“And now you’re waiting to fall hard,” Kelsey said. She set her magazine on the table. “Glo—”
“I know it isn’t true.”
“No, you don’t,” said Dixie. “But you’re hoping it isn’t true.” She picked up her glass of wine. “We all hope it isn’t true. That when something good happens, it’s because we deserve it. Or because fate likes us. But the fact is, the sun shines on the good and the bad. And so does the rain. You have to believe that no matter what happens, you’re going to be okay. That God’s grace is enough.”
Lights flickered on the horizon, probably boats at sea, almost pinpricks against the fabric of night.
But what if God’s grace wasn’t enough?
She didn’t voice her thought, just let it simmer in her brain as Kelsey and Dixie began to discuss their current song. Kelsey was humming a tune into her phone. Dixie had her eyes closed, as if imagining the harmonies on her fiddle.
Glo stared out into the darkness and tried not to let Sloan creep into her thoughts.
Her cell buzzed on the table. Tate’s picture appeared on the screen.
She picked it up and answered. “Hey, handsome.” Getting up, she walked off the deck, along the semi-lit pathway to the beach. In her periphery, she noticed Swamp moving too, a shadow of Tate-assigned protection.
“Hey. How’s the songwriting going?”
The ocean was still working out the last itches of the storm that had come through a day ago, froth edging the waves. The wind rushed through the tall seagrasses behind her.
“We hacked out a couple songs, but mostly we’re just…unwinding. How’s Seattle? Did you get any answers from Vicktor?”
She sat on the beach, digging her feet into the gravelly sand.
A pause, and something in it felt dark and pregnant. But, “No, nothing really.” His voice, however, sounded distant.
“Tate?”
“The FBI is stonewalling him about the shooting, too.”
Oh. Maybe it was just his frustration bleeding out. “So, no idea who the shooter was.”
“RJ still thinks it’s the Russian assassin, but why would the Russians want to kill your mother?”
“I don’t know. But if she is in league with the Russian mob—which is crazy talk—then why would they want to kill her?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to stay here and hunt around a few more days. And my sister just won’t give up the idea that York isn’t dead. She nearly got caught breaking into a townhouse last night, hunting down a lead.”
When you loved someone…
Glo took a breath. “I don’t blame her. I…I wouldn’t want to lose you.”
“You’re not going to lose me, Glo.”
“Yeah, well, Rambo, you’re not exactly Mr. Run-from-Danger.” She kept her voice easy, without the tremor that threatened to rattle out.
“Nothing is going to happen to me. I’m more worried about you.”
“I’m fine. I’m sitting on the beach, staring at the stars.”
He made a humming sound. “Me too. I’m sitting on Wyatt’s balcony. He’s got this hip loft that overlooks the Sound. And right now, there are about a hundred million stars in the sky, although I’ll bet your view is better.”
“It would be with you in it.”
She could almost hear his grin. “Ditto.” He was probably dressed in his off-duty attire of jeans, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. Probably smelled good, too, a hint of the morning’s aftershave still on his skin, a dark five-o’clock shadow skimming his chin. In her mind, she slipped onto his lap and put her arms around his shoulders. Leaned in to his strength.
Yes, Tate would be just fine. He was a former Ranger. A survivor.
Not a guy Sloan could take down easily.
“I had this crazy dream that Sloan found you and killed you,” she said softly, surrendering to the need to tell him. “I know—crazy. Probably just residual PTSD. And of course the daily reminder in the news of Mom’s ‘near miss’ a month ago in Seattle.”
He sighed.
“And I might be a little bit jealous of Kelsey’s plans to elope next month.”
“Knox and Kelsey are planning to elope?”
“Maybe we should elope.” She meant it as a joke.
“Maybe we should,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t mind being able to keep watch over you all night long.”
Oh. Heat filled her to her bones.
“It was a lot easier when we slept in the same tour bus.”
“Along with the rest of the Yankee Belles and Elijah Blue.”
“Still. Knowing you were on a back bunk, knowing that anything that came through the bus would have to go past me to get to you…yeah, Vegas, here we come.”
She laughed. “You can’t go back to Vegas, and you know it.” Because last time he was in Vegas, he’d nearly been beaten to death by a Russian mob thug named Slava.
Apparently the Bratva had a playing card with his picture on it.
And there went the happy warmth. She blew out a breath.
“Okay, fine. Atlantic City. Or maybe we just get a license and fly out to the ranch. Make it easy.”
Make it easy.
“With my mother, nothing is easy, but…”
“Glo Jackson, I love you. And I’m going to marry you. You set the date. Sooner than later. I’ll be there.”
Silly tears edged her eyes. “Come back to me. I miss you.”
“Just a couple more days.”
“Please stay out of trouble, Rambo.”
“Glo.” His voice had turned low, almost a hum under her skin. “Nothing is going to happen to me. Or you. And I am going to marry you. I promise.”
She drew in his voice, let it settle inside her.
But yes, she was going to set the date.
Before her nightmares came true.
5
Mack just needed a mission, a game plan, a strategy.
A villain to fight.
Like the fire that wanted to destroy the livelihood of the man who’d saved his life.
Mack had woken up, galvanized behind a goal. Maybe he’d been an engineer in his previous life because he appreciated a plan with workable tactics to get a job done.
As Jethro had described it, Mack could almost see the finished pub with its gleaming cedar and pine boards, the reworked copper bar, the industrial pipes.
But probably he’d been a criminal engineer because Mack had again woken in the middle of the night, sweat slicking his body, having grappled with his nightmares.
Having killed someone in his dreams.
He could probably live without waking with the residue of guilt, shame, and even horror in his soul.
The sunrise over the lake at Jethro’s house helped him shake it off, find his purpose. The deck overlooked the platinum expanse of Wapato Lake, the mountains rumpling the far side, the dawn bursting with rays of orange and red into the turquoise sky. A touch of autumn hung in the air, the scent of loam and the faintest rub of smoke in the breeze.
“The past just won’t leave you alone, will it?” Jethro greeted him from where he sat in his rocking chair, wearing his pajamas and a ratty green robe, leather slippers, and his spectacles down on his nose.