Brenda Minton - Her Rancher Bodyguard

Lucy shrugged. “I agree. Unfortunately that isn’t up to me.”

The singing grew louder, and Kayla cringed. “Does he have to sing?”

“Yeah, unfortunately he does. You’ll get used to it. Or buy earplugs.”

She made it to the door of the bathroom but hesitated at the opening. “Is that bacon I smell?”

Lucy rolled her dark eyes. “Yeah, he insists on a big breakfast every morning. Do you want to eat before you shower?”

“No, that’s okay. I’m not hungry.”

Dark eyes swept her from top to bottom. “You might not be hungry, but you look as though you haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.”

“I don’t think my dad hired you to make sure I eat.”

“No, I guess he didn’t.” Lucy opened her book and let the subject drop.

Kayla didn’t want food. She closed her eyes and counted to ten as she leaned against the door frame. But she’d have to count to a million to get through this, through strangers in her home, through the fear that stalked her every day, through the cravings that still dogged her at times. Through the emotional roller coaster of losing the mother she hadn’t ever really known. Could you lose someone you never had?

The aroma of breakfast invaded her senses. The bacon smelled so good. She tried to remember the last time she’d had a decent breakfast, something other than a doughnut and coffee. Or just coffee. She couldn’t remember.

“I’ll be out in ten minutes,” she told Lucy as she closed the door behind her.

Fifteen minutes later she emerged. Boone Wilder in jeans, a T-shirt, cowboy hat and no shoes was standing in her kitchen at the sink washing dishes. She glanced past him, to the full pot of coffee, the plate of biscuits and the pan of gravy.

He tossed her a smile over his shoulder. “Hey, sunshine, ’bout time you crawled out of bed.”

She glanced at the clock. Barely eight in the morning. “It isn’t as if I slept until noon.”

“No, I guess not. Grab some breakfast. We have a lot to do today.”

Her mouth watered. She shook her head. “I don’t eat breakfast.”

He looked at her in mock horror. “What? It’s the most important meal of the day.”

Was he always this cheerful? She shook her head and ignored the tantalizing aroma that filled her kitchen. She rarely cooked, and if she did it was a frozen dinner, something on the grill or takeout reheated in the microwave. Boone Wilder was filling a plate with biscuits, gravy and bacon.

He shoved the plate into her hands and nodded toward the seat on the other side of the counter. “Eat.”

She lifted the plate to inhale. “You made this?”

“Of course.”

She took a seat on the opposite side of the counter. “What is it we have to do today?”

He poured her a cup of coffee and slid it across the counter. “First, I need a tux.”

“Why, are you going to a wedding?” She eyed him over the rim of her coffee mug. She hoped he was the best man, not the groom.

“Nope, I’m taking you to the ball, Cinderella.”

“Sorry, but no. I’m not fond of the wicked stepmother.”

“But I’d make such a snazzy Prince Charming,” he said as he lifted his coffee cup in salute. “Do you have something against the prince, the singing animals or wicked stepmothers?”

“All of the above.” She gave him a long look that forced a sharp comment. “Especially handsome princes with cowboy hats and big smiles.”

“Ouch.” He touched his hand to his heart. “Sorry, but we don’t have a choice.”

“Then, tell me what we’re really doing because I’m too old for fairy tales.”

“We’re going to your dad’s fund-raiser. I’m supposed to make sure you show up and that you behave.”

She took a bite of biscuit. “He knows me so well.”

That was what this was all about. It wasn’t about her safety. It was about his campaign. His career. And making sure she didn’t mess up either one. She was twenty-four years old and he still doubted her ability to be a Stanford. Truth be told, she doubted it, too. If he hadn’t done the DNA test, she would have been positive she wasn’t his offspring, so different were they.

She was her mother’s daughter. The embarrassment. He’d never actually called her that. Her youngest half brother, Michael, had. She’d heard him tell a friend to ignore her, that she was dropped off on the doorstep as a baby and her mother was insane.

“You okay?” Boone Wilder’s voice was softly concerned, taking her by surprise.

She looked up from the empty plate and gave him her best carefree smile. “Of course. I’m just deciding what to wear.”

“Of course you are.”

“We could let him know I have a concussion and maybe he’ll let us off the hook.”

“I already tried that. He said if you can walk, he wants you there.”

“Of course he did. Dear old Dad, he’s all heart.”

He refilled her mug, then his. “For what it’s worth, he did sound concerned.”

“Did he?” That was a surprise. She carried her plate to the sink and rinsed it. “Where’s Lucy?”

“On your patio. She said you have the best view in the city.” Boone took the rinsed plate and opened the door of the dishwasher.

“I’m sorry about last night. I’m sure you didn’t plan for a fun Friday night at the ER.”

“We were working. So nothing to apologize for.”

Of course. Her dad was probably paying them a decent amount for their babysitting services. “If you have your measurements, we can send out for a tux. No need to go shopping. And I already have a dress.”

“I do have my measurements. But I’d give anything to not go shopping.”

She noticed he rubbed his shoulder as he said it. Her gaze was drawn again to the scar on his face, and then lower to the one on his neck.

“Shrapnel,” he said.

She met his dark gaze. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

“No one ever does.”

“Iraq?”

“Afghanistan.” He set his cup on the counter. “About that monkey suit I have to wear...”

She nodded and headed for her room and her cell phone she’d left there. When she walked through the door of her bedroom, she noticed the bouquet of flowers on her dresser. Her dad had probably sent them. His way of being there when he wasn’t.

She found the card buried amid the blooms and opened it.

You shouldn’t have run, because now we’re going to play dirty. Your secrets remain secrets. We get the money. Tell your father.

She grabbed the flowers and hurried from her room, carrying them in front of her. She ignored Boone as she opened the trash can and shoved the flowers inside, vase and all. She ripped up the card and tossed it in, shuddering as the scraps of paper fluttered among the bloodred blooms.

“What’s that all about?” Boone’s voice rumbled in her ear. She shook her head, unable to answer.

He reached past her, retrieving the pieces of card.

“Who delivered these?” he asked as he pieced the card together on the counter.

“Like I know? I was sleeping. You were here when they were delivered.” Her voice shook. She really didn’t want to sound shaky or afraid. She didn’t want to give this unknown person that kind of power over her.

“No, actually, I wasn’t. The flowers were on your dresser when we got here last night. You were pretty wiped out and probably didn’t notice.”

“They were in here already?”

“Yeah, darlin’, they were here. On your dresser. You didn’t know you had flowers?”

“No. I didn’t know.”

“Well, that’s a problem,” Boone said, as casual as if he was talking about the weather.

“So what do we do?” Lucy asked as she walked in from the living room.

“We go on about our business.” Boone shrugged as he said it. “And we all sit down and get honest about what’s going on here. Your dad said he wants you front and center at campaign events. And you’re trying to push this off as an overzealous admirer. Neither of you is being honest. What secrets is this guy talking about?”