Her Rancher Bodyguard. Brenda Minton
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didn’t realize money could be wasted this way. I bet I could fence our entire property with the money they spent on these light fixtures.”
She looked up, blinking, as if she’d never noticed those fancy crystal fixtures before. “I guess you probably could. We could take one with us, if you’d like?”
He laughed. “There’s the Kayla I’ve heard so much about. What do we do first?”
“Socialize,” she said. “I’m sure everyone is mingling, discussing politics and their neighbors and how to take down the person they pretend is their best friend.”
“Sounds like a great time. I can’t believe you don’t enjoy these events.”
She flicked a piece of lint off the collar of his tuxedo and smiled up at him. “I find ways to enjoy myself.”
The statement, casual with a hint of a grin and a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes, sounded warning bells. He gave her a careful look and she widened those same blue eyes in a less-than-perfect imitation of innocence.
“Not tonight,” he warned.
“Spoilsport.”
“No, just the guy who wants to keep you safe. I can’t do that if you pull a stunt.”
“I’m not going to do anything, I promise. Come with me. Time to greet my father.”
She led him through double doors and into a large room complete with linen-covered tables, candlelight, a small orchestra in the far corner and of course dozens of people. Boone took a careful look around the room. So these were the people who paid hundreds of dollars a plate just to say they’d attended or contributed. Impressive.
“There’s my father.” She nodded in the direction of a stately gray-haired man, his tuxedo obviously not rented.
“Should we make our presence known?”
“Soon. He’s talking to supporters. The woman coming up behind him is my stepmother, Marietta. My half brother Andrew is talking to that group. He’s very good at being good.”
She said it in such a way that meant she didn’t dislike Andrew. As if his being good wasn’t a horrible thing.
“We should mingle, correct?” Boone put a hand to her back and guided her around the room. She froze beneath his touch as he headed her toward a table of drinks.
“No, let’s not. Please.”
“There’s iced tea and lemonade.”
“It isn’t about the drinks, Wilder. It’s just...there are people here I prefer to avoid. At all costs.”
“Okay. Would any of them be the one who is stalking you?” He settled his gaze on the table, on the people gathered. Most were older men, a few women. He didn’t see anyone who should make her panic.
She took in a deep breath and gave a quick look around the room. “No one in that group. But I’d prefer to avoid them all the same.”
“Kayla, you’re here,” a woman called out. Kayla turned, straightening as she did. Poised but trembling.
The stepmother was bearing down on them. Marietta Stanford was tall with pale blond hair, a pinched mouth and less-than-friendly gray eyes. Boone didn’t know much about this world, but to his inexperienced eye he’d call her expensive and high maintenance.
“Of course I am. I couldn’t very well stay home, could I, Mother?”
Marietta Stanford’s nostrils flared. “Don’t start.”
Kayla smiled. “Right, I forgot. My father wanted me here. So I’m here.”
Boone moved a little closer, offering the protection of his nearness. That wasn’t his job, but if he was going to protect someone, he’d protect from all corners.
“Try to show some class tonight,” Marietta warned. And then she smiled, as if they’d been talking about the weather. “The pearls are a lovely touch.”
“For what it’s worth, I think she has the market cornered on class.” Boone winked at Kayla and was rewarded with a smile.
They moved away from her stepmother.
“Thank you,” Kayla whispered.
“No problem. Everyone needs someone in their corner.”
She nodded. “That’s a novel idea. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the restroom.”
“You’re okay?”
“Of course,” she said as they maneuvered through the room.
For the next five minutes he stood at the door waiting for Kayla to reappear. He glanced at his watch, then smiled at the group of women who gave him cautious looks as they walked in and out.
Finally he called Lucy. “She escaped.”
Lucy laughed. “Already?”
“She said she needed to use the restroom. I’ve been waiting here for a long time. People are starting to stare.”
“I’ll walk around back. See if you can get someone to go in. Maybe she’s just hiding in there.”
“Yeah, I will. Stay on the line.”
He looked around and as he did he caught a glimpse of a familiar profile.
“Luce, see if you can find her pronto. We have trouble in here. A certain blond with glasses.”
“Will do.”
As he hurried across the room, someone grabbed his arm, bringing him to a dead stop.
“Boone Wilder?” The older man had a firm grip, Boone would give him that.
“Yes, sir. You must be Mr. Stanford.”
“I am. And where’s my daughter?”
“She’s in the restroom. But, sir, I just saw the man who attacked her last night. If you don’t mind having this conversation later...”
“What? Where?” William Stanford glanced around. So did Boone. There were several hundred people in attendance and it seemed that half of them were gathered in the lobby.
“Great. He’s gone.”
“Of course he is. Or he never existed. My daughter has a wild imagination. This isn’t the first story she’s created and it won’t be the last.”
“The attack last night wasn’t her imagination. The concussion and the bruise on her jaw are not imaginary.” Boone continued to watch the crowd. He briefly looked at his client. “And the letters the two of you are getting, letters you failed to divulge, are not imaginary.”
A flicker of concern briefly settled in Mr. Stanford’s eyes. “She’s getting them, too?”
“Yes, she is. I don’t want to jump to conclusions but I think there might have been more to last night’s attack. It could be that their next step is to kidnap your daughter. Someone has something on you other than your daughter’s very public behavior. You’d best figure out what it is.”
Another man approached them, tall with graying hair and sharp, dark eyes. Boone guessed him to be in his late forties.
“Boone Wilder, this is my law partner and campaign manager, Paul Whitman,” William Stanford said.
“Mr. Whitman.” Boone shook his hand. It was a little too soft and a little too snaky. He refocused on his client. “I’m going to ask that you excuse your daughter from this event.”
“Has something happened to our little Kayla?” Mr. Whitman asked in a voice that matched his snaky appearance. “She does tend to fabricate stories.”
Boone caught a quick look between the two men. And Mr. Stanford’s was a definite warning to the other