Page 4 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

He turned just in time to step away from a bone-crushing fist to the face. He caught the man’s arm and held it there while he delivered a backhand to his face, his gut. Then, in a move that had her hands to her mouth, he flipped the big man right there onto the floor.

The man let out an epithet that sounded Russian. Or maybe Polish. Whatever it was, she got it.

Run!

She started for Tate, probably galvanized by the same thought because he held out his hand, as if to take hers. But Igor the Russian reached out and tripped him. Tate went flying.

In a second, the big man was on him, a knee in his back. He grabbed Tate’s arm, twisted it behind him, and Tate howled.

Glo just reacted. She picked up a green lamp on a nearby table and crashed it over Igor’s head.

It dazed the brute enough for her to kick him—the power of it stunning even her when he lost his grip on Tate.

Tate rolled, landed a fist in the man’s throat, and scrambled to his feet. “Glo, get out of here!”

He kicked the man in the jaw, but Igor had rebounded—probably rage—and resembled a bull, crazed with blood. Unstoppable.

Deadly.

He came at Tate, his nose bleeding, his eyes red. Even Tate’s fist to his face didn’t faze him. He pushed Tate back, hard.

Tate slipped on the waterfall of glass and went down.

Igor landed on his chest, his knees on Tate’s arms. Igor’s big, bloody hands found Tate’s throat, both thumbs pressing into the well of his neck. Tate was writhing, slamming his knees against the big man’s back, but he couldn’t dislodge him.

“Get off him!” Glo found a vase and threw it at Igor, but it bounced off him, like it might be a Nerf ball.

Tate was choking, fighting for his life.

Glo leaped on the man, her arms around his neck. “Help!” She hit him in the ears, wrapped her arms under his jaw, tried to pull him away.

It worked.

At least long enough for Igor to slam his fist straight back, right into her face.

The world flashed gray, then black, the pain exploding through her. She fell back, off the beast.

Maybe Tate had gotten a slip of air, because she heard his voice, one last time— “Glo?—”

Then Igor wrapped his deadly hands again around Tate’s throat and squeezed.

She was screaming now, her hands over her head, frantic. Her face throbbed and the room spun. Get up. Save Tate.

He was kicking the floor, his movements jerky.

Fading.

No—please. Help! She rolled over to her hands and knees, about to leap again on Igor when she spotted the man. Tall, wide shoulders, and built for hard work, running cattle, and once upon a time, riding bulls.

Knox.

He roared and leaped at Igor, tackling him off Tate. Landed square on the Russian.

Big brother. Furious, protective, and fresh in the fight, Knox sent his fist into Igor’s face once, twice, and Glo turned away from the violence, crawling over to Tate.

He wheezed, rolled over, trying to catch his breath.

Not dead— oh, thank You, God.

Then footsteps, voices, and hotel security flooded the room. White-shirted Bellagio rescuers leaped on Knox, pulling him off his victim.

“It’s not him!” Glo shouted, but Kelsey was already informing them who was the good guy. And who was the assailant.

Glo gripped Tate’s shirt, pulling him over to herself. She shook as she wrapped her arms around his chest, clamping tight.

He leaned his forehead on her shoulder, still gasping for breath.

“Are you okay?” she managed, tears washboarding her voice.

Tate’s shoulders shook, his breathing raspy, but he raised his head.

Blood smeared his battered face. He found her eyes. “Are you okay?

She could barely look at him. The rising purple on his cheek, the split lip, his nose, clearly broken, and the open cut over his eye, as if he’d been hit by one of those lamps.

And she could bet he had internal bleeding, if not a slew of wicked bruises on his body, given the size of Igor’s fists. Never mind the damage to his windpipe, or… “Is your shoulder dislocated?” His arm hung loose and grotesque.

He drew in a breath. “Maybe.” He touched her face, ever so gently. “He hit you.”

She nodded, her eyes filling.

One of the white shirts was hauling him out past them. Tate tensed, glancing up at him. “You’re going to pay for that.”

Slava’s spittle landed on the floor next to Tate. “You come to town again, and I won’t just hit her. Or you.”

Tate’s jaw tightened and Glo froze. This was because Tate had come with them to Vegas? Because he was trying to protect them?

Knox knelt next to them. “Who is he, Tate?” The man had lost his Stetson but hadn’t a scratch, otherwise, on him. Except maybe for bruised knuckles.

Oh, the Marshall men were tough and handsome, with those square jaws, eyes that seemed to look right into a woman’s soul.

While Knox’s dark brown hair was threaded with the finest shades of red in the sunlight, Tate’s dark brown hair was laced with glints of gold, his beard hazed with a richness when he let it grow, his blue eyes holding a mystery that she very much wanted to solve.

He would still be handsome, maybe more rakishly so, with a broken nose.

“Old score,” Tate muttered.

“I think you’re even.”

Tate made a face.

“He was sent here to kill you, wasn’t he?” Glo’s voice emerged in a whisper of horror.

Tate drew in a breath, and even Knox looked away as Tate nodded.

Oh, she knew it. Apparently, she had a type.

The kind of men who didn’t care what trouble—or death—might be waiting for them. Who turned their face to it and charged ahead.

The kind of men who died for what they believed in.

The kind of men who would break her heart.

No, oh no…

Tate turned to Knox. “Thanks, bro.”

“We need to get you to a hospital.”

Tate met Glo’s eyes, touching her face ever so softly. “I’m sorry, Glo. I…I never meant for you to get hurt.”

Maybe not, but apparently that was how all her love stories ended.

Because yes, this was really, really going to hurt.