Thankfully, no oil had actually spilled. Isabeau sent up a small prayer of thanks for that. Still, the gathering news media lingered outside the chain-link fence. Their cameras looked unnatural against the skinny pine trees reaching skyward.
Protestors armed with signs gathered, starting rhythmic chants. “Hey, hey. Oh, oh. These pipelines have got to go. Hey, hey. Oh, oh...”
Surveying the crowd, she guessed there were about seventy-five protestors and half a dozen news crews. Not too bad, but serious enough to warrant alarm.
Trystan had jumped right in, speaking, navigating the concerns of both conservation activist Delaney Steele and the pipeline construction workers. Though he’d vowed this wasn’t his element, Isabeau couldn’t help but notice how smoothly he directed comments and offered strategies. In some ways, the chaos here echoed and complemented the chaos of a ranch. Perhaps that was why he’d been asked to step up. Same skill set, different beast.
The ever-eccentric and brilliant Royce Miller appeared from behind Isabeau, flanked by his fiancée, Naomi, the official lawyer of the Alaska Oil Barons empire. Even from her spot on the sidelines, Isabeau registered the determination in Naomi’s eyes as she assessed the situation, her hands resting on her pregnant stomach.
Royce’s work boots crunching on gravel as he joined Trystan and the foreman. As the research engineer brought on for ensuring safer pipelines, Royce’s presence here was critical. After all, as she understood things, it was his innovative design that had kept the oil from spilling over in this accident. That piece of information would come in handy when fielding media questions. The company had ceased activity on the pipeline as soon as the malfunction occurred. Another snippet of data that would help defuse this situation.
Naomi stopped alongside Isabeau, hugging her long sweater around her as the wind whipped through the work site. “How’s it going with prepping Trystan?”
Isabeau angled her head closer to be heard over the whistling wind, but her eyes stayed on the tall, commanding presence of Trystan bringing a well-known, friendly reporter into his discussion with Royce and the foreman. Good call. “I think you’ve all underestimated him. I’m honestly not sure he needs my help other than picking out clothes for special events, which you could have paid someone far less to do.”
Naomi laughed in a quick burst of disbelief. “Are we talking about the same man? The guy who hides out when there’s any event with a guest list in the double digits?” Tapping her temple in faux concentration, she exclaimed with a slight edge, “Oh wait, that would be my fiancé.”
Isabeau nodded, still focused on Trystan. Magnetic charm pulled her in, seemed to make her feet ache to take even just one step toward him. “My point is that Trystan handles himself well with the press. He’s in his element talking about issues pertaining to the land—like now. So the preservation fund-raiser capitalizes on his skill set.”
“Are the press and protestors supposed to be coming in?” Naomi gestured to the news media and demonstrators that moved toward them, albeit slowly. Naomi pushed a hand into her back, stabilizing herself.
“We have a conference scheduled shortly. They are just setting up.”
Although that was true, a wave of nerves pulsed in her blood at the forward progression of angry people pushing at the simple orange tape barrier.
One. Two. Three. Four.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Isabeau counted through each breath in and out to subdue her nerves. The crowd’s chants became louder, more urgent than before. Drums were added to the protestors’ repertoire. She searched for Paige, and her dog seemed attentive but relaxed, which reassured Isabeau. Ignoring agitators, she turned her attention back to Naomi.
“Hmm,” she said, absently fanning herself. Sweat crested on her forehead, discomfort contorting Naomi’s mouth.
“How are you feeling?”
Naomi grimaced. “Fine.”
“Are you sure?” Scanning the woman, Isabeau noticed other signs of discomfort. Naomi shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“I mean, I feel a little tired. But this wasn’t something I could miss. Too big of a deal to leave to someone outside the family.”
Another roar pulsed through the crowd. Protestors pushed through the barrier tape, banging their hands together, voices screechy. Panic mounted in Isabeau’s throat.
“I can understand that. Perhaps a doctor’s visit after this?” Her voice cracked, throat closing slightly as Paige whined and pawed in warning. The dog circled in agitation.
Surging forward, the gathering crowd closed in on them, drowning out Naomi’s response. Panic fixed Isabeau to the spot. Colors and sounds faded, lost their vibrancy as the crowd jostled around them.
Light-headed, she could just make out the muscular build of Trystan pushing toward her. Shouting something she couldn’t quite understand.
A protestor shoved into her, sending Isabeau stumbling back against Naomi. Paige let out a warning bark as the protestor advanced, and then the dog shifted her attention, body tense and alert as she raced back and forth between...Naomi and Isabeau? Barking and barking.
Had the jostling crowd and shouts confused Paige? Unusual, but Isabeau was struggling to process the mayhem. Dimly, she registered strong arms—Trystan’s arms—yanking the protestor away from her right before...
Trystan punched the man square in the jaw.
Eight
Trystan knew he’d blown it.
Too bad he hadn’t figured that out before he’d started swinging his fists.
But once Royce Miller and a security guard pulled him off the guy who’d been crowding Isabeau, the red fog of protective anger dispersed from Trystan’s mind. The guard and Royce had quickly shuttled him into the site foreman’s trailer, along with Isabeau, Naomi and a very agitated yellow Lab.
Once the door clicked closed, Trystan shrugged off the hands guiding—restraining—him. “I’m okay. I’m in control.”
Royce eyed him skeptically, backing up a step and nearly running into a pull-down bed in the narrow Airstream. “If you’re sure.”
Trystan planted a hand on the built-in desk crowded with papers and calendars. His head throbbed with agitation. And worry.
“Absolutely.” Trystan turned his attention to where it should have been all along—Isabeau. “Are you alright?”
He took in her pale face, her dog leaning heavily against her leg as
