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who’s sorry.”
    Her gaze traveled up dark blue slacks, with their perfect crease and French blue stripe on the side, to the lighter blue dress shirt bearing the badge and insignia of the Kansas Highway Patrol. The man was smiling at her with a sincere look of concern in his blue eyes.
    Then he knelt down. “Here, let me help.”
    “Thanks.”
    Cara couldn’t help stealing quick sidelong glances at the man. He was very handsome in his uniform. His broad shoulders tapered down to a trim waist, where a Sam Brown belt met the black holster holding his revolver.
    “I really am sorry,” she said, standing up as the man retrieved the last few pages.
    He extended the papers to her with a broad grin. “I’m not. It gave us a chance to run into each other.”
    “Yes . . .” Cara murmured. “Literally.” She liked the way his smile broadened and the way his salt-and-pepper hair fell down across his forehead.
    “I’m Harry Oberlin,” he said as she took the coloring sheets.
    “Cara Kessler.”
    “Yes, I know. I recognized you from your television interview.”
    “Oh.” She could think of nothing more to say.
    “Do you get up this way often?” Harry asked.
    “No, this is the first time in about two years,” Cara admitted, feeling a strange warmth in her cheeks. She hadn’t blushed in a long time and it was most embarrassing to find herself doing it just now. “Do you?” she asked, hoping to dispel the scrutinizing look he was giving her.
    “I’m here quite a bit,” he confessed. “I’m a pilot and bodyguard for the governor.”
    “I’m impressed.”
    Harry’s eyes twinkled in amusement. “That should be my line.”
    Feeling a bit awkward, Cara smiled. “I guess I’d better go.”
    “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
    “Maybe.”

Six
    Bob Kerns barely paid attention to the drone of the evening news. He had spent the better part of two days wading through the previous election’s campaign materials. To his chagrin, most everything Ed Glencoe had promised to do, he had done. And he’d done it well enough to gain the favor of his constituents. Bob was just about to call it a night when the television flashed a picture of Glencoe. Kerns turned up the volume just as the scene moved to a local hospital.
    “Governor Glencoe was released from the hospital today after a short observation stay. It was determined that a bout with the flu caused the governor’s collapse while in Lindsborg last week.”
    Kerns perked up at this. What a break, he thought. This could work well to his advantage. If he could paint a picture of his opponent’s physical inability to endure the pressures of public office, he might well knock Glencoe down a few notches.
    With these thoughts in mind, Kerns switched off the television just as a knock sounded at the door.
    “Bob, Russell Owens is here,” his wife, Debra, announced. The bleach-blonde had once been a raving beauty, but now, after years of abusing herself with alcohol, yo-yo diets, and emotional turmoil, Debra Kerns looked a decade older than her forty-five years.
    “Send him on back,” Kerns commanded. “I’ve been expecting him.”
    In moments, Russell Owens appeared. His arms were laden with a variety of books, manila folders, and accordion files. “Have you heard the news about Glencoe?” he asked his boss.
    “Just caught the story on the television. Is there more to it than they are reporting?” Kerns asked, taking a seat again on the black leather sofa.
    Russell joined him, depositing his load on the already overflowing coffee table. “If there is, I haven’t been able to get a scoop on it.”
    “We could use this to our advantage,” Bob Kerns replied. “If the people of the state think there’s something more to this than the flu, they might lose faith in him.”
    “They might, but I wouldn’t bank on it for your campaign win.”
    “You have something better in mind, I take it?” Kerns eyed the younger man with great interest.
    Russell smiled.