Page 48 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

W hich one, Red? Tell me which one.

Ford’s words from last night burned through her, a torch that ignited Scarlett to her core as she stroked through the water. Her shoulders burned, her legs fighting a cramp against the cool water.

Jerk.

He shouldn’t have put her in that position. Shouldn’t have looked up, their lives in his hands, and asked her to save the day.

Like he trusted her. Like he respected her.

Like she was on his team.

Four strokes and a breath. Four more, a breath. She wore goggles, and out of her periphery, in the quick moment it took her to gulp air, she spied the shore she paralleled. The buoy would be ahead another one hundred yards.

She’d already completed the on-land test—the push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. Flying colors, but she’d always excelled in the core activities.

Endurance. That’s what she failed at. Looking past the current pain to the goal. And knowing that she was making the right decision, not sure if her next step might crumble under her.

Life was a series of white cords versus blue cords, hoping she clipped the right one to keep the world from blowing up around her.

The white one. For hope.

She wasn’t sure why she’d said that—a gut feeling, maybe, although after inspection, the bomb squad had deduced that the chip hadn’t been intended to trigger a bomb, but rather to activate the transmitter inside the senator’s lapel mic.

A transmitter that would trigger the bomb set inside an innocuous vase of decorative flowers in the senator’s VIP suite. A bomb meant for the senator alone, regardless of the collateral damage.

Tate had uncanny instincts to have figured it out in the split second between entering the room and launching himself and Glo off the balcony.

But she could have picked the blue cord, and nothing would have gone boom .

It made her wonder if she worried too much about the impending boom in her life. If it kept her standing outside the room, staring at what she wanted through the window. And sure, Ford was trying to keep her safe, but maybe she was tired of being safe.

Fifty more yards. Her chest had tightened, her breaths coming in a burst of flame.

Tired of trying so hard, of taking care of everyone, of denying what she really wanted.

Ford. And yeah, the happy ending that came with him. Sure, it would be complicated, but…well, Ford knew how to navigate complicated. And I’m all in…as long as you are.

White cord or blue cord. It didn’t matter as long as she was with Ford.

Teammates, and more.

She hit the buoy, grabbed the rope, breathing hard. Her instructor floated in a kayak nearby, clocking her. He gave her a thumbs-up.

“You have a three-minute rest, then you’ll be towing your instructor Chief Petty Officer Peters to shore.”

She cast a look at the man she’d be towing. He was about Ford’s size, wide shoulders, blond hair. He wasn’t smiling.

She gathered her breaths, put her head back in the game. One more evolution.

You got this.

Two hundred yards to her future.

She blew out a few more quick breaths, filled her lungs a final time, then nodded her ready.

The instructor sank in the water.

She dove down for him, expecting him to lie limply, in need of rescue, but he grabbed her.

Remember, whatever you do, don’t let me get a grip on you to pull you under.

She ducked her head and sent her hands into his elbows, dislodging his hold.

He let her go, and she turned him around, her arm around his chest as she kicked for air.

The ocean had turned choppy as the morning drew out, but it worked to her advantage as she towed her victim to shore. Keep me planed in the water. Scissor kick.

Ford’s voice filled her head as she swam, her strokes even, her hip under her victim to keep him afloat. I like you in my ear, what can I say?

She heard the other trainees—two women, seven men—shouting at her from shore.

You look amazing, by the way.

Oh, brother. But still, the memory of him taking her hand, weaving his fingers through hers…

She felt amazing.

Her feet hit the beach. She dragged her instructor through the waves, pulling him all the way to the beach, then collapsed beside him, dragging in hot breaths.

A shadow cast over her. Another of her instructors. He wore a Navy hat, shorts, and a sleeveless shirt and gave her a hard look.

Please—

“You passed, Petty Officer Hathaway.”

She rolled over in the sand, onto her elbows, wanting to weep. Her victim bounced back to life.

“Who taught you how to get out of the swimmer’s grab?” Peters said.

She climbed to her knees. “My teammate.” Probably it wouldn’t be prudent to add my boyfriend.

No, that sounded weird.

But what if…maybe it was time to do something crazy. To cut the white cord.

To release her hope in a happily ever after.

She walked over to a nearby picnic table where she’d left her gear. The other trainees were getting their times, talking with the instructors. She picked up her towel and wiped her face with it, then wrapped it around her shoulders.

Chief Petty Officer Peters came up to her, holding a water bottle. He rinsed out his mouth and spit onto the ground. “There’s an opening in the upcoming rotation to Rescue Swimmer School in Pensacola. It starts next week. I can get you in, if you’re interested.”

Next week. She nodded.

“Good job today.” He gave her a smile and headed over to the group of instructors.

Next week. And then she’d get her RS certificate, move on to aviation training and…

No more sitting on the sidelines.

Overhead the sky was clearing with the morning, blue with a scattering of clouds that looked hand-stirred from the heavens. A few beachcombers wandered the shore picking up shells, seagulls cried overhead. A dog barked, running to catch a Frisbee.

“Hey, Hathaway, want to catch breakfast?” One of the trainees called to her from the gathering nearby.

“Nope. I have other plans.”

Like calling Ford with the good news. Maybe cajoling him over for some very unhealthy Cap’n Crunch.

Taking him up on that desire she’d seen stirring in his eyes when he dropped her off at home last night, after their debriefing with the FBI, who’d shown up way after the firemen put out the fire and bagged the body of the bomber.

Thankfully, Ford had seen the altercation between them and defended Tate’s actions to the police.

Ford had walked her to the door, the gentleman he was, as if they’d been on a crazy, high-action date, and stood on her doorstep like he had nearly a month ago when he’d offered to road trip her to Idaho. When he decided to walk into her heart and stick around like he meant it.

She’d perched on the step above him, almost eye level with him. He’d pulled off his tie and coat, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing his powerful, tanned forearms, and propped one foot on her step. “Thanks for…well, you saved my life, again.”

She laughed. “Pick one? Really?”

“You picked the right one.” He winked.

Yes, yes, she did. And he’d been standing right in front of her.

The wind had stirred the scent of his aftershave, and he wore a hint of a five-o’clock shadow, his chest pulling at the buttons on his shirt, and she’d just wanted to step close, run her hands over those amazing shoulders, feel his arms close around her.

Lower her lips to his and taste that amazing smile.

Oh, she wanted more than right now.

What was she thinking—she wanted forever.

And she almost took it, right then. Except for Ford, who’d taken a breath, backed away as if reminding himself of the last time they’d had this moment.

“Good luck tomorrow, Red. I’m rooting for you.” He took a step off the porch.

And what was she supposed to do, leap into his arms?

Maybe. Instead, she’d nodded. “Thanks.” And watched him walk away.

Not today. Today she was invincible again.

She hiked up the beach to her car, the sand warming her bare feet, and unlocked her door, dropped her gear in her trunk. Then she got into the hot front seat, leaving the door open as she retrieved her phone from the glove box.

She pulled up her messages to text Ford, sending him a quick I passed, and was about to follow up with her invitation when she spotted the voicemail. Unknown number, a 801 area code, the same as her mother’s from her days in Salt Lake City.

She opened the app and listened.

“This is State Trooper Troy Smith. I’m leaving a message for Scarlett Hathaway. Please call me as soon as possible…” He left his number, and she took a breath and dialed it.

He answered on the second ring and she identified herself.

He paused. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s been an accident…”

Scarlett leaned her head on her hand and listened to her future explode.

If someone wanted to take a shot at Glo, it would be tonight, right here in the middle of the San Diego Convention Center, as she took center stage after her mother accepted the vice presidential nomination.

Which was the only reason Tate agreed to go out onstage with her. Sure, the place was jammed with security, including their own force of Navy SEALs who’d agreed to step in for the evening—thank you, Ford. They mingled, plainclothed in the audience, their eyes peeled for trouble.

But Tate wasn’t taking any chances. He had no plans to leave Glo’s side.

Ever.

“You look nice,” Glo said as she turned to him, smoothing down his lapels.

“I still can’t understand why you wanted me in cowboy boots and my hat. I look like…”

“Calm down, Rango. You look like a hero.”

He cocked his head, gave her a look, and she pulled off his Stetson and set it on her head, grinning up at him.

“Now that looks better. And, I like this.” He touched the daisy she’d temporarily inked on her shoulder.

She wore a white, off-the-shoulder lace dress that showed off her tan, and a pair of boots.

“And this.” He pointed to the Dobro, the instrument twined behind her.

“Got a little something planned for the campaign?”

“Just tonight. Tomorrow, we’re back on the Nbr-X tour.”