Page 113 of Tate
“Just that maybe, even if the Bryant League isn’t behind this, these two guys might be still in play.”
“I’ll pass it along. Tate and Glo went to some big award show last night, so my guess is that he’s sitting by the pool somewhere, nursing a late-night headache.”
She laughed. “Probably.”
“But I can promise you, he’s not going to let anything happen to Glo. Not the way he behaved with her at the wedding.”
“Really?”
“Let’s just say, Tate finally found his girl.”
“I like that Glo. She’s a tough—and beautiful—cookie.”
He might say the same about Scarlett.
“Okay, well maybe it’s not a big deal then, just pass it along when you can.” She looked away from the camera again, and this time a frown crossed her face.
“Where are you?”
She glanced back at the screen and seemed to consider his words. Then she set her phone down faceup, her fingers blocking the view, but for a second, he saw the surroundings. A pub with arched ceilings and a mural on the wall.
Then a face. Partially obscured by a newspaper that held a cone of fries, but dark hair, cut short, and dark eyes. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, and the shot revealed a tattoo that wound up his arm.
Ford only got a glimpse, but it looked like a bone frog.
Just like that, she cut the connection.
Huh.
He turned off the heat under his eggs, dumped them into a bowl of ice water.
Sat on the counter stool of his apartment and dialed Tate. No answer. It went to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message.
You’re a typical male. You don’t believe women should have dangerous jobs.
Okay, maybe. Ford had awoken in a sweat the night after Scarlett had told him her plans, hearing old screams echo through his brain, and found himself downstairs in the darkness, searching for a glass of water and something for his pitching stomach.
He didn’t know why, but he’d gone into the family office attached to the kitchen. His father’s pictures still hung on the wall, especially the crazy family Christmas picture, taken so many years ago. He’d been eleven or twelve and of course sat next to Ruby Jane in front of the stone fireplace. Ma had made them all wear ugly Christmas sweaters—save Wyatt who got out of it by never taking off his favorite hockey jersey. Providential that he went on to play for the team he loved—the Minnesota Blue Ox.
Tate, of course, was grinning, holding a couple of rabbit ears over Knox’s head.
Knox stared into the camera, way too serious. The do-gooder. He looked just like their dad, with the full head of hair. Except Dad sported a Tom Selleck mustache and black hair.
Knox had his wisdom and his voice too. Standing there in the office, with the wide wooden desk, the leather chair, the bookcases stacked with Louis L’Amour novels and old Bible commentaries, Ford could practically hear the old man.
Ford, climb out from under that desk! There’s work to do!
He grinned against the memory. And the six-year-old who’d emerged, a couple of plastic six-guns attached to his legs.
Hiding from the bad guys?
No. From Tate and Wyatt. They’re going to throw me in the river.
He could nearly hear his dad’s laughter.
Courage isn’t about hiding. It’s about who you put your faith in. C’mon.
He couldn’t remember the rest, but it probably ended with his father finding Tate and Wyatt and making all of them mow hay or clean the barn or even ride fence.
