Page 39 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

F ord leaned against the kitchen counter, the morning sun streaming into his tiny base housing apartment. He might have more room in a Zodiac. “I’m telling you, RJ, the drive back to San Diego was the worst eighteen hours of my life.”

And after BUD/S Hell Week and SERE—Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape—training, that was saying something. But at least during training, once he pushed past the physical agony, it became a head game of survival.

He didn’t know what sort of head game tactics, what sort of strategy to use to repair the gigantic blowhole between him and Scarlett.

Ford had his phone propped up on his counter as he boiled a half dozen eggs. He’d eat them after his run, and in the meantime, he’d taken the FaceTime call from his sister. And filled her in on the details of the wedding.

He may have mentioned Scarlett. And omitted the kiss but added in the cold front that had blown in between them after he’d…well, he wasn’t sure what he did. Been a gentleman?

Or maybe it was because of his not-so-subtle opinion of her crazy rescue swimmer idea.

“Eighteen hours of small talk about football teams and fast food and the occasional bad drivers.” No, eighteen hours of thinking about her in his arms, the way she’d said Kiss me, Navy.

The taste of her still on his lips.

I want this. Just this, right now.

Yeah, well, he was a red-blooded male, and he’d wanted to say yes with everything inside him. But he’d made himself promises about the man he wanted to be a long time ago.

Besides, he definitely wanted more than right now with Scarlett, and all he saw ahead of them were tangles.

“I’m sure she’s not blind, Ford. It’s not like you are Mister Socially Progressive.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His sister was sitting in what looked like an old-world tavern, her earbuds attached to the phone, probably to muffle the ambient noise.

But he could definitely hear another language—it sounded Slavic in tone.

Maybe she was at a trendy DC bar. She wore her dark hair up, little makeup, and spoke with the phone close to her face.

“It means that you’re a typical male. You don’t believe women should have dangerous jobs.”

“What are you talking about? You were right there beside us, herding cattle on horseback, learning how to rope and wrestle steer to the ground for branding. I never cared if you got hurt.”

“Thanks for that. But I also beg to differ.” She raised an eyebrow.

Oh. She was talking about that. He drew in a breath. “That was different.”

“That was you protecting me. Not wanting me to get hurt.”

“We were in a cave, and I hadn’t a clue how to get out,” he said.

“I got us into the mess?—”

He held up his hand. “Stop. Please, let’s not go back to the worst day of my life. Can we please just acknowledge that she’s going to be jumping into the middle of the ocean to rescue a drowning sailor who probably wants to use her as a buoy? RJ, people die in training .”

“I know. Believe me, we looked at the stats when you went to BUD/S. Prayed you through it. I woke up with the nightmare of you drowning more times than I can count.”

He made a face. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, between you and Tate, I’m surprised that Ma is still talking to us.”

“Let’s not forget Reuben and his smokejumping. He started it all.”

Someone brought her a drink. She thanked him, and he thought he heard Russian.

Interesting. She took a sip of what looked like tea in a glass.

“Listen, I need to go, but I can’t get a hold of Tate.

I called him, but my number is…unfamiliar, and he might have thought it was a telemarketer.

I didn’t want to leave a message, and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to call again, so could you pass on some information to him? ”

He didn’t know where to start with his questions, so he nodded.

“He sent me a picture of a guy he saw in a crowd, someone he thinks is connected to the Bryant League, a domestic terrorist group who he thinks is targeting Senator Reba Jackson.”

“He told me about the bombing,” Ford said.

“I ran facial recognition software on the picture, and it pulled up a hit. He’s ex-Marine, scout sniper.

Graham Plunkett. We missed his association with the Bryant League—his brother is a member, but that took some digging because Graham has a different last name than his brother, Alan Kobie.

Different fathers. Alan is the son of the mayor of San Antonio.

But here’s the interesting part. Kobie was an EOD Tech for his first deployment before he got an other-than-honorable discharge.

I don’t know why no one picked that up before, but I’d pay attention. ”

Explosive Ordinance Disposal. Yeah, hello. Red flag, anyone? “So, what are you saying?”

“Just that maybe, even if the Bryant League isn’t behind this, these two guys might be still in play.”

“I’ll pass it along. Tate and Glo went to some big award show last night, so my guess is that he’s sitting by the pool somewhere, nursing a late-night headache.”

She laughed. “Probably.”

“But I can promise you, he’s not going to let anything happen to Glo. Not the way he behaved with her at the wedding.”

“Really?”

“Let’s just say, Tate finally found his girl.”

“I like that Glo. She’s a tough—and beautiful—cookie.”

He might say the same about Scarlett.

“Okay, well maybe it’s not a big deal then, just pass it along when you can.” She looked away from the camera again, and this time a frown crossed her face.

“Where are you?”

She glanced back at the screen and seemed to consider his words. Then she set her phone down faceup, her fingers blocking the view, but for a second, he saw the surroundings. A pub with arched ceilings and a mural on the wall.

Then a face. Partially obscured by a newspaper that held a cone of fries, but dark hair, cut short, and dark eyes. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, and the shot revealed a tattoo that wound up his arm.

Ford only got a glimpse, but it looked like a bone frog.

Just like that, she cut the connection.

Huh.

He turned off the heat under his eggs, dumped them into a bowl of ice water.

Sat on the counter stool of his apartment and dialed Tate. No answer. It went to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message.

You’re a typical male. You don’t believe women should have dangerous jobs.

Okay, maybe. Ford had awoken in a sweat the night after Scarlett had told him her plans, hearing old screams echo through his brain, and found himself downstairs in the darkness, searching for a glass of water and something for his pitching stomach.

He didn’t know why, but he’d gone into the family office attached to the kitchen.

His father’s pictures still hung on the wall, especially the crazy family Christmas picture, taken so many years ago.

He’d been eleven or twelve and of course sat next to Ruby Jane in front of the stone fireplace.

Ma had made them all wear ugly Christmas sweaters—save Wyatt who got out of it by never taking off his favorite hockey jersey.

Providential that he went on to play for the team he loved—the Minnesota Blue Ox.

Tate, of course, was grinning, holding a couple of rabbit ears over Knox’s head.

Knox stared into the camera, way too serious. The do-gooder. He looked just like their dad, with the full head of hair. Except Dad sported a Tom Selleck mustache and black hair.

Knox had his wisdom and his voice too. Standing there in the office, with the wide wooden desk, the leather chair, the bookcases stacked with Louis L’Amour novels and old Bible commentaries, Ford could practically hear the old man.

Ford, climb out from under that desk! There’s work to do!

He grinned against the memory. And the six-year-old who’d emerged, a couple of plastic six-guns attached to his legs.

Hiding from the bad guys?

No. From Tate and Wyatt. They’re going to throw me in the river.

He could nearly hear his dad’s laughter.

Courage isn’t about hiding. It’s about who you put your faith in. C’mon.

He couldn’t remember the rest, but it probably ended with his father finding Tate and Wyatt and making all of them mow hay or clean the barn or even ride fence.

His answer to keeping his boys out of trouble: ranch work.

Probably why Ford left for the military immediately after high school, pushed himself into the SEALs. Hard work saved the day.

Saved him from himself.

Although he’d been ready to hide again when he’d gotten back to the house with Scarlett. Anything from knocking on the door to the den and taking her up on the offer he’d seen in her eyes.

He’d finished his water, put the glass in the dishwasher, and headed upstairs.

Slept a few scant hours, rose, and hit the road for a run. By the time he got back, Tate and Glo had left for Nashville.

And Scarlett had packed her duffel for the long, agonizing ride home. When he’d left her off at her house, he’d wanted to offer to help her with her tire, but she’d grabbed her duffel and waved him goodbye and yep, that was it.

He’d driven home, flopped into bed, and tried not to debrief for the next six hours what, exactly, had happened.

Now, five days later, he was still trying to work out the stiff muscles around his ego, not to mention his body.

He left the eggs to cool, changed into his running gear—a pair of compression shorts, running shorts, and a loose T-shirt—and stretched out his muscles in a run along the boardwalk of Coronado Beach.

The sand rakes were out, gathering up the seaweed and other debris that collected with the tide, and a man ran with his dog down by the foamy surf.

Tent and beach chair vendors dragged their offerings out of their shacks, and the ocean ran deep blue over the creamy sand.

A few bicyclists passed him, and out in the water, early morning swimmers fought the gentle chop.