Page 114 of Tate
His answer to keeping his boys out of trouble: ranch work.
Probably why Ford left for the military immediately after high school, pushed himself into the SEALs. Hard work saved the day.
Saved him from himself.
Although he’d been ready to hide again when he’d gotten back to the house with Scarlett. Anything from knocking on the door to the den and taking her up on the offer he’d seen in her eyes.
He’d finished his water, put the glass in the dishwasher, and headed upstairs.
Slept a few scant hours, rose, and hit the road for a run. By the time he got back, Tate and Glo had left for Nashville.
And Scarlett had packed her duffel for the long, agonizing ride home. When he’d left her off at her house, he’d wanted to offer to help her with her tire, but she’d grabbed her duffel and waved him goodbye and yep, that was it.
He’d driven home, flopped into bed, and tried not to debrief for the next six hours what, exactly, had happened.
Now, five days later, he was still trying to work out the stiff muscles around his ego, not to mention his body.
He left the eggs to cool, changed into his running gear—a pair of compression shorts, running shorts, and a loose T-shirt—and stretched out his muscles in a run along the boardwalk of Coronado Beach. The sand rakes were out, gathering up theseaweed and other debris that collected with the tide, and a man ran with his dog down by the foamy surf. Tent and beach chair vendors dragged their offerings out of their shacks, and the ocean ran deep blue over the creamy sand. A few bicyclists passed him, and out in the water, early morning swimmers fought the gentle chop.
Eight miles, according to his Fitbit. His body was soaked, so he veered into the sand and ran straight for the surf. Toed off his shoes and pulled off his shirt, dropping them on the beach before he splashed out into the waves.
Cool, refreshing, and maybe this was exactly what he needed to get Scarlett out of his system. What happens in Montana stays in Montana—wasn’t that what Tate said?
Ford dove in and swam under the waves, straight out into the deep—long strokes before surfacing and gulping in the fresh air.
He bobbed there, free in the ocean, kicking slightly to keep himself from slipping under. Although, that was okay too. Just under the waves, floating, almost like flying.
He’d learned how to float in BUD/S. How having his head under the water and kicking up for a breath conserved energy.
He let himself go, the waves pulling him, nothing of a current in the depths.
“Hey!”
He heard the voice as he surfaced for air.
“Hey, are you okay?”
He turned, shaking the water from his eyes, and spied someone swimming toward him. She wore a swim cap, as if she might be out exercising, and it took him just a second for his brain to clear and settle on recognition.
Scarlett?
She was freestyling toward him, power in her strokes, and as she drew closer, she pulled up, clearly surprised to see him. “Ford.”
“Hey, Red. What are you doing here?”
She was close enough for him to see she wore a one-piece athletic suit, and hello, of course she was out training. Didn’t she have a PRT this week sometime?
The elite physical entrance exam to be a rescue swimmer.
“I’m just finishing up my mile swim.”
Right. The waves had brought him in close enough to touch bottom, and now his feet settled on the sand. “I was on my run.”
“You looked like you might be having a cramp or something.”
He stared at her, then laughed. “Right. It’s a treading water technique—you’ll probably learn it.” And with those words, it occurred to him… “How is your PRT training going?”
The sun had found her nose, left a little red there, and the water clung to her long lashes. Small yet powerful in the water, and he tried to wrap his brain around her staying above water in the high seas.
