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Thornton Ranch, Love County, Oklahoma

From her bedroom window in the sprawling old ranch house, Jane Thornton could see the Red River winding through the wheat fields and, off in the distance, the greener pastures where cattle still grazed. Texas lay on the other side of the river, but here along its northern bank stretched the family ranch, as it had for generations.

Easterners thought of Oklahoma as oil country, even now, a quarter century after most of the oil had been pumped out of the ground. All through the oil boom of the twentieth century the Thornton family had tended its acres, growing wheat and beef, the staples that people needed no matter who was getting filthy rich from oil. Now, with the oil just about gone, the wheat and cattle remained to feed the hungry—at a price that kept the Thorntons in luxury and provided the money to send a Thornton to the U.S. Senate.

Jane’s father had been a senator and had groomed his eldest son to take his seat when the time came. But Junior had killed himself, his wife, and both children in the crash of his private plane. Dad saw to it that his blood alcohol level was never revealed to the public, but neither money nor influence could heal the pain and shock of the tragedy. Then Dad died in office from a massive stroke, and the governor that he had maneuvered into office in Oklahoma City appointed Jane to fill out his unexpired term.

She had met a headstrong young engineer named Dan Randolph and fallen into a whirlwind of romance with him, but then he’d run off to Japan to follow his own wild dreams and Jane had gone to Washington.

Jane found that she enjoyed being a United States senator. She enjoyed the power of belonging to that exclusive little club of one hundred men and women. Quickly she latched onto Senator Bob Quill, the “silver fox” who chaired the Senate Finance Committee. He became her mentor, and there were even occasional rumors that they were having an affair, rumors that never got far because the standard wisdom on Capitol Hill was that Quill was the straightest arrow in the quiver, and Jane Thornton was the Ice Queen, beautiful but cold and aloof.

Both those characterizations were very far off the mark, although Jane and Quill kept their relationship strictly nonsexual. Jane had a lover, but no one knew it. She went to great lengths to make certain that no one—not even her closest staff aides—knew about her love life.

Dan Randolph had popped into her life again briefly, disastrously. They had parted for good, she thought, on the Day of the Bridges.

She turned from the window and began to dress for dinner: denim skirt and short-sleeved white blouse. Ranch casual. No need to be fancy. She didn’t have to impress anyone—that would be Scanwell’s objective, not hers.

She was tugging on her slingbacks when she saw Scanwell’s car coming down the long driveway from the main road from Marietta. Right on time, she thought, smiling. How like the man.

When she got downstairs, Denny O’Brien was already in the entry hall introducing himself to Scanwell. The governor had come to this meeting alone, flying his own plane from Austin and then driving a Thornton car from the airport outside Marietta. He looked tired, Jane thought; he could use a weekend of rest.

“The senator’s told me a lot about you, Governor,” O’Brien was saying. He had to look up; Scanwell towered over him.

The governor of Texas looked like the Hollywood image of a cowboy: tall, rangy, with a craggy yet handsome face and sky-blue eyes that twinkled boyishly when he smiled. He was wearing whipcord slacks and a suede sports jacket. And well-worn tan boots.

Jane had to smile at the contrast between pudgy, globular O‘Brien and the lean, lanky Morgan Scanwell. He had been a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation when Jane had first met him, but he had quit the FBI in disgust over the political infighting with the Homeland Security Department that had hamstrung the Bureau. Guided by the philosophy, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” Morgan Scanwell had entered politics, swiftly rising from a councilman in suburban Houston to governor of Texas—with the advice and substantial financial help from the Thornton family in neighboring Oklahoma.

Jane guided them to the bar off to one side of the spacious living room. The butler served drinks as they made themselves comfortable, Jane in her favorite wing chair, where she could tuck her feet up-off the carpeted floor, Scanwell in the big, plush sofa, O’Brien in the armchair facing him. Morgan’s drinking bourbon and water, Jane noticed. He must be edgy.

“So, Governor,” O’Brien said, sipping at his tonic and lime juice, “Jane tells me you’re thinking about running for president.”

Scanwell smiled, glanced at Jane, then replied, “I’m thinking about it.”

“Think you can win?”

“I wouldn’t contemplate running if I didn’t think I could win.”Jane thought that Scanwell’s voice, normally a pleasant light baritone, sounded just a little high, tense.

“Really? Sometimes people toss their hats in the ring just to get the party to pay attention to them.”

Scanwell’s smile tightened. “Mr. O’Brien, I—”

“Denny. Call me Denny.”

“All right, Denny.” Scanwell took a breath. “I wouldn’t put my people through the stress and labor of a campaign merely to feed my own ego.” Before O’Brien could object, he continued, “Or to make some political points within the party. I’m not in this to win concessions from the party. I’m in it to become president of the United States.”

O’Brien sank back in his chair, then took a long sip of his drink. Stalling for time while he thinks, Jane realized.

“Okay, then,” O’Brien said at last. “What do you have to offer that none of the other potential candidates have?”

Jane relaxed and picked up her vodka martini. It’s all right, she thought. Morgan’s passed the first test. Denny’s impressed.