Page 29 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

T he Marshall Triple M possessed the kind of opulence the Jackson estate didn’t have a prayer of attaining.

Sure, the lodge home might have been built nearly seventy years ago, with a number of upgraded additions, and the horse barn needed painting after the repairs to it following a near-catastrophic fire.

But the Marshall family home sat in a pocket of mountains, in a greening valley backdropped by a lush landscape of lodgepole pine, craggy ridges, and the endless arch of famous blue sky.

The last time Glo had arrived—with the Belles in their tour bus—the place had served as a hideout, a soft place to land after the trauma of the bombing that had nearly killed Kelsey and Knox and had rattled them all. Even Glo had been shaken, although she hadn’t wanted to admit it.

Knowing Kelsey had been trapped under a pile of debris, Glo could only stand back helplessly as the rescuers dug them out. It had resurrected too many sideline moments of watching medical personnel working on Joy.

Glo had needed to take a deep breath, fill her lungs with the sweet, fescue-scented air, lift her face to the sky, and let the sun bake through her bones. Remind her that she’d survived.

And to try not to feel guilty about that.

But yes, last time Tate had brought her because she was a member of the Yankee Belles.

She wasn’t entirely sure why he’d insisted she accompany him this weekend. Sure, her heart had taken rebellious flight when she’d ridden up and heard him announce that she was going with him—a strange, unfamiliar joy at his protectiveness.

Over the past twelve hours, that joy had dissipated into confusion because the man refused to touch her. Had barely spoken to her.

She wanted to blame it on her mother, who had stood at the door this morning breathing fire as she met Tate and their driver.

Her fury must have singed Tate because he’d been oddly silent during both flights—from Nashville to Salt Lake, then to Helena—then the two-hour drive in the rental car.

She’d touched his hand once, and he’d closed his around hers just long enough for her to know it wasn’t simply a flinch before taking it away.

A one-eighty from the way he’d touched her last night, thank you.

She must be made of poison, have some sort of contagious disease.

She didn’t want to ask if she had done something wrong, mostly because she couldn’t bear the answer—the one that suggested that in the end, she might just be too much trouble.

And why not? He was still nursing some bruised ribs, made worse by the takedown yesterday, and he’d favored his still-healing shoulder when he grabbed her suitcase from the limo.

Nice. She just loved it when the people around her got hurt because of her.

They’d arrived at the ranch just before dinner, and Glo fell easily into Gerri Marshall’s arms. Tate’s mother had a way of making a person feel like they belonged. Even if they knew otherwise.

Knox and Kelsey were at the house, although Knox was out on the range somewhere with his brother Reuben, the groom. Glo got settled in the upstairs bedroom that she shared with Kelsey, then changed into a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt.

Breathe . Last time they were here, Tate had stepped back from his crazy, over-the-top, protective persona and become the charmer she’d fallen for.

Please.

She came out of the guest room and down the wide log stairs into the main room with the soaring fireplace.

Kelsey was in the kitchen with Gerri, chopping up onions like she might be the Pioneer Woman. She wore an apron, her hair up in a ponytail, and Glo just stood in the middle of the family room, trying to get a handle on the transformation of her lead singer.

Kelsey looked…well, healed. Tanned, a freedom in her laughter—and the way she looked at Gerri turned a tiny screw into Glo’s heart.

As if Kelsey had finally found a mother for the one she’d lost. Sure, Dixie’s parents loved her—but Kelsey had always felt like an add-on, the orphan they’d adopted.

Frankly, it had been the thing that bonded Glo and Kelsey—the sense of being not necessarily wanted.

Until now.

Well, at least Kelsey was wanted. Glo wasn’t quite sure what she was doing here.

“Can I help?” Glo asked.

Gerri looked up from where she was pulling a plastic container from the fridge.

She’d already given Glo a rundown of the activities.

Tonight, a cookout after the brief rehearsal in front of the family room fireplace.

Tomorrow, the small ceremony—just the family and a few friends who were driving down in the morning.

Glo heard voices and glanced outside to where the screen door led to a porch.

She spotted the bride, Gilly Priest, a petite redhead and the pilot for the Jude County Smoke Jumpers team, with another woman about her age.

They were wrapping purple and gold wildflowers in twine and plunking them in mason jars.

“I think we have everything under control, Glo,” Gerri said. “Gilly’s sisters are preparing the cupcakes, and Kelsey’s salting the onions…” Gerri glanced at Kelsey.

Glo startled when Kelsey looked up, crying, but then her friend grinned. “Onions.” She wiped her face with her apron, then slid the onions into a bowl.

“I’m just going to grill this chicken for tomorrow’s salad—” Gerri started.

“I’ll do that.” Glo reached for the container. “I can grill.” Probably. Because how hard was it to put meat on a grate and watch it cook?

Gerri lifted a shoulder and handed her the container. “It’s lit and warming. Just put these tenderloins on and let them cook, a few minutes on each side.” She handed Glo a pair of tongs.

Glo toed open the door and found the grill already steaming on the porch. She opened the lid, leaning back when steam billowed out.

“Careful. That thing is awfully close to the house,” said a voice, and Glo looked over to see Gilly getting up. “I didn’t see you come in, Glo. How are you?”

Oh. Gilly was referring to the fact that the last time she’d seen Glo, she’d been bleeding from a gunshot wound. Gilly had flown her to Helena.

Tate had held her hand and tried not to have a meltdown right there in the plane.

How they’d gone from hot to cold in a matter of a month, she didn’t know. But he’d brought her suitcase inside, greeted his mother, and vanished.

She would have been just fine at home, sitting by the pool under Rags’s watchful, albeit chagrined, eye.

“I’m good. It looked worse than it was.” She lifted her T-shirt sleeve to show the still-reddened but fading scars.

Gilly made a face. “My father always says, ‘Don’t be ashamed of your scars. They are tattoos of triumph.’”

Huh. They mostly felt like just ugly scars to her.

Gilly’s friend came up behind her. Tall and lean, she wore her auburn-gold hair in a low ponytail and carried a baby on her hip, maybe a year old, tawny curls askew as the little girl lay her head on her shoulder, her eyes closed. “I’m Kate Ransom,” she said quietly. “And this is Amber.”

Kate filled her in on how she knew Gilly—the smokejumping team, her husband, Jed, a longtime friend of Reuben, Gilly’s future husband—while Glo put the chicken on the grill and closed the lid.

“And you’re one of the Yankee Belles,” Kate said. “This is such a small world, because Reuben’s friend Pete—he couldn’t be here this weekend, sadly—knows Benjamin King. The country singer. Do you know him?”

“Yeah. He’s a great guy. We played with him once.”

“Tate told us that your band is up for an award.”

“CMG’s New Group of the Year.”

“I love your song—‘One True Heart,’” Gilly said. “I was sort of hoping you might sing it at the reception tomorrow.”

Oh. “Uh…”

“Gilly. Let the woman relax,” Kate said. “She’s here to enjoy herself.”

Was she?

Smoke began to billow out of the grill.

“I’m actually not sure why I’m here.”

Gilly frowned. “Didn’t you come with Tate?”

“Yeah, but…well, he’s actually on my mother’s security staff. He’s my security detail.”

Silence between the two ladies.

Then Gilly smiled. “So. Tate Marshall is going to keep you safe?”

What did that mean?

“Sorry. It’s just…well, Tate has a reputation with his brothers for getting into trouble. I’m sure he’s a fantastic bodyguard.”

“He saved my life already. Twice.”

“And he was a Ranger, don’t forget that.

” The voice that emerged from the screen door as it opened belonged to a younger, darker version of Tate, someone Glo had never met before.

He wore a black T-shirt, faded jeans, flip-flops, and a smattering of dark whiskers along his strong jaw.

His dark hair was cut military short, and from her quick assessment, he didn’t possess an ounce of body fat on his work-honed body.

“Ford!” Gilly said. “I didn’t know you were going to make it home.”

Ford gathered her into a hug. “Hey, future sis. Long time no see.”

Something panged inside Glo as she watched the exchange, the way Gilly so easily slid into the Marshall family. Like Kelsey, she simply belonged. Glo’s throat tightened.

Ford let Gilly go and was turning to Glo when his eyes widened. “Hey—the grill’s on fire!”

Black smoke puffed out of the grill, flames licking under the cover. She opened it?—

“No!” Kate shouted and turned, shielding the baby’s face.

The flames whooshed up, engulfing the grill.

Glo screamed.

The screen door banged open and a bigger man came out—he filled the porch with presence and intensity that could only belong to the oldest Marshall—Reuben. He took two steps and slammed the cover down, then turned off the gas. “Ford—get some baking soda?—”

But before Ford could obey, Tate came out of the house with a fire extinguisher. He opened the lid and sprayed down the fire still clinging to the charred chicken strips.

The hiss of the foam rose above the silence.

The fire died, the chicken coated in white.

He stepped back.

“Well. Okay then,” Reuben said. “That chicken is dead.”

“So is the grill,” Ford added.