Emily's Wedding by M. L. Buchman

Author:M. L. Buchman [Buchman, M. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.

Chapter 7

Emily waited alone in the ranch’s foreyard. Well, just her and Frank. She knew other agents were spread throughout the ranch, but they were keeping a low profile.

Mark was still out, which didn’t surprise her after how they’d spent most of the night. It might not have been a sunny meadow by a burbling stream, but he had made her last night as a single woman very memorable. How different married sex would feel, she supposed that she’d find out tonight.

What was surprising was that she was awake—had barely slept.

“It’s not nerves.” But Emily still didn’t know what it had been.

“You sure?” She’d forgotten Frank beside her, part of his Secret Service stealth mode.

“Shut up, Frank.”

“Then don’t talk to yourself aloud, Major Beale.”

“What about you, Frank? Were you nervous?”

That earned her a grunt that said it wasn’t that simple.

“Well, it’s not nerves.”

“Whatever you say, Major.”

She spotted three dark dots against the blue sky.

“Personal relationships are one of the President’s very few blind spots,” Frank sounded defensive as he nodded toward that dots that were rapidly expanding into the green-and-white Marine Corps helicopters assigned to HMX-1. “I wouldn’t look for any real useful counseling there if something’s bothering you.”

“Shit. Am I that transparent?”

“Not a chance, Emily,” he said her name softly for one of the few times in their acquaintance. “But I’ve been married a long time and… Well, I’m…”

“I’ve met Beatrice. You’re the thoughtful and sensitive one in the relationship.”

Frank shrugged uncomfortably.

“Makes you all the better, Frank.”

“Thank you, Major.” And that brief crack in the door was closed again.

In shared silence, they watched as the helicopters resolved into White Hawks—Black Hawk helicopters re-engineered and armored to carry the President. They were called “White Tops” for the white upper section of their paint job.

After seven years flying the Black Hawk airframe, the heavy thrum of the rotors sounded like home to her. Just as the lead helo touched down in the main yard, Mark came stumbling out of the house half dressed: his pants buckled, but his shirt in his hand, and his hair still a mess. He blinked hard against the bright morning light, found his mirrored shades and eased them on, still shirtless. A phalanx of flying Black Hawks would ring a full mission alert alarm right through a Night Stalker’s deepest sleep. Mark was so beautiful it was ridiculous, not that she was complaining.

The door on the helo opened. Her oldest friend stepped down, closely followed by her father and mother. All three of them were looking at Mark.

President Peter Matthews laughed.

Her father offered his amused, enigmatic FBI Director smile that could mean anything.

Her mother’s sigh of dismay was almost audible despite the helo’s engines still winding down.

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