hand over Sloan’s arm as they entered the grand lobby.

Marble arches and columns supported the ornate glass ceiling overhead and bounced light from the gilded chandeliers that hung from the four corners of the room.

Sloan waved to a few reporters—handpicked journalists allowed to attend tonight’s private art auction-slash-fundraiser—and led her to the stairs where, on the balcony above, the donated pieces from local artisans were displayed.

Watercolors and oils on easels, sculptures in mixed mediums on shelves and tables, and down at the end of the hallway, a crazy-looking goat made from discarded car parts.

White-gloved waiters mingled with the guests—hobnobbers from Nashville society—and offered canapes and aperitifs.

“Where is your regular hound dog?” Sloan said, leaning over to her, and she glanced at him, frowned.

“Who?”

“Your faithful bodyguard. You have a new guy.” He glanced behind him, and she followed his gaze. Rags trailed them, unobtrusively, five feet away. He met her eyes, offered a grim smile, then looked past her, on the job.

“Yeah. The other guy left.”

“Good,” Sloan said and slipped his hand over hers. “He made me want to punch him, the way he looked at you.”

Probably Tate had felt the same way. She kept her smile but felt a tinge of guilt.

Something to go along with her openly bleeding heart.

She’d spent most of the afternoon fighting the desire to call him. Or better, hop on a plane to Montana.

But why? She’d won.

Except, it felt so very much like losing. Big.

And poor Sloan. She’d used him in her little game, like a regular politician. Wow, she hadn’t quite realized how much her mother had rubbed off on her.

She felt sticky and dirty.

What if this was her world now?

Lies? Political games?

No. She didn’t want that life. But maybe as First Daughter in the White House, she could change the world. Make it safer, healthier, fairer. It wasn’t the stage, with the songs pouring out of her heart, but maybe it could be a different stage. I’m so glad you’ve joined our team.

Yes, maybe she had.

But she’d do it without the deceit. Which meant she had to tell Sloan the truth.

Probably he wouldn’t want her either, after he found out what she’d done.

The thought left her stomach tightening. Because she was a stupid girl to not be diving headfirst into handsome, successful, and wealthy Sloan Anderson’s arms.

Sloan led her over to an older gentleman who was surveying a massive oil painting of sailboats.

“Gloria, I’d like you to meet the other state senator, Roland McGraw.” She held out her hand and he took it. A beefy man, with a few steaks under his belt, he held a whiskey in one hand and hers in the other, his touch sweaty.

“Darlin’,” the man said and looked her up and down.

“Nice to meet you.” She untangled her hand, even as Sloan settled his on the small of her back.

“Gloria is not only Senator Jackson’s daughter, but my girlfriend, so be nice to her, Senator.”

The man laughed. “Well done, my boy.” He slapped Sloan on the shoulder.

Glo tried not to be weirdly offended.

The man moved away, and Sloan edged her to another man, a lawyer from one of the big firms in Nashville. Glo had never heard of it, but when he introduced her again as his girlfriend, this time he offered a wink.