Period.”
“I see what you’re saying—”
“Finally!” Sidney fell back against her chair, as if his denseness had exhausted her. “Now, can we change the subject?”
He smiled. “Gladly.”
She gave him an impish grin. “Let’s talk about my cats.”
Sidney didn’t stay the night. They both had unusual Saturday meetings, but Jack knew that really wasn’t the issue. “I’m just not ready to hang my panty hose in a senator’s bathroom,” she said breezily, kissing him good-night.
He remembered her counsel the next morning when he arrived in his office at eight and Barbara Allen, as ever, was at her desk. Before he could say a word, she gave him a bright smile. “Good morning, Senator.”
“Good morning, Barbara. I thought you were still on vacation.”
She waved a hand. “It was a few days off, not a vacation. I always planned to be back for this meeting. I know it’s important.”
He smiled. “Well, then, how were your few days off?”
“Perfect,” she said. “Just what I needed.”
She flipped around in her chair and tapped a few keys on her computer. She looked great, Jack thought—relaxed, polished, professional, with none of the wild desperation that had made them both so uncomfortable the week before.
Relief washed over him. A little time away had done the trick. He would follow Sidney’s advice and pretend nothing had happened. It wasn’t just a question of doing Barbara a favor—he was doing himself a favor, too. He needed her efficiency, knowledge and competence, her long years of experience.
He headed into his private office. Thank God, she was back to her old self.
Three
“Bastian Redwing saved Daddy’s life?”
Madison sighed at her brother with exaggerated patience. “It’s not Bastian. It’s Sebastian. And he saved Dad and Grandpa. Some other guy saved the president.”
J.T. frowned. “How come I don’t remember?”
“Because you weren’t born.”
“Madison doesn’t remember, either,” Lucy said. “It happened before your dad and I were married.”
“I read the articles,” Madison reminded her mother.
J.T. kicked the back of her seat. They’d rented a car when they’d arrived in Jackson yesterday, and this morning Lucy had dutifully met with the western guides, who were wonderful and all but told her outright she had no business trying to expand out west. No surprise there.
Afterwards, she’d almost talked herself out of following her hotel desk clerk’s directions to see Sebastian. Almost. She still had time to turn around and go back to Jackson.
“Was it an assassination attempt?” J.T. asked. “Tell me!”
Madison was horrified. “Mom, how does he know something like ‘assassination attempt’? That shouldn’t be in a twelve-year-old’s vocabulary.”
J.T. snorted from the back seat. “Oh, yeah? Then how am I supposed to know about Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King? And President Kennedy and Julius Caesar?”
“Julius Caesar?” Madison swung around at him. “You don’t know anything about Julius Caesar.”
“He was stabbed in the back.”
“You’re sick.”
“You’re sick.”
Lucy gripped the steering wheel. She was on a stretch of clear, straight road, trying to enjoy the breathtaking Wyoming scenery. The mountains surrounding the long, narrow valley, she thought, were incredible. She’d pointed out the different vegetation to Madison and J.T., explained about the altitude, the dry air. But they wanted to discuss Sebastian Redwing and how he’d saved their father’s life.
Lucy gave up and told the story. “The president was giving a speech in Newport, Rhode Island. Someone got in with a gun and started firing. Sebastian knocked Grandpa and Dad to the floor, while the man he worked for at the time, Darren Mowery, tackled the shooter.”
“Was anyone hurt?” J.T. asked.
“Sebastian spotted a second shooter, who’d actually helped the other guy get inside. Sebastian, your dad and another man, Plato Rabedeneira, a parachute rescue jumper who was being honored, went after him. The man shot Plato in the shoulder, but it wasn’t serious.”
“What happened to the shooter?”
Lucy hesitated. “Sebastian killed him.”
“Sebastian had a gun? Why?” J.T. was into the story now. “What was he doing there?”
How to explain Sebastian Redwing? All J.T. knew about him was that he’d sold them their house. Lucy slowed the car. “Sebastian was a security consultant. He was very young—he and Darren Mowery, his boss, were after the shooter for some other reason. They had no idea they’d get mixed up in an attempt to assassinate the president of the United States.”
“Dad, Plato and Sebastian all became friends,” Madison added. “Sebastian was the best man at Mom and Dad’s wedding.”
J.T. was hopelessly confused. “I don’t get it.”
His sister moaned. “What is there to ‘get’?”
“Sebastian has his own company now, J.T.,” Lucy said. “Redwing Associates. It’s based here in Wyoming. He and Plato and Dad weren’t able to see as much of each other as they’d have liked.”
That seemed to satisfy her son.
“At least Sebastian had the sense to get out of Vermont,” Madison said.
They came to a cluster of log buildings set in a grassy, rolling meadow. No marker announced this was the base and main training facility for Redwing Associates, an international investigative and security firm with clients ranging from business executives and government officials to high-profile entertainers and sports figures. Many came here, to Wyoming, to learn for themselves how to assess, prevent and manage the risks they faced, whether it was kidnapping, assassination, corporate espionage, disgruntled ex-employees, obsessed fans or computer fraud.
Security was subtle but not unnoticeable. When Lucy came to the end of the long, winding driveway, a man in casual western attire introduced himself. “I’m Jim Charger, Mrs. Swift. I’ll take care of your car. Mr. Rabedeneira is expecting you.”
She tried to smile. “Plato Rabedeneira?”
Jim Charger didn’t return her smile. “That’s right, ma’am.”
What was Plato doing here? And why was he expecting her? Lucy fought off a rush of uneasiness. “Well, I guess you guys
