Page 27 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

A snap sounded behind her, in the bushes that lined the pool.

Tate looked up, his entire body on alert.

“Someone’s out there,” he said. He shoved her behind him. “Hello?” Then he turned to her. “Who’s on your detail tonight?”

“Rags. But I sent him away.”

Tate’s mouth tightened in a grim line. He grabbed her hand and took her into the house. “Turn the lights off and stay down, behind the island.”

What— no! She caught his hand. “You’re not going out there.”

He gave her a look. “Yes, I am. But I’ll be back, I promise.” He kissed her hard.

And then she watched the man she loved step out of her life into the darkness.

He’d let down his guard for a blinding, delirious second?—

So much for coming home with the news that Glo was safe.

News that Tate hadn’t quite announced before he simply took her in his arms and kissed her. Breaking his promise to her mother—stupid, frustrating promise that it was—and trampling every smidgen of honor that still remained.

Yeah, a real hero.

What had he told RJ? And Glo? Clearly, the truth.

He might not be a hero or even particularly honorable, but he certainly was going to keep Glo safe.

Tate trembled, the adrenaline buzzing through his body as he crept out into the shadows of the pool house. He wished he had his gun, but he couldn’t take that on the plane, and he hadn’t exactly stopped by the security building on his way in to check out a weapon.

Fine. He could handle this joker with his bare hands.

He stayed down, heading toward the shrubbery behind the pool and came across the place where the intruder had hidden.

Yep. He knew his instincts were firing correctly when he’d seen the flash of light—moonlight on a weapon? Or something else, he didn’t know. But when it was followed by the sound of branches breaking he called himself an idiot for letting his guard down.

Again.

So. Easily. Distracted.

He ground his teeth as he crouched in the warm spot, the branches to the shrubbery broken and snapped. How long had the assailant sat there, watching as he’d kissed Glo?

Really, finally, kissed Glo. Two weeks of patience and pent-up agony as he watched Slick hold her hand. Kiss her. Touch her hair.

Yeah, well, he’d been watching—Glo didn’t come alive in Sloan’s arms like she did in his, thank you.

And maybe that was testosterone talking, but Glo was his girl. He knew it in his core.

He’d give about anything for NVGs right now. But the full moon illuminated the open fields surrounding the house, and he scanned the horizon.

Spied, in the far distance, a figure running toward the horse pasture.

He didn’t have time to get keys, sort out vehicles—he took off at a full sprint.

As he ran by the bunkhouse, he gave a shout, and from the back, Rags and Swamp emerged.

“Intruder!” He kept going.

The man had disappeared behind a hill, but there was a quarter mile of pastureland between him and the road. And Tate was fast.

He kept his eyes on the place where the man had vanished, glimpsed a form, also running hard, and his chest began to hurt.

A motor thundered up behind him and he turned.

Rags held his arm out and Tate hooked it, leaped, and landed behind him on one of the estate’s motorcycles.

He gripped the back of the seat, leaning with Rags as they ate up the earth.

He pointed toward the sight of their quarry, growing larger, and Rags gunned it, kicking up soil and grass.

Behind them, Tate heard another bike—probably Swamp, but he didn’t turn to look.

The man grew larger. Lean, tall, but young and fit for the way he was keeping pace.

If he’d come in by car, he might have parked closer.

He came into clear view—the man wore a black shirt, and a camera bounced hard against his back as he ran. He glanced over his shoulder at them, his eyes wide.

“Stop!”

Clearly, that was a no.

“Get close to him!” Tate shouted.

Rags obeyed. Tate drew up his leg to the seat, then leaped for him.

They went down together in a rolling tackle, Tate letting him go so he could find his feet.

He’d gotten the wind bullied out of him a little but gulped back hard as he rounded on the man.

The intruder sprawled in the grass, his hands over his head, his legs brought up to protect his belly.

“Sheesh,” Tate said. “Get up. I’m not going to beat you.”

The man pushed himself up onto his knees, and Tate gave a start. Not a man, but a kid. But young and gaunt, and fear in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

He was breathing hard. “I saw Miss Jackson leave the event tonight and I thought maybe I could get some pictures of her and her new boyfriend.”

Rags had circled back around and now pulled up. “Who is he?” He cut the engine.

“Paparazzi.”

“No, man. I’m a freelancer. I work for the Lincoln. It’s a political website that discusses national issues.”

“Seriously. And taking pictures of Gloria Jackson and her…friend…is political how?”

“If Sloan Anderson has the ear of the future president via her daughter, the world needs to know.”

“Why?”

“Because of his ties to Russia! He has known liaisons with low-level Russian diplomats in Washington.”

“Liaisons, how?”

The kid drew in a breath. “He plays golf with Russians.”

“He’s a lobbyist. Of course he does.” Tate reached down to haul the kid up to his feet. Then he yanked the camera from his neck.

“Hey!”

Tate held his hand up in warning, and the man piped down. Tate opened the screen, scrolled through—oh my, he had shots of their kiss.

His hands in Glo’s hair, his mouth practically devouring hers. And Glo’s arms around his neck, equally as eager.

Delete.

He scrolled more, found the ones of Glo standing by the pool, pouring out her heart as he walked from the shadows. He looked like a freakin’ wounded puppy.

Delete.

He sort of wanted to keep the one of Glo staring up into the sky, as if seeking answers from the moon, her hair glowing, her eyes soft.

Delete.

The next one was of her at some fancy hotel, getting out of her car, then going inside, then?—

Wait.

He enlarged the picture.

And his heart simply stopped. There, standing in the crowd was a man with a fire tattoo licking his neck, his gaze trained on Glo.

Tate looked closer. It was definitely taken tonight because Glo wore that same gorgeous blue dress.

He ignored Sloan in the picture.

“I need your camera,” he said to the kid. “It’s got a picture I need.”

“That’s a Nikon D5. It cost me seven thousand dollars.”

Tate wanted to say something like, cry me a river, kid , but Rags interjected, “Let’s go back to the house. We can take the picture off the hard drive, grab the SD card, and wipe the camera.”

Swamp had pulled up on the other motorcycle, and surprise, surprise, Sly was right behind him on one of the four wheelers. He got out and stalked over to Tate.

“I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.”

“Then you should have had someone on Glo’s detail tonight. She was out there alone, or this jerk wouldn’t have been able to sneak in.”

“I did have someone on.” He looked at Rags.

Tate followed with a glare. “You left her alone?”

Rags held up a hand. “Sorry. She dismissed me. I don’t have the same obsession, bro. I’m not going to sit outside on a lounge chair and watch her window all night.”

Tate wanted to go for Rags’s throat.

Would have, maybe, had Sly not caught his shoulder, pushed him back and away from Rags. “No. I get it, but no.”

Tate drew in a breath, shot a look over to Rags, back to Sly. “She doesn’t leave my sight.”

Sly nodded.

“Which means that she goes with me this weekend to Montana.”

Sly raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how it works, Tate. You work for her, not the other way around.”

“I’ll go.”

Tate froze, then turned, and yes, Glo appeared, seated bareback on one of those pretty thoroughbreds. She wore a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt, diamonds at her ears, barefoot like she might be a modern-day Viking princess.

She could even ride a horse.

Then again, hello. He should have guessed that after seeing the highbrow livestock around her. And didn’t she once mention that her grandfather raised thoroughbreds?

“I’ll go to Montana. With Rango.”

She knew his nickname? It sent a strange, not unwelcome heat through him to hear her revert back to her crazy practice of calling him by funny names.

Like something good might have reset between them.

“No,” Sly said.

“Yes,” Tate replied. “Listen. I know my ranch, and it’s unexpected. We—me and my brothers—can keep her safe there. Trust me. She’ll be safer there than here.”

Sly gave him a look. “Excuse me, but last time she was there, she was shot .”

Tate’s mouth tightened.

“I’ll be fine. I trust Tate. And I need to get away, just for a few days.”

He hadn’t expected that part, or the fact that she’d betray that to any of them. But Sly walked over to her and grabbed the reins of her horse. “You’ll do everything he says, without argument?”

Tate grinned as he looked over at her for her answer. Even added, “Without argument .”

She glanced from Sly to Tate. “You’re not the boss of me, Tator.”

“This weekend I am, honey.”

She sighed, then turned back to Sly. “Fine. Yes.”

Sly considered Tate. “And you’ll keep her safe, no matter what.”

Tate gave him a look. But since he was his boss… “With my very life.”

Sly shook his head. “Okay. But don’t forget your deal , bucko.”

Right, his deal. What deal was that?

“And don’t let your guard down,” Sly added, his gaze flickering to Rags, then back.

His smile fell. Because yeah, Sly was right.

He glanced again at the camera, then at Glo sitting there with the slightest smile of triumph.

Oh boy.

Ford was going to miss his brother’s wedding.

He’d come to that conclusion within twenty-four hours of arriving in town, when he heard the doctor’s prognosis.

When he saw Scarlett break in front of him.

And sure, Ford had stayed for Gunnar and the gleam the kid got when someone—anyone, probably, but especially Ford—showed him any attention.