Tate Read online

  He had a feeling she might be skimming over the truth.

  He touched the brakes as they came up on a semi, pulled out, and passed it.

  “We got our own apartment for a while there. It was a good time. Mom was in recovery and doing well, and she was auditioning again. We’d run lines together—she taught me how to do accents.”

  “Like—?” Ford asked.

  She affected a French accent. “‘Yes, well, life is not all shoot-shoot, bang-bang, you know.’”

  He gave her a blank look.

  “Really? Inspector Clouseau. The Pink Panther?”

  “Sorry. We were Gunsmoke and Bonanza people.”

  “Sad. I don’t know if she ever got the part, but I loved that apartment. I remember this tiny Christmas tree my mother put up. It was the first real Christmas tree we’d ever had, and we made paper ornaments to decorate it. It even had lights. I begged her to let me sleep out under it, and I’d lie on the floor in my Little Mermaid sleeping bag, watching them glitter against the ceiling. It was perfect. We lived in this two-story walk-up with a pool, so during the summer, I’d lie out by the pool and pretend I was a movie star. That was when we met Gary.”

  She drew in a breath.

  And he tensed. “Gary?”

  “There’s a truck stop,” she said.

  He took the off-ramp and pulled up to a pump.

  While she was gone, he found his morning rations and ate them out of his Thermos.

  Gary. The name had lodged a fist into his gut.

  When she got back in the truck—carrying a bag of mini donuts, a Diet Coke, and a bag of Cheetos—she didn’t bring it back up.

  And really, although they’d talked before, it was mostly about football teams and local cuisine and even fellow teammates, so maybe he didn’t know her at all. But he wanted to.

  He glanced at her, pained by a little girl in brown pigtails sitting at a diner table drinking a chocolate shake, hoping her mother would return. His stomach clenched, the oatmeal not quite sitting right.

  “Want a donut?” She held out the open bag.

  He hesitated, then, “Okay,” and reached in the bag.

  That tasted pretty good.

  They drove through Vegas, commented on a few of the buildings, and came out the other side, the road winding through desolation. Tumbleweeds littered the highway, the earth barren, dotted with scrub brush and cacti. Occasionally, a mobile home park would pop up, with rusty, small units hunkering down to survive what felt like the Apocalypse.

  He’d been a little—no, a lot—spoiled growing up in Montana, with the rugged mountains, the lush valleys, the waterfalls, and big blue open sky.

  They finally hit Zion National Park, the pink and orange sandstone cliffs rising to greet them as the sun climbed high.

  “Want me to drive?” Scarlett said into the quiet. He hadn’t realized how long they’d driven without talking, hadn’t realized they’d found a comfortable silence.

  “I’m okay.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Actually, his brain had been on the op, the one where he’d nearly gotten killed, and the conversation with Nez twenty-four hours later, after Ford had thrown up some congealed blood in his stomach. Never again, hotshot. You don’t go rogue on your team.

  “Martha, that woman we saved. And the fact that if you hadn’t told me about those squirters, they might have run us down, taken her back.”

  “Taken you guys too.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’d never let myself be taken.”

  She stared at him through her sunglasses a long time. “You’d die first?”

  “No, I’d just…I wouldn’t let myself be taken.”

  She drew in a breath. “That’s the part I don’t like—knowing you guys are out there and really, I can’t do anything about it.”

  “What are you talking about? You were my eyes out there. I went totally blind when my NVGs kicked off. You saved my life.”

  “Or, I could have watched you die, right there. I just…I want to do more, you know?”

  “I don’t know what more you could do without becoming a SEAL. You can’t deploy with us into the field.”

  “I could,” she said quietly. “They opened up SEAL training to women.”

  He knew better than to react. “Mmmhmm.”

  “I can tell by your smirk. You don’t think we can do it—pass the requirements.”

  “Them are fightin’ words, Red. Let’s just say that three women have tried and not made it.”

  She went quiet, and he finally looked at her, the silence no longer peaceful.

  She wasn’t actually thinking of trying to be a SEAL, was she? He could see her then, all kitted up in body armor, face paint, camo, waiting for her at their drop or exfil point, and a coldness poured through him.

  Sure, she could pass the training. Probably. Maybe.

  Huh.

  Even if she did…uh, no. He didn’t want her anywhere near the militants who wouldn’t think twice about not just shooting her but taking her captive. And leaving the wounds on Scarlett he’d seen in Martha’s eyes.

  Yes, it felt selfish to keep her from something she wanted. But they were a good team. They worked.

  However, he couldn’t turn into some sap and tell her that.

  “Let’s get some grub,” she said then, clearly evading. Like the soldier she was—survive, evade, resist, and escape.

  He suddenly wanted to do the same.

  “I think I need a burger.” She pointed to a green building coming up on the side of the road.

  Dusty’s Roadhouse. He spied a few Harleys in the dirt drive as they pulled up, and he wondered what they might be getting themselves into. But they’d been on the road for nearly ten hours, and his body was stiffening up.

  He parked, and they got out. She strode toward the door without waiting for him.

  He followed her in.

  The place smelled like a roadhouse, the scent of fried foods in old oil saturating the worn wood planking on the walls. Neon signs listed the beer available on tap or in bottles, and at the back of the room, a stage painted black hosted a few empty mics.

  She headed toward a red vinyl booth, but his gaze landed on a lineup of big guys dressed in cutoff shirts and leather pants, at the bar. He didn’t love the way their gazes latched onto Scarlett.

  He took off his sunglasses, gave one of the guys a hard look, then slid into the booth seat opposite Scarlett.

  She grabbed a menu propped near the napkin holder and handed it to him. “Best thing in these places—the house burger and probably the fries. Order for me—I’m going to use the bathroom.”

  He watched her as she slid out of the booth and headed toward the back.

  A Garth Brooks song came on, apropos for the environment. I’ve got friends in low places…

  Ford scanned the menu, his gaze traitorously falling on the O-rings and ribs.

  He nearly missed the movement from the bar. One of the bigger guys—sporting a short beard, a bandanna on his head, and a bare chest under a leather vest—headed toward the bathrooms.

  Ford put the menu down, watching.

  Scarlett came out of the bathroom just as the man met her in the hallway.

  He stood in her way.

  Ford started moving out of the booth.

  Then, suddenly, she laughed and patted the man on his muscled arm and moved past him.

  Ford stilled, and her gaze landed on his, her smile fixed.

  So maybe he’d sort of overreacted there. He slid back into the booth, and she joined him.

  Her neck was a little flushed.

  “You okay?”

  “Mmmhmm.” She picked up her purse. “But we’re leaving. Now.”

  He raised an eyebrow but followed her back out into the sunshine. She climbed into the truck, and only then did her breath blow out. “Right. Okay. So yeah, he sort of mentioned a suggestion of what we might do in that bathroom together.”

  Ford froze. Sh
e put her hand on his arm. “I made a comment about the likelihood of that and laughed. He might have been a bit surprised at my frankness. We should probably go before he tells his friends.”

  Ford just stared at her.

  “Unless you want to grab that steak? Might need to bring your Winkler in with you.”

  He put the truck in reverse. Pulled out. “You’re not boring, are you, Red?”

  “Just trying to keep you out of trouble, Navy.” She leaned back, put her bare feet on the dash, and closed her eyes.

  They hit another McDonald’s in Salt Lake City, and he retrieved his salad out of the cooler while eying her fries and chocolate shake.

  They hit construction just north of Ogden on I-15, and a line of traffic slowed to a crawl. The sun hung low, casting the mountains to the east in an amber glow. She checked the GPS on her phone. “We’re getting close. Get off at 13, toward Corinne.” She pointed to an upcoming exit.

  He took it, and they found themselves wandering along country roads, past ranches and farmland, through a small town.

  They came out the other side and went under a highway with no on-ramp.

  “Oops, I think that was our road.” She waved him forward. “Keep going.”

  Well, he always obeyed her voice. He went past a Texaco, a diner, more farmland, a tiny town with a Dairy Queen, and finally noticed she’d gotten very quiet. He glanced over at her.

  “Turn right at the next road.”

  He raised an eyebrow but turned onto a road named W 2000 S, which felt way off the grid.

  They drove for five miles, as she fiddled with her GPS. Finally, she gave him a grim look.

  “What?”

  “We lost cell phone coverage a ways back. I…I think we’re lost.”

  He slowed and pulled over to the gravel. Turned to her. She gave him a chagrinned smile. “Sorry.”

  “Okay, let me take a look.”

  The map was loading.

  He handed it back. “We’ll find directions somewhere.”

  He pulled back on the road, and they kept driving, but his gaze went to the fuel gauge. They’d dropped below a quarter tank going through Salt Lake City, and now the gauge hovered just above E.

  And that’s when the gas empty light flickered on. Forty miles to them standing on the side of the road with a gas canister, him hitching to the nearest Sinclair.

  “I’m turning around.”

  She spotted a sign as he turned around. “Ten miles to Malad.”

  “That’s…we were just there, Red. We passed the Welcome to Idaho sign miles ago. You’re sort of useless without a drone.”

  “Wait—” She sat up, turned around to read the sign they’d passed. “Sixteen miles to Holbrook. I recognize that—it’s on the way.”

  “Red—we’re getting close to fumes here.”

  “Trust me.”

  He turned around and kept heading west.

  They passed a vast area of grassland and a national forest sign. A weathered house looked just about ready to fall in the wind.

  They entered the town of Holbrook, designated by a wooden sign and a silo. “I don’t see a gas station.”

  “Yeah, but Rockland isn’t far.”

  He took a right and headed north.

  Mountains rose to the west, green peaks still covered in places with snow. A lone red farmhouse sat off the road, a gate sagging, clearly abandoned. Purple sage blew in the wind.

  He glanced at his gauge. Twenty-eight miles to E.

  Scarlett had fallen into a pensive silence.

  “You okay?”

  She took a breath and gathered herself. Nodded. “Yeah. Yep. All good.”

  “Yeah, you’re lying.”

  She glanced over at him. “I don’t like my mother’s latest boyfriend too much. His name is Axel. He’s an ex-con, which doesn’t make him a bad guy, it’s just…he doesn’t work, and he doesn’t treat her very well and…I just wish better for her.”

  “This guy isn’t…well, he’s not like Gary, right?” He wasn’t sure why he’d brought that up again, but something about the way she’d handled the guy in the roadhouse, an understanding of how to evade and escape—he’d begun to wonder if it didn’t come from the military but personal experience.

  “No,” she said quietly. “He’s not like Gary.”

  Ford’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  “It’s up here.” She sat up. He spotted a tiny community nestled into the draws and foothills of a nearby mountainous rise. A tiny white church rose from the main street. Another one, bigger, sat at the edge of town. “The Mormon church.” Scarlett pointed it out. “Take a left at the café.”

  The word Café in red lettering jutted out from the door of a nondescript white house. Yeah, he’d bet there was a lineup.

  Across from an ancient Amoco, rusty and permanently closed, the tiny building had been converted to an outdoor eatery. It looked more like an auto parts store than a café.

  “Right on South Willow.”

  Surprisingly, the community was clean, the yards trimmed, the houses kept up. He drove past a row of double-wides with front porches and hanging flowers.

  “There.”

  He wasn’t sure what he might be expecting, but something inside him unclenched a little as he pulled up to a tiny green house with a white painted front porch. A potted geranium had breathed its last on the front stoop, but he spotted a trampoline in the side yard and a bike leaning against a mature oak tree.

  He pulled onto the gravel drive, and Scarlett reached for the handle. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

  Wait. He felt the pulse inside him as she let herself out.

  Wait. Another tharrumph as a man came out onto the porch. He was tall and muscled, his shoulders thick. Maybe early forties, his long hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a layer of whiskers, more lazy than GQ, on his face. He wore a black muscle shirt and a pair of loose-fitting gym shorts, flip-flops. And his gaze settled on Scarlett with a slight uptick to his mouth.

  Axel?

  Ford didn’t know why he’d expected someone in his sixties. Maybe because his mother had just turned sixty and he thought Scarlett might be a year or two older than him. But this guy…

  The man came off the porch toward Scarlett, swagger in his steps, like…well, a little like the biker at Dusty’s.

  Ford got out of the truck. Clearly this ride wasn’t quite over.

  6

  The woman was on a mission to make him lose his mind.

  And it just might work.

  Tate didn’t move a muscle, his gaze on everything but Glo as she walked along the Japanese gardens of Cheekwood Estate, hand in hand with Sloan Anderson. A slight May breeze bullied the white Japanese lilacs that bordered the meandering paths dappled in purples and reds from the lingering twilight.

  The perfect romantic stroll for a couple in love.

  He glanced at Glo, just a check-in, then surveyed the area beyond her, the pavilion and stunted pines on the horizon ahead.

  An impulsive stroll after an early dinner at the Watermark, just off Music Row.

  At least he didn’t have to try to keep her in his sights at one of the blues joints on Bourbon Street or on the packed dance floor of the Wildhorse Saloon, venues he thought might be more the taste of the woman he knew.

  Once knew.

  But apparently that woman had vanished, replaced by this upper-crust society woman who preferred dinner and jazz at Sambuca, and Brahms at the Nashville Symphony. Gone were her red cowboy boots, her daring painted-on tattoos, and the twinkle in her eye as she glanced at him standing in the wings.

  No, all her glances and even sweet smiles she reserved for Sloan. Tonight she wore a high-collared pink dress, black heels that had to be killing her, and twined her fingers through Sloan’s as she listened to him drone on about the exploits of a senator during his season as a lobbyist.

  A voice came through his earpiece—the driver, one of the security staff, waiting at the gate.

&nb
sp; “Rango, it’s Swamp. ETA?”

  Swamp, aka Baker Flemming from Florida. All the guys had nicknames beyond their formal names. Tate had been dubbed Rango after some cartoon Swamp had seen.

  On his shift he worked with Rags—Art Ragsdale; Petey-Boy—Bobby Peterson; and Mitty—Walter Jenkins. Good guys who had stayed out of his business with Glo but knew something might be up after he’d come in one night a few days ago after a shift of watching Glo swoon over Sloan, taped up, and attacked the hanging bag in the weight room. Nearly threw out his shoulder again but felt the muscles start to knit together, and by the end, the adrenaline and heat of his frustration had worked into his bones, settled them, and spread out into determination.

  Glo couldn’t possibly really like this schmuck. He was smooth and manipulative. And he wanted his own limelight.

  Glo needed someone willing to stand on the sidelines and watch her shine.

  The bunk room, for the guys who worked full time and didn’t have digs in town, hosted a weight room, sauna, pool table, darts, a kitchenette, laundry, and a communications room that rivaled NASA.

  He’d spent more than a few hours doing homework on the Bryant League. Had a call—or few—in to his sister, who seemed to be ignoring him.

  The sooner he caught the sniper and the guys who bombed the arena, the sooner he knew the immediate threat had been neutralized, the sooner he could ditch his agreement with the senator, turn his attention on Glo, and make this a fair fight.

  The couple stopped in the cool shade of the pavilion, and Glo leaned against one of the corner poles, turning to Sloan. She touched his chest, a playful gesture as she laughed.

  The flirting slipped under Tate’s skin, buzzed. He gritted his jaw as he stopped and stood at a distance, his body turned away, searching for threats, although honestly, the unscheduled stop was probably one of the safest moves.

  Still, they couldn’t completely shut down the garden without prior notice, so it was on him to keep a heads-up.

  His scan brushed over Glo and just as it did, she looked up.

  She had the most amazing hazel-green eyes, with glints of gold in the sunshine, darkening as twilight dipped into them, and now they held on to him, just a moment.