Page 43 of Knox
Then he filled another cup of coffee and headed across the great room, up the stairs, with the dawn gilding the smooth pine floors, and into his room.
He set the cup of coffee on his bedside stand. Walked over to his closet. Opened it and considered the contents.
Inside, pictures of the bombing, taken from the internet—aerial shots, layouts of the arena, crowd photos, anything he could find—were tacked to the back wall, along with news articles with highlighted and circled data. He’d included the entire roster of cowboys, stock animals—with the deceased underlined—and a rough timeline of events.
He’d even run down a list of Kelsey’s crew, although they seemed unlikely culprits, as well as the security staff, thank you, Tate.
In the center of the array was the picture of the two cowboys he’d seen, sketched out from memory. A bad sketch, but he’d inherited some of his mother’s skill. And on top of it all, he’d posted yellow notes with questions, along with a phone number to the private investigator he’d hired down in San Antonio. Probably not the wisest of expenses, but he just needed names. Somewhere to start to answer the questions he couldn’t escape.
The most important being—why would a cowboy clown from Lubbock, Texas, want to bomb a rodeo?
No, this wasn’t over. And he wasn’t putting anything behind him.
I told you, I’m going to get you out of this.
Tate didn’t know how to protect Kelsey. Not since she’d turned into a zombie. Or at least part of the walking dead, because every day she seemed to fade. Sure, she gave a rather gallant attempt at showing up for practice. Especially since they were opening this weekend in the city of Lincoln, Nebraska, for Brett Young, a country singer out of Nashville. Carter had nabbed them the fill-in gig when Young’s warm-up act had bailed.
Kelsey wore her game face during the day, rehearsing the finale she’d orchestrated as they practiced onstage at the Bourbon Theatre, another historic venue, a 1930s renovated movie theater. Tate had watched from the wings as she powered through her song, refusing to let the darkness own her as she walked offstage with Glo and Dixie.
The woman had the steel-edged spine of a warrior.
Reminded him a little of his sister, Ruby Jane. She would have joined the SEALs right alongside her twin, Ford, if the Navy would have allowed it.
Instead, Ruby Jane traveled the globe as a travel agent/interpreter. The woman was fluent in five languages.
In fact, all his siblings had scraped out spectacular lives. Knox, the legendary breeder; Wyatt, with his superstar career as goalie for the Minnesota Blue Ox; Ford, kicking down doors and saving lives as a SEAL; and even big brother Reuben, jumping out of planes like he might be a superhero, into a flaming forest.
While he, middle-child Tate, managed to—what?—well, he’d emerged from his years working security for a Russian casino boss in Vegas alive. That counted for something. But while he liked hanging around the Belles, managing their security seemed at best low-end babysitting. Other than Kelsey’s midnight strolls, he hadn’t a clue why Glo had hired him.
Maybe for moments like this, when Kelsey slipped out of the tour bus for a midnight stroll. They’d given him a sofa on the bus while they figured out the last few weeks of their tour, and he hadn’t hated it. Sort of liked listening to the breathing of the three ladies, not to mention the snores of Elijah Blue. It reminded him of bunking with Wyatt and Ford back at the ranch.
Wow, he missed those guys.
Not that he’d let on, but yeah, every time Ma brought up coming home for her birthday, he wanted to ask—Will Wyatt and Ford be home? Not that he didn’t want to see Reuben and Knox, and especially Ruby Jane, but he’d never related to his older two brothers.
At least Wyatt and Ford looked up to him. Then.
And Ruby Jane thought he hung the moon.
Yep, he missed that. But as long as he’d committed to trailing after Kelsey and her midnight strolls, he would miss the big event.
Better to be employed, perhaps.Sorry, Ma.
He waited for Kelsey to tiptoe by him and open the door before he got up, grabbed his shirt, and followed her out.
He gave her a long leash. They’d arrived a few days early, so although Glo had voted for a hotel, Kelsey insisted they park the bus at a place outside town, the venue being locked in the concrete jungle. Elijah Blue and Dixie opted for a nearby hotel, which left him, Glo, and Kelsey to spread out in the bus. It also meant that he didn’t stress out when Kelsey went on her walkabout.
Most of the time she simply wandered the long tree-lined campground. Once, she sat at the edge of a river, staring into the swaying moonlit grasses.
He stayed back, in the shadows, her silent sentry.
But her restlessness shimmered off her. A very present wariness, as if at any time her world could drop out beneath her.
PTSD. Ben King had nailed it at the concert. Apparently, Ben’s wife, Kasey, suffered from occasional issues with PTSD from her time in Afghanistan. But a person didn’t have to be a soldier to be stressed out and traumatized.
He guessed that more people walked around with PTSD than they realized.
He hung back and watched as she headed down to the kiddie park that contained a slide, a couple swings, and a merry-go-round.