From Seattle arctic lobster, crab and oysters had been flown on ice. For those who preferred something stronger than champagne there was Chivas Regal by the crate. As he clambered into his four-poster the night before the wedding, Big Bill was worried only about his son. The boy had been drunk again and would need an hour in the shower to shape up in the morning.
To entertain his guests further, as the married couple changed for their departure on honeymoon to a private island in the Bahamas, Braddock had planned a Wild West rodeo right next to the gardens. These troupers, like the caterers and their staff, were all hired. The only people Braddock did not hire were the security detail.
Obsessive about his personal security, he maintained his own private army. Apart from three or four who stayed close to him at all times, the rest worked as wranglers on the ranch, but they were trained in firearms, had combat experience and would follow orders to the letter. They were paid to do so.
For the wedding he had brought all thirty of them into close proximity to the house. Two manned the guard post on the main gate. His personal protection detail, headed by an ex-Green Beret, would be near him. The rest posed as stewards and ushers.
Throughout the morning a stream of limousines and luxury coaches detailed to pick up guests from the airport at Billings cruised up to the main gate, were checked and passed through. Craig watched from deep cover. Just after midday the preacher arrived, followed by the musicians.
Another column of catering vans and the rodeo performers came through a different gate, but they were out of sight. Shortly after one, the musicians began tuning up. Craig heard the sound and saddled up.
He turned Rosebud’s head towards the open prairie and rode round the perimeter fence until the guardhouse dropped out of sight. Then he headed for the white rails, moving from a trot to a canter. Rosebud saw the rails approaching, adjusted her stride and sailed over. The scout found himself in a large paddock, a quarter-mile from the outlying barns. A herd of prize longhorn steers grazed.
At the far side of the field Craig found the gate to the barn complex, opened it and left it that way. As he moved through the barns and across flagstoned courtyards two patrolling guards hailed him.
‘You must be part of the cabaret?’
Craig stared and nodded.
‘You’re in the wrong place. Go down there and you’ll see the rest of them at the back of the house.’
Craig headed down the alley, waited till they had moved on, then turned back. He headed for the music. He could not recognize the Bridal March.
At the altar Kevin Braddock stood with his best man, immaculate in white tuxedo. Eight inches shorter than his father and fifty pounds lighter, he had narrow shoulders and wide hips. Several zits, to which he was prone, adorned his cheeks, partly masked by dabs of his mother’s face powder.
Mrs Pickett and the Braddock parents sat in the front row, separated by the aisle. At the far end of that aisle Linda Pickett appeared on the arm of her father. She was ethereally beautiful in a white silk wedding gown flown from Balenciaga in Paris. Her face was pale and set. She stared ahead with no smile.
A thousand heads turned to look as she began the walk down the aisle to the altar. Behind the rows of guests serried ranks of waiters and waitresses stood watching. Behind them appeared a lone rider.
Michael Pickett delivered his daughter to stand beside Kevin Braddock, then seated himself beside his wife. She was dabbing her eyes. The preacher raised his eyes and voice.
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here this day to join this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony,’ he said when the music of the march had faded. If he saw the rider facing him fifty yards down the aisle he may have been puzzled but gave no sign. A dozen waiters were nudged aside as the horse moved forward several paces. Even the dozen bodyguards round the perimeter of the lawn were staring at the couple facing the preacher.
The preacher went on.
‘. . . into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined.’
Mrs Pickett was sobbing openly. Braddock glared across at her. The preacher was surprised to see a slow tear well from each of the bride’s eyes and flow down her cheeks. He presumed she too was overcome with joy.
‘Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.’
He raised his eyes from the text and beamed at his congregation.
‘I so speak. She is betrothed to me.’
The voice was young and strong, and it carried to every corner of the lawn as the horse surged forward. Waiters were knocked flying. Two bodyguards launched themselves at the horseman. Each took a flying kick in the face and went backwards among the last two rows of guests. Men shouted, women screamed, the preacher’s mouth was a perfect O.
Rosebud moved from trot to canter to gallop in seconds. Her rider reined her back in and hauled the bridle to his left. With his right arm he reached down, encircled the slim, silk-clad waist and pulled the girl up. For a second she swung across the front of his body, then slipped behind, threw a leg over the buffalo roll, clamped her arms around him and hung on.
The horse charged past the front row, cleared the white rail fence and galloped away through the belly-high grass of the prairie beyond. The scene on the lawn degenerated into utter chaos.
The guests were all upright, screaming and shouting. The longhorn herd trotted round the corner and onto the trim grass. One of Braddock’s four men, seated far down the row from his master, ran past the preacher, drew a handgun and took careful aim at the disappearing horse. Michael Pickett let out a shout of ‘No-o-o-o’, threw himself at the gunman, seized his arm and jerked it upwards. The gun fired three shots as they wrestled.
That was enough for the congregation, and the steers. All stampeded. Chairs crumbled, salvers of lobster and crab were tossed aside to spill on the lawn. A local mayor was thrown through a pyramid of Stuart crystal and went down in an expensive shower of trash. The preacher dived under the altar, where he met the bridegroom.
Out on the main driveway two patrol cars from the local sheriff’s office were parked, with four troopers. They were there to guide traffic and had been invited in for a snack lunch. They heard the shots, glanced at each other, threw their burgers away and ran for the lawn.
At the edge of the lawn one of them cannoned into a fleeing waiter. He jerked the man upright by his white jacket.