The Brat’s Bodyguard (Lone Star Security #16)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

CADE

I’ll take a building with real integrity over something flashy any day.

Solid beams, right angles, concrete on stone.

Decorative shutters or fancy mailboxes don’t matter to me.

But if you pay attention to how a man runs his place, whether it’s a ranch or a security firm, you’ll know who he really is.

The problem is, after Dallas, my career is hanging by a thread. One mistake, and it’s over.

Lone Star Security headquarters stands at the edge of Valor Springs, Texas.

The town’s Main Street runs just five blocks, lined with old limestone and red brick, reminders of the oil boom days.

Grayson Calhoun built LSS from scratch, literally.

From the road, it looks like a classic Texas ranch house: low-slung, white, porches on every side.

But the windows are bullet resistant, and the building could withstand a tornado or even a siege.

It’s early morning, the air sharp and bright with mesquite pollen.

I park next to Gray’s truck, just like he told me to.

From my seat, I scan the perimeter. Old habits stick.

A stray dog sniffs around the mailbox, a couple of operatives grab coffee in the breakroom, and Josie, Gray’s daughter, sits in the porch shade with a paperback.

She waves. I wave back, thinking about why I took this job: kids like her deserve a world built on solid beams and right angles.

I stow my duffel, straighten my collar, and walk up the steps.

The threshold creaks, but the door opens quietly thanks to oiled hinges—a sign of professionalism.

Inside, the main office feels restrained and masculine: dark wood, wide windows, and walls crowded with topographic and political maps.

An old retriever lies by the desk, thumping its tail once but not moving otherwise.

Gray stands by the window, arms folded. He’s broader than in his military days, hair receding, but still a wall. He turns, his gaze slicing through the morning like a blade. “Walker.”

“Gray.” I keep my tone neutral—no joy in returning here, but no option.

He gestures toward the cracked leather couch. I sit down, resting my elbows on my knees. He stays standing, looking out at the sycamores along the east fence. Our silences aren’t awkward. If anything, they feel more honest than talking.

“You settled back in?” he asks without looking.

“Getting there.”

“Good. Things here move slowly, but they don’t fall apart.” He pauses. “After Dallas, you’re on thin ice, Cade. Nail this, and you might get off it.”

I nod, feeling the weight of stakes no one’s spelling out, but both of us know.

He turns and leans against the window. “Got a job for you. Gloves-off detail—political angles, messy business.”

A subtle thrill runs through me. “Who?”

Gray grabs a manila folder and slides it across the coffee table.

I open it and freeze. The first page shows a girl in her early twenties, caught mid-laugh, with perfect white teeth, auburn hair, and blue eyes that seem to challenge even in a photo.

My chest tightens, an instant reaction I don’t want.

Gray glances at me. “Eyes up here, Cade. And no entanglements, please.”

I clear my throat. “Understood.”

I look through the rest of the papers: mug shots, transcripts, news clippings. There’s a public intoxication on a rooftop, a pink-champagne apology to an ex. But the eyes in the photo don’t show any regret.

“Protection detail,” Gray says. “Senator Munro’s daughter—Delilah. Recent threats. Could be bullshit, could be real. Pays out of D.C., comes with strings.”

I open to the last page: a redacted death threat and a voice-mail transcript so blunt it motivates action. I look up. “She stays in Austin?”

“Negative. Family ranch till mid-August. You’ll live there. Mae’s on logistics.”

Mae, Gray’s sister and LSS’s office manager, appears in a T-shirt and ball cap and sets an iPad on the table. “Morning, Cade.” She cocks an eyebrow. “You move out after lunch. There’s an extra burner cell on its way.”

Gray lets the silence stretch, then says, “This one will test you.” It’s both a warning and a challenge. I close the folder. “You know my answer.”

He grunts and walks toward the war room.

Mae gives a quick nod and disappears into the kitchen.

I finish my coffee, lean my head back against the cracked rail of the couch, and let out a breath.

Starting a job always brings a turning point you don’t notice at first. Most of the time, you’re just lucky to make it through.

On the porch, Josie still reads. She looks up. “Got your marching orders?”

“Something like that.” I tuck the folder under my arm. “Her name’s Delilah.”

Mae returns with a key fob. “Truck’s armored. She hates trucks—prefers Jeeps with the top down. So you’ll have to be persuasive.”

I tap the fob against my palm. “What’s the real concern?”

Her smile vanishes. “Chatter out of Houston. She’s reckless and too naive for her own good. The last guy didn’t last a week. A competitor.”

I nod. “He quit, or she drove him out?”

“She drove him out.” Almost a compliment.

I gear up—GPS, pepper spray, taser, two burners, a revolver I don't think I'll ever fire—and drive west. The Munro ranch is three miles past the highway, marked by a white rock arch.

The house looms ahead: dark Texas limestone trying to pass itself off as a working ranch home, but the floor-to-ceiling windows and three-car garage give away the game.

Security cameras nestle in custom-forged iron brackets shaped like horseshoes.

A silver Jeep sits in the circular drive, its pristine finish suggesting it's never seen an actual ranch road.

Jennifer Munro opens the door, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun that would give most women a headache.

Her navy dress suit is tailored in a way that suggests old money, not flashy new wealth.

She looks me over with eyes the color of expensive bourbon, then steps aside with a kind of superiority I hope her daughter didn’t inherit.

"She's upstairs. My husband insisted on hiring someone with your experience." Her voice softens, the way mothers sound when they’re trying not to worry. "Delilah's not as bad as you might have heard. She’s just restless. If you’re smart, you’ll figure out how to give her some freedom. "

Mothers always know things we don’t. I keep that in mind as I climb the marble stairs, my boots echoing against stone that probably came from an Italian quarry centuries ago. Red wine glints like liquid rubies in a crystal glass before I even knock. "Ms. Munro?"

"You can call me Lila." Her voice pours out like aged whiskey over ice—smooth, smoky, with an undercurrent that burns.

She's perched on a midnight-blue velvet couch, one leg draped over the arm, her delicate silver ankle bracelet on display.

Her phone dangles from manicured fingers, screen glowing blue against her skin.

Her thick hair, dark as freshly split pecan wood, falls in waves past shoulders wrapped in a cashmere cardigan.

Her skin hasn't seen enough Texas sun to build any defense against it.

I keep my distance on the Persian rug, both of us recognizing the dance we're about to begin—two fighters circling, looking for weaknesses.

She takes a slow, deliberate sip of wine, then runs her tongue along the rim where her lipstick left its mark. "Are you my jailer, or did Daddy hire you to be my new distraction?"

"I'm your bodyguard." I keep my voice flat. "Nothing more."

She tosses her hair over one shoulder and leans forward, her cardigan slipping just enough to be calculated. "Did they tell you I made the last one cry? After I bit him, of course."

I nod once, feeling my jaw tighten. "They mentioned it."

Her grin widens, revealing perfect teeth that could cut glass.

A dimple appears in her left cheek like a warning sign.

"Good. Saves me the trouble of establishing my reputation.

" She tosses her wine back in one gulp, then deliberately licks a drop from her bottom lip.

"Though I could always demonstrate if you're curious. "

I let a small smile crack through my professional mask, the kind that doesn't reach my eyes. "Biting someone isn't exactly a high bar for rebellion."

"Oh?" She sits up, energy taut behind her eyes. She stretches, arching her back like a cat. "What would impress you then, soldier boy? Should I steal Daddy's Ferrari again?"

"I keep you alive. You do whatever rich girls do when they're bored."

She sets down her glass with a deliberate clink and stares at me. "And if I decide to run?" Her foot brushes against my ankle, testing.

I step back and meet her gaze. "Then I try to keep up."

She pouts, bottom lip jutting out. "God, you're no fun at all. I'll make your life hell."

"I've had worse jobs."

I’ve seen this story before: a wealthy daughter with too much time and not enough attention.

But something in her eyes doesn’t fit the usual pattern.

There’s calculation there, not just rebellion.

Most people in her position play a simple game with obvious moves.

I have a feeling Delilah is twenty steps ahead, seeing patterns I won’t notice until it’s too late.

Her mother leads me away on a grand tour while Delilah flips me off behind her mother’s back, then blows me a kiss before her thumbs start flying over her phone, setting something in motion far away.

A cold weight settles in my gut. This isn’t just a spoiled rich girl.

This is a reckoning. And as I close that folder, I know this job could ruin me.

But I'm already on thin ice. No turning back now.