Reuben was on the porch cleaning the grill.
RJ was chopping zucchini for the kebabs, her expression one of disapproval.
Probably because Sloan was sitting at the kitchen island, drinking a cup of coffee and eating a cinnamon roll, York watching him with those scary blue eyes, his expression grim. Tate hadn’t let RJ or York talk to Sloan last night, refusing to let him spin any more lies about her mother.
Thank you, Tate. Glo didn’t want to hold anything against RJ, but the woman had conspiracy theories floating around her analyst brain.
Then again, that was her job—to root out nefarious plots.
Glo could hardly believe that the traitor inside her mother’s organization was Sloan. But it made sense. She’d even talked it over with Kelsey and Cher last night.
“He knew where Tate was in Vegas, both times,” Kelsey said after hearing the story.
“And let’s not forget he was insanely jealous of you and Tate,” Cher added. “I’m sure your mother asked him to vet Tate when he first joined your band. So he knew all about his past, especially his involvement with the Bratva.”
“I just never thought he would try and kill him.” Although, maybe she really didn’t know Sloan.
“And he was at the hotel where that woman was killed,” Kelsey said. “RJ’s boss.”
“Sophia Randall. Right. Which puts him in Seattle for the shooting at my mom’s rally.”
“Maybe Tate was the target,” Kelsey had said.
And that had sent a tremble into Glo’s bones.
But Sloan was under watch now, and he couldn’t hurt anyone.
Still, it unnerved her to see him sitting at the island as if he might be a guest. He looked at her. “Good morning.”
She frowned. “Yeah.”
“Don’t worry, honey, he’ll be back in the bathroom soon enough,” York growled.
“No, he won’t.” Her mother emerged from said bathroom. She wore a black dress with full, lacy arms, her hair down around her shoulders.
“Black, Mom, really?”
“Sorry, honey. I came right from a charity gala and didn’t have time to pick up a new gown. I decided this was better than a white pantsuit, right?” She kissed Glo on the cheek, then turned to York and held out her hand. “We met in Seattle.”
“Ma’am,” he said and shook her hand. “I appreciate your compassion, but Sloan—”
“Is innocent,” Her mother said.
Silence as all motion in the kitchen stopped.
“See?” Sloan said. “I knew your mother would vouch for me.”
Her mother held up her hand. She knew how to command a room, knew how to find exactly the right expression of disdain and confidence. “I didn’t say he hadn’t made mistakes. Clearly what he did to Tate—”
“Ma’am!” Sloan started, but her mother gave him a look and he closed his mouth.
“Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that he was behind the attack on Tate. It still doesn’t make him guilty of murder. My team took a look at Tate’s information, and Sloan has satisfactory alibis for each event.”
Where was Tate? Glo had expected him to be sitting in the kitchen watching Sloan like a bulldog. Except maybe he’d been up all night, so perhaps he was getting some winks.
Or maybe he was executing his usual prowl around the perimeter.
“Of course he won’t be allowed to leave, not until the proper authorities can verify his story. I’ve called the FBI, and they’re sending a team out to secure Sloan. Until then…” She turned to Sloan. “You’ve been a valuable member of my team for many years, and a friend of the family. You can join us at the wedding.”
“Mom!”
Her mother turned to Glo. Took a breath. “You’re right. It’s up to you, honey.”
Really? Glo stared at her, a little speechless. Out of the corner of her eye, Sloan was looking away, something pained on his face.
Oh, maybe her mother was right. Her mother had vouched for him.
“Fine. Okay.”
Her mother nodded. “That’s my girl.” She kissed Glo on the cheek again. “Oh, and your father is outside with Tate, giving him the talk, but he’ll be in shortly.”
The talk?
What talk?
But neither Tate nor her father mentioned it when they came in from whatever father-son chat they’d had out near the corral.
Tate nearly went ballistic again when Glo summed up her mother’s verdict, but when York said he’d watch Sloan, he consigned himself to the fact that the senator had the last say.
For now.
Really, it didn’t matter.
Again, the only thing Glo wanted was Tate, at the altar, his hands in hers, saying I do.
And maybe for nothing disastrous to happen. Like a sudden snowstorm or perhaps a nuclear bomb detonation.
“Hey, Glo-light,” her father said as he grabbed a cup of coffee. He wore a pair of gray pants, a white shirt, a vest, and a bow tie. And, of course, his black Cons.
“You’re looking very history professorish today.”
“At least I don’t have chalk in my hair.” He kissed her cheek. He’d cut his long hair for a big fund-raising dinner four months ago, but now it was curly again around his ears.
“Working on that man bun I see.”
“School’s already started. I feel like a hockey player without a beard.”
She laughed. Leaned close. “Wanna tell me what you and Tate talked about?”
“Just the usual. If he hurts you, I’ll kill him, that sort of thing.” He winked.
And somehow, right then, the day turned perfect.
See, she had nothing to worry about. Especially when she stood at the threshold of the porch some three hours later, the sun a glorious chandelier to their afternoon wedding. A white runner down the aisle of grass was framed by red, yellow, and orange chrysanthemums in mason jars.
And at the end, past the smiling faces of their small congregation, stood Tate.
Glo could barely breathe. He wore a black suit, a silver bow tie at his neck, and a pair of shiny, black cowboy boots. He’d shaved and now stared at her with such a look—yearning, admiration, love—it was a good thing she could hang on to her father’s arm.
Except it wasn’t an unknown minister standing at the end of the aisle, but…Hardwin?
She looked at Cher standing beside her. “What?”
“The minister couldn’t make it. Gerri said that Hardwin was licensed to perform weddings in Montana—he’d done one for his daughter a year or so back. We checked, and his license was still good…see, everything is going to be just fine. No disaster waiting. And you look gorgeous, by the way.”
Yes, maybe, by the look in Tate’s eyes as she glanced toward him. Her groom was flanked by Knox, then Reuben and Wyatt. Too bad his brother Ford couldn’t be here, but that was military life.
Cher handed her the bouquet of dark purple calla lilies as Dixie began playing “A Thousand Years” on her violin.
Not even the sight of Sloan standing two chairs down from her mother could mar the day. She ignored him, her gaze on her groom as she headed toward him.
Overhead, a hawk cried, the sound piercing through the music.
She slowed, but Tate didn’t take his eyes off her. Just gave her a slow, warm smile.