Page 41 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)
He closed his eyes against the image of her shaking her head, her meaning rising to fill his chest with darkness.
No, I won’t go with you.
I won’t trust you.
If you love me, you’ll stay.
He shook his head. He did love her. And if he hadn’t let his pride get in the way, he might have been able to convince Reba to let him stay.
Maybe.
Probably not.
They were all right. He was impulsive, and probably it wouldn’t be long before he…well, before he got her hurt. Somehow.
He ran his hands through his sopping hair, ready to leave, when the door opened again. He looked up and drew in a breath at the man who met his eyes and settled in beside him.
Rags waited until the other man left before he spoke.
“Sly said you were here.”
Rags wore a towel tucked at his waist, and for the first time, Tate noticed a scar on the man’s upper body, near his shoulder. Rags might have seen his gaze slip over it because he pointed to it. “IED. Shrapnel. Kunar Province.”
Tate pointed to the scars on his knee. “Paktia. Ambush.”
“Can’t be worse than what went down at the Jackson place.”
Tate lifted a shoulder.
“For the record, I was rooting for you.”
He glanced at Rags. “Who are you—Friar John?”
Rags frowned.
“He’s the messenger sent to tell Romeo that Juliet is faking her death to be with him…never mind.”
“Wow, you got it bad. If you’re thinking of sucking down poison.”
“I’m fine.”
“And so is Glo, by the way.”
“Thanks. That’s just what I want to hear.”
“I just mean that she’s still alive. No danger. I’m not sure she’s…well, she seems to have thrown herself into her mother’s campaign.”
“I can see that. She’s all over the place.”
“We’ve been in three states in the past forty-eight hours.”
“Good for you. What are you doing here?”
“Sly sent me.”
“He couldn’t call?”
“You tell me. He sent me on a field trip to the catering company for Liam Anderson’s party where I passed around the photo you pulled off the photographer’s phone.” He lifted the water ladle.
Tate nodded.
Steam lifted off the rocks, settling into his bones. He should probably leave, his lungs parched now.
“Apparently, your guy with the tattoo was on the setup crew that night. At least three people remember his ink. And he vanished after setup, so Sly thinks you’re onto something.”
Tate’s jaw tightened. “Did you pull a name from the caterers?”
“Yeah. We tracked it and it was an alias. But…” He ran a hand around his neck. “Sly said if you wanted to follow your hunch, he could use you in San Diego.”
Tate’s head swam a little. “San Diego?”
“The National Convention. It’s this weekend, and the setup crew is headed out tomorrow. We could use your eyes—no one else has seen this guy.”
“I don’t remember seeing him in person in San Antonio. That was my brother. But I remember the pictures and Knox’s sketches.”
“And he can’t be hard to miss with the tat.”
“It’s a big crowd.”
“A rowdy crowd too. Something big is going down with the Jackson campaign. It’s all behind closed doors, but Isaac White—the other presidential contender—has been out to the house twice. They think that maybe he’s going to be her VP.”
Tate climbed down from the benches and braced his hand on the wall. He didn’t have to ask if Glo would be there.
“When do you want me?”
“I’ll call you with a sit-rep.”
“Thanks, Rags.” He pushed out into the shower area and turned on the water, cold, his body shaking.
He shouldn’t have left Glo. Shouldn’t have let his pride—even his anger—get him fired.
He slammed his palm into the wall and let out a shout.
Hung his head under the spray. It sloughed off the sweat and frustration of the last few days but left him cold and edgy.
He tucked his towel around him as he walked out to the locker room area.
Opening his locker, he pulled out his clothing, and grabbed his cell phone. He needed flights to San Antonio, pronto. He wanted to track down this guy from the source.
That’s when he noticed the missed call from Ford.
Rags exited the sauna and headed for the shower.
Ford picked up on the first ring. “Bro. ’Sup?”
Tate didn’t know where to start. “You called.”
“Right.”
Tate heard clinking in the background. Probably his brother cooking up something gourmet.
“RJ FaceTimed with me a few days ago. Told me to call you with some information?—”
“And you’re just now calling me?”
“Hey! I’m not your personal secretary. I got called out on training. Sorry.”
Tate ran his hand across his face. “Naw, I’m sorry. I’m not in a good place. Just tell me what she said.”
“She said she tracked down the guy in your photo and that he was ex-Marine, sniper. Graham Plunkett. His brother is Alan Kobie, who is a member of the Bryant League. And—here’s the important part. Kobie was EOD.”
Which meant, he knew how to make bombs.
“How did we miss this?”
“Maybe it’s because Kobie is the son of the mayor of San Antonio?”
“So politics as usual.” Tate wanted to hit something. “You around for a while?”
“I have training, but I’ll be in town. Why?”
Rags walked into the locker room area, a towel around his hips.
“Throw some sheets on the sofa. I’m on my way.”
Tate closed the phone.
Rags’s gaze was on the ink across his chest. “Surrender is not a Ranger word.”
“No,” Tate said as he got up and tossed his towel in the wire basket. “No, it’s not.”
Last time Glo stared out the window of a hotel room, she had just kissed Tate Marshall. Had started to believe that she might be the special one. That her life was going to change.
The thought brought her up, back to herself, to the current view of San Diego—the pool, the ocean, and the multitudes of high-masted sailboats moored in the harbor—and the chatter around her in the VIP suite of the Hilton Bayfront.
To Sloan making arrangements with Nicole about tonight’s event.
The private dinner was a warm-up to the big stage event tomorrow night, but it still had her stomach in a knot.
I think Gloria should give a speech.
Yeah sure, Mother, great idea. But here she was, twenty-four hours later, her name on the program.
She’d even tried to appeal to her father, but he’d just sat across the table, giving her a shake of his head.
How did she get in this far? She never really wanted the limelight, not really. Just wanted to be with Kelsey and Dixie. And yes, she’d wanted to be with her mother.
But most of all, she wanted to be with Tate.
His absence this week as she attended her mother’s events, clapped, even introduced her—yes, she could see the slow sinking into the mire—and especially in the evenings as she sat in her darkened room wishing he might be on his chair beside the pool, left a widening hole in her.
Please, come with me, Glo.
Oh, she’d hurt him, and she knew it. But she’d made her choice.
She’d have to live with it. She glanced at Sloan sitting at the conference table, dressed in a blue oxford, the sleeves rolled up above his forearms work-style as he bent over her stupid speech for tonight.
He must have seen her looking at him because he glanced up. Smiled at her.
She smiled back. Clearly, she’d been too hard on Sloan. Sure, he was overly protective of her, and her mother, but that was his job. And, he’d been her groupie before anyone else knew her name.
He seemed to respect her aching heart, too, because he hadn’t tried to kiss her, not once this entire week. As if giving her space.
He went back to his work, and she slipped into one of the anterooms that overlooked the pool. A balcony jutted from their second-story VIP suite they were using as a greenroom. She toed off her heels, picked up her phone, her earbuds, and stepped outside.
The sea salted the air, and the humidity, along with the heat, blanketed the afternoon with a sort of sogginess. Down at the pool, kids splashed. She measured the drop down. Two stories. Not a terrible drop, but nope, probably too far. Still, her entire body longed for the cool water.
Something to wash away the heaviness in her soul.
Where did the woman who used to paint on a tattoo and wear leather onstage go? I miss that girl. Now…you’ve vanished… And what do you want?
Tate was haunting her. She put in her earbuds and queued up her Pandora. Sat on the lounge chair and watched a seagull stalk a plate of food.
The husky blues voice of country singer Benjamin King came through her buds.
We said goodbye on a night like this
Stars shining down, I was waitin’ for a kiss
But you walked away left me standing there alone
Baby I’m a’waiting, won’t you come back home…
It brought to her mind the explosion of their tour bus during a gig in Mercy Falls, Montana. Ben had invited them to his house to regroup and talk to the local police.
She’d never expected Tate to show up, practically banging down the door of Ben’s lodge home to get to her. He’d crossed the room in giant strides of panic, his eyes pinned to hers, and she’d half expected him to sweep her up in his arms, the anger and fear radiating off him nearly palpable.
She might have lost her heart to him the night when he’d cornered her in the kitchen of his family home. When she’d offered him a cookie.
He’d wanted something else, she knew it, but she’d ducked away, afraid of the emotions between them.
Afraid of losing her heart again to a man who could walk away with it.
Her eyes filled as King reached the bridge in the song.
I need you, I need you, I need you
Don’t say goodbye
I need you, I need you, I need you
Can’t live without you
I need you, I need you, I need you
Come back to me tonight.
She drew up her knees, staring out toward the ocean, hearing Tate’s pleading. I love you. I have for months, and I…I’d give my life for you.
Her phone vibrated, and she looked down to see Kelsey’s name on the screen. She accepted the call and the music died. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Silence.
“So, you heard then.”
“No. I guessed. I saw you stumping for your mother, and Tate was nowhere to be seen. Is that my imagination?”
“He left me.”