He had to look away in order to continue. “I would ask who you’re more like-your mother or your father-but I saw you in action in Austin.”
“Actually, I have a master’s degree in English,” she said with a smile in her voice. “And a bachelor’s degree in English and Poli-Sci. I was a few credits short of a PhD in English-thought I wanted to teach.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I got married. My ex wanted me to pursue my interest in political science-he thought I’d be happier.” She sighed, her expression bittersweet. “He was right, as much as I hate to admit it. I did some PR for a Tennessee congressman while I was working on my doctorate. Then Anthony decided Texas was the place to be if we wanted to make a big splash in politics.”
“We?” he asked, looking back at the training ring as Zachary took the quarter horse into a canter.
“He’s a lobbyist for the oil industry. Not really that political, actually-he follows the money. I was the one who was bitten by the policy bug.”
He looked at her again, sensing from her tone of voice that her dangerous smile had disappeared. He was right. She was following her son’s circuit of the ring with a troubled gaze.
“Enough personal stuff,” she said. “Did you get what you needed at the ranch house, or should I call Lindsay over to talk to you?”
“I called ahead. Lindsay set me up with the foreman, and he gave me everything he had.”
“Anything of note?”
“Maybe.”
“What are you looking for in the background checks?”
“This and that,” he answered vaguely, not sure he should be telling anyone, not even Stacy, about what Vince Russo had discovered about the explosive device. Information security might turn out to be vital to the investigation.
“I know it’s important, but having people nose around in your background is creepy,” Stacy murmured.
“You’ve been through it before.”
“That’s how I know it’s creepy.”
It wasn’t his favorite part of the job, either. He usually preferred a more hands-on approach to security. Put a rifle in his hand, point him toward a nest of human vipers on the battlefield, and he knew what to do. Being in charge of all aspects of this security plan was a lot more daunting.
He flexed his scarred hand, the twinge of pain a reminder that his rifle-wielding days were behind him. He’d recently started taking target practice again, with mixed results. He supposed he should be happy he still had a hand left to pull a trigger. It could have gone the other way.
“How did you injure your hand?” Stacy asked.
“IED in Iraq,” he answered shortly.
Her voice dropped an octave. “You’re lucky to be alive. It’s amazing you still have use of your hand.”
“I know.” At least, he knew that now. For months of painful surgeries, recovery and rehab at Walter Reed, he hadn’t been so sure. Especially when his doctors told him he’d never be able to shoot his sniper rifle again.
He’d proved them wrong. Sort of. He could finally shoot again. He just couldn’t always hit the target anymore.
“Is that why you retired from the service?”
“Something like that.”
She looked up at him, her face once again transformed by a smile. Her skin seemed to glow where the sun touched it, as if she were made of pale gold. He felt tempted to touch the curve of her cheek to find out if she were soft and warm-or hard and cold. He clenched his arm to his side and looked away.
“What are we going to do about security checkpoints at the party?” Stacy asked. “I don’t think the governor is going to want her guests to feel as if they’ve just entered the Green Zone in Baghdad.”
“They’re going to have to put up with at least some inconvenience,” Harlan said firmly, glad to have business talk to distract him from how much he still wanted to touch her.
They continued discussing the plans for the fundraiser on the drive back to Twin Harts Ranch, their spirited back-and-forth punctuated now and then by Zachary’s horse-related non sequiturs. They didn’t make a lot of sense in the context of what he and Stacy were talking about, but Harlan found himself more amused than frustrated by Zachary’s rambling commentary.
The kid was incredibly bright and articulate for a five-year-old, with a vocabulary and a logical thought process that might elude a much older child. And knowing his problem made it easier for Harlan to accept and enjoy Zachary for who he was. He was quirky and interesting. He was always going to be a different kind of person, but different wasn’t always bad.
Sometimes, he thought, his gaze wandering back to Stacy’s profile, different was very, very good.
THEY ARRIVED BACK AT THE RANCH around 5:00 p.m. “I need to get that ranch map you were asking about in the car,” Stacy said as she let them inside the house. She headed for her bedroom office, leaving Zachary with Harlan in the living room.
It only occurred to her as she was coming back up the hallway that she hadn’t thought twice about leaving Zachary in Harlan’s care. That wasn’t like her at all.
She found him in the kitchen, opening a can of vegetable soup for Zachary, who sat at the kitchen bar watching him, perched on one of the tall stools.
Harlan glanced at Stacy over his shoulder. “He said it was vegetable soup night and he was hungry.”
She smiled. “He insists on vegetable soup after his Thursday riding lesson. Not sure why.”
“Hey, why question something good like veggie soup, right?” He smiled at Zachary. Zachary was stone-faced in response. To his credit, Harlan seemed unfazed by Zachary’s lack of reaction.
“Is there a special way he likes his soup prepared?” he asked Stacy just as the phone started ringing.
She started toward the phone. “Use one of the bigger bowls to mix it with a half a can of water. Heat it for thirty seconds in the microwave, just to take the chill off. Put half in the red bowl-be sure it’s the red bowl. I’ll eat the rest later.” Stacy picked up the phone receiver. “Hello?”
The line was open, but no one responded.
“Hello?” she repeated.
She thought she heard breathing on the other end, for just a second. Then there was a soft click and the line went dead.
Weird, she thought as she hung up the phone.
“Wrong number?” Harlan asked.
She turned and found him pouring soup into the red bowl sitting in front of Zachary. “I guess-nobody said anything.”
A little furrow formed between Harlan’s dark eyebrows. “Did you hear anything at all on the other end of the line?”
“I thought I heard breathing. It was probably some kid making a crank call.” She shrugged it off.
“Maybe,” Harlan murmured. He picked up the phone and punched a couple of buttons-checking incoming caller ID, Stacy realized.
“Anything?” she asked.
He shook his head, putting down the phone and heading back to the kitchen. “Number’s blocked.”
“Do you think it was something besides a prank?” Stacy settled down next to Zachary at the breakfast bar.
Harlan set the larger bowl in front of her and slid a spoon across the counter. “I don’t think we can assume anything, one way or the other. Whoever’s after the governor probably knows you’re her closest aide. That could make you a target. I want to put an extra guard on your place, if that’s okay with you.”
Stacy had spent six years married to a man who had liked to micromanage her every move. To be caged that way again was unappealing. But the last thing Stacy wanted was for her son to be in danger.
“Okay,” she said, looking down at her soup, all appetite gone. “But can you even get a guard here tonight on such short notice?”
Harlan was quiet for a moment. Stacy could almost see his thoughts churning behind his dark, conflicted gaze. Then his expression cleared and his jaw squared.
