Page 40 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

Eight miles, according to his Fitbit. His body was soaked, so he veered into the sand and ran straight for the surf. Toed off his shoes and pulled off his shirt, dropping them on the beach before he splashed out into the waves.

Cool, refreshing, and maybe this was exactly what he needed to get Scarlett out of his system. What happens in Montana stays in Montana—wasn’t that what Tate said?

Ford dove in and swam under the waves, straight out into the deep—long strokes before surfacing and gulping in the fresh air.

He bobbed there, free in the ocean, kicking slightly to keep himself from slipping under. Although, that was okay too. Just under the waves, floating, almost like flying.

He’d learned how to float in BUD/S. How having his head under the water and kicking up for a breath conserved energy.

He let himself go, the waves pulling him, nothing of a current in the depths.

“Hey!”

He heard the voice as he surfaced for air.

“Hey, are you okay?”

He turned, shaking the water from his eyes, and spied someone swimming toward him. She wore a swim cap, as if she might be out exercising, and it took him just a second for his brain to clear and settle on recognition.

Scarlett?

She was freestyling toward him, power in her strokes, and as she drew closer, she pulled up, clearly surprised to see him. “Ford.”

“Hey, Red. What are you doing here?”

She was close enough for him to see she wore a one-piece athletic suit, and hello, of course she was out training. Didn’t she have a PRT this week sometime?

The elite physical entrance exam to be a rescue swimmer.

“I’m just finishing up my mile swim.”

Right. The waves had brought him in close enough to touch bottom, and now his feet settled on the sand. “I was on my run.”

“You looked like you might be having a cramp or something.”

He stared at her, then laughed. “Right. It’s a treading water technique—you’ll probably learn it.” And with those words, it occurred to him… “How is your PRT training going?”

The sun had found her nose, left a little red there, and the water clung to her long lashes. Small yet powerful in the water, and he tried to wrap his brain around her staying above water in the high seas.

He should head back to shore before he did something crazy like grab her and beg her not to do this.

“Actually…I need practice in the buddy tow.” She looked away as she said it as if there might be other potential drowning victims.

The buddy tow. Yeah, that was a washout evolution in BUD/S during which people could be DORed, or rolled back to start training again, if they didn’t execute it correctly.

Right.

“Okay, listen. Remember—when you’re in the middle of the ocean and someone is panicking, you’re their only life support.

So they’re going to attack you.” He met her eyes for a moment, meaning in them.

“You gotta be able to break free. It’s called the Head Escape Method.

” He approached her and grabbed her hands, kicking her out deeper. “Now, push me underwater.”

She frowned.

“If you don’t do it, I will.”

She grabbed his shoulders, pushing him under the surface. He slipped out from under her clinch, grabbed her hips, and turned her. Then he grabbed the back of her swimsuit, pulling her up to the surface to tow her.

When he let her go, she was breathing hard, but smiling. “I wanna try that.”

“Okay, just once. When I grab you, I want you to tuck your head, put your hands under my elbows and push me up and away. Then grab my hips and turn me around. Don’t be afraid to put some oomph into it. You’re there to save me, not be polite.”

He sank in the water and she dove for him. He grabbed her shoulders, but she ducked her head, shoved her hands into his elbows, dislodged his hold, and turned him around, pulling him against her as she kicked to the surface.

Oh, she was a fast learner.

And sure, he’d probably been easy on her, but a taste of triumph wouldn’t hurt her.

“Good job,” he said as she let him go.

“Let’s go again.”

“No. Right now, I just want you to practice the cross-chest carry. The trick here is to keep my head above water. As the victim, I must be able to continue a normal breathing cycle. Remember, whatever you do, don’t let me get a grip on you to pull you under.”

He lay on his back, and she swam up next to him, her body against his, and tucked her arm over his shoulder, grabbing under his arm.

He was Andre the Giant in her arm as she began to swim, pulling him along. How he wanted to help her, to keep his hips up, to add a kick to her efforts. “Try and keep me planed in the water. It’ll be a lot less work.”

She swam parallel to the shore, the waves splashing over his face as she skip-breathed, taking every other breath.

“Try a scissor kick.”

“Try and pretend you’re dead.”

“If I’m dead, it’s not a rescue.”

He hoped she was smiling. But she was getting it, his face not bobbing as much into the water, her arm fixed across his body. She towed him a hundred yards down the shoreline, maybe more before she let him go.

He sculled the water, watching her catch her breath. But she was grinning at him. “Thanks, Marsh.”

Teammates. Right. Maybe he should remind his heart, not to mention the rest of his body, because everything inside him wanted to offer to buddy tow her , maybe right back into his arms. I’m not that guy, Red.

He still wasn’t. “When’s your test?”

“A week from this Saturday, in the morning.”

He nodded. “You got this. They’ll hone your technique when you get into training.” He tried not to let the words tighten a noose around his chest. “I gotta get back to…uh…”

She splashed him. “Right. Thanks for your help.”

He wanted to ask her what she might be doing for dinner, or even how her mother was, but that would bring up everything they’d left behind in Montana. Where it should stay.

Except, he just couldn’t stop himself. “I’ll help you—we can meet in the mornings, and I’ll let you rescue me.”

So much surprise and hope filled her eyes he felt like a jerk for not believing in her.

“Thanks, Ford.”

He didn’t trust himself not to offer something else, like a ride home, dinner, his heart, so he splashed her back, winked, and swam to shore.

He picked up his shoes and shirt and walked over to a shower, cleaning off before he pulled his shoes on. Rinsed out his shirt and pulled that on too.

His gaze found her then, swimming freestyle in the ocean.

And for the first time, he really wanted her to make it.

Tate sat in the hotel sauna, silent, letting his thoughts stew.

A smart guy would know when to surrender.

To slink out of town, the broken pieces of his stupid, impulsive heart in his hands, and not look back.

Tate should hop on a plane and head down to San Antonio, where he’d left his truck after the impulsive decision to take on the gig as the Yankee Belles’ security.

That guy might have a chance of gluing his life, not to mention his sanity, back together instead of spending the past week ignoring the niggle in his gut that this wasn’t over.

Not him and Glo.

Not even the threats against Glo.

But apparently, Tate wasn’t smart, because all the evidence suggested otherwise. Here he was, hanging around in a town where everywhere he looked, Senator Reba Jackson’s face on billboards and yard signs reminded him of his mistakes.

It didn’t help that Glo had turned into the darling of CNN, appearing in the news almost constantly this week as she hit the campaign trail with her “bold and innovative” mother.

Reba’s changing of political parties was being heralded as the move to “unite all women.” Apparently with her moderate stance, she still appealed to her base and had gathered in the women of her new party.

Glo and Slick were definitely a team because Tate wasn’t unaware of his presence in the camera shots standing next to her, his hand always on her back. Or her shoulder.

Holding her hand in raised victory.

Like he belonged there.

As for security, Tate occasionally caught glimpses of Sly or Rags or even Swamp as they hustled Reba and her entourage into a nearby transport. However, since his outing of Reba’s lies, apparently everyone was breathing a sigh of relief.

Clearly, they were bypassing the lies part. But she was a politician—no doubt she’d slithered her way out of any culpability.

The sauna door opened, letting cool air from the hotel locker room in to the steam room. The newcomer sat on the lower bench and picked up a scoop of water. “Do you mind?”

Tate didn’t say anything, and the man poured the water over the hot rocks of the sauna stove.

Steam rose, and the sweat on Tate’s skin boiled.

He hung his head. His knee was starting to loosen up, along with the stiffness of his muscles after his run today.

And last night, he’d gone to a local gym and warmed up a heavy bag, putting everything of the past three frustrating months into his punches.

A little of it was directed at the nightmares that left him knotted in his sheets at night. Jammas and sometimes Raquel and even the bombing in San Antonio. Never mind the daymares that he saw every day on the news.

He was sort of a glutton for punishment, maybe, because he even had a news alert on his phone with Glo’s name.

Yeah, he should get on the road. He wasn’t sure what he might be waiting for. Glo to run after him, tell him that she was wrong? That she loved him?

The worst part was—he got it. He wouldn’t choose him either. Not with her bright, shiny future ahead of her.

More than a few of his punches had Slick’s face on them.

Tate breathed out again, aware that his heart rate was rising, probably faster than it should.

Or maybe that was just him, reliving the moment when he decided to make Glo choose. You’re all things to all people. But who are you? And what do you want? Me? Your mother?

Yeah, that had been a brilliant moment of following his gut right into heartache.