Page 29 of Tate
Knox laughed. “Yeah. In case we all forget. Let’s take the ranch Cessna.”
He headed into the house for the keys, and Tate threw his duffel into the back of the truck.
Leaned against it, lifting his face to the heat of the day.
No, he didn’t know the word quit.
But that’s exactly how Jammas had gotten killed. Because Tate had been stubborn, acting on his gut. Leading his team, on a tip, from house after house in the tiny village to find the Taliban barricaded there.
He’d found them. Oh, he’d found them.
He lifted his leg, stretching out his knee, almost an unconscious reaction.
Stubborn and stupid. Seemed like a thin line between them.
Knox returned carrying a briefcase. He put it in the cab of the truck, and Tate went around to get in.
Silence, then Knox got in and glanced at him. “Don’t forget Rube’s wedding.”
“Nope.”
“Stay out of trouble.”
“Yep.”
“You’re doing the right thing.”
Tate looked at him. Knox was driving with one hand on the wheel and raised his shoulder.
“If it was me, I wouldn’t let her go either. I learned that with Kelsey.”
Huh.
“This is everything I have on the bombing in San Antonio.” Knox gestured to the briefcase. “Kelsey won’t talk about it, won’t look at it, and I think I need to get the memories out of the house, so…it’s on you now, bro.”
Tate reached for the briefcase and opened it. Knox’s pictures, newspaper reports, emails, and every detail he’d researched about the near tragedy in San Antonio were neatly piled together. “Thanks.”
Knox pulled up to the Cessna. “Stop these guys, Tate.” He met Tate’s eyes, his mouth a grim line. “And don’t get killed.”
The memory of Knox tackling Slava off his body as his last breath leaked out flashed across his brain. His throat tightened, and he wasn’t sure how to pinpoint the emotion.
Knox got out, did his walk-around and final checks, and soon they were airborne.
Their land undulated below them, their herd of beef cattle lounging on the greening table. Knox kept the bucking bulls—four of them, along with their star bull, Gordo—in their own separate fields.
The hum of the plane was too loud to talk, so Tate let thoughts of Glo take over.
Glo, when he’d first met her, dirty from the bombing, standing sentry outside Kelsey’s ambulance.
Glo, desperate as she searched for Kelsey when she discovered her friend missing.
Glo, sweet as she coaxed Kelsey out of a panic attack.
Glo, onstage, singing her heart out, her fingers flying on her banjo.
Glo, after a gig, sharing a pizza with him, beating him in a game of gin rummy.
Glo, dancing in his arms at the Bulldog Saloon, grinning, laughing.
