Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe (11 page)

“There's nothing I can tell you about these furnishings.”

“Here's what I don't understand,” Jesse said. “In those proof-of-life tapes, Nicole made signals that pointed toward the Circle M Ranch. Did she think she was there?”

Burke shifted his shoulders. His huge body seemed to take up all the space in the room. “Here's the sequence of events as we know them—she was kidnapped at the creek and taken to the Circle M. Then Butch and Richter took her. They went to a cave on the Indian Trail. Then she was here.”

“Not the Circle M,” Jesse repeated. “Why would she point you in that direction?”

“She could have been drugged when she was brought here. If all she'd seen was the Circle M, she'd assume she was there.”

Fiona's gaze fixed on the rough wooden ladder leading out of the room. Imagined echoes of Nicole's suffering rang in her ears. It was hot in here; a light sweat coated her forehead.

“We need to figure out who built this little cubbyhole,” Jesse said. “If it wasn't Butch or Richter, someone else might be involved in the kidnapping.”

“Sam Logan,” Burke said. “You identified him from the mug shots.”

“You think he built this place?”

Burke considered for a long moment before shaking his head. “Secret hideouts aren't Logan's style. He likes attention.”

“Who else?”

“Me,” Fiona said. She couldn't stay here for one more minute. She reached for the wooden ladder. “Sheriff Trainer seems to think so.”

She climbed out of the hole into the cluttered barn. Ridding herself of suspicion was going to take more than going with the flow. Her laissez-faire attitude needed to change.

Jesse came up behind her, rested his hand on her shoulder. “I don't suspect you.”

“But others do.” She gulped down the musty air of the barn, which tasted wonderful compared to the closed room. “How am I going to prove them wrong? I'm not an investigator. Or a hunter.”

“I am.” His dark eyes were steady and confident. “Trust me.”

She had no other choice.

Sitting on a porch bench at the Circle M ranch house, Jesse waved goodbye to Fiona, Belinda and the kids, who were being escorted across the grounds toward the horse barn by a proprietary Nate Miller. Still dressed in his clean, pressed blue jeans, Nate lectured them about how the Circle M had once been the finest cattle ranch in the valley—a boast that was wide open to debate. From what Jesse understood, the Carlisles always had more land, more cattle and more influence.

Nate had reclaimed the Circle M with a vengeance. The yellow crime scene tape that marked the violence of two days ago had been torn down and stuffed into a bin beside the porch.

According to Burke, Nate had arrived at the Circle M shortly after the Sons of Freedom were taken into custody and wasted no time in stating his claim. It was his legal right to move back to the Circle M when the premises were vacated. Burke said there had been some concern about the ownership of the SOF horses, but the FBI was willing to leave that issue for the local authorities to settle.

Nate glanced over his shoulder at Jesse, who remained
seated. He wanted a chance to search the premises without Nate hanging over his shoulder, so he'd told them he was tired, still recovering from his wounds.

Much to his surprise, Fiona had backed up his claim with a vivid description of his injuries, even though she hadn't seen a single scar. She talked about “oozing pus” and “too many stitches to count.” Her willingness to lie worried him. Though he didn't believe Sheriff Trainer's suspicions, his only proof to the contrary was his belief in her honesty. He knew he wasn't making a mistake by trusting her. Still…

As soon as they all disappeared into the barn, Jesse left the porch. Though it was a long shot, he hoped to find evidence that Nicole had been here. In the proof-of-life videos, she signaled clues that pointed to the Circle M. He wanted to find an indication of where she'd gone.

Jesse circled behind the ranch house. Across the open yard were a couple of sheds and a smokehouse for curing beef and venison. He took a quick look inside these smaller structures on his way to the main bunkhouse—a long, low building with several windows covered over with heavy plastic to protect against the winter cold. The door was unlocked.

He stepped inside, turned on the light and entered an open room with two long tables. Near the entrance, there was a wood-burning stove and a podium. This must have been where Sam Logan preached to his survivalist congregation. Twelve men, eleven women and four children. There was nothing spiritual about this organization. The women had been picked up from the street, promised shelter and drugged into submission. The men had been getting rich from a smuggling scheme.

When the FBI raided the place, it must have been just
after dinner. Dirty plates still littered the tables along with half-filled water glasses and mugs filled with congealed coffee. A scrawny Christmas tree stood in the corner, half draped with tinsel. Other decorations were scattered about.

Jesse noticed a doll on the bench by the table. A toy truck overturned over on the floor. A couple of aprons tossed carelessly aside.

Life, interrupted.

He went through a door at the back of the room, entering a hallway with four closed doors on either side. He opened the first door and found a small room with a bed and dresser. Two simple dresses hung from an open rack. On the dresser was a cheap wristwatch, a hairbrush and an economy-size bottle of moisturizer beside a stack of fashion magazines. This woman might have been living the simple life, but she dreamed of sequins.

Immediately, Jesse noted that the metal frame on the bed matched the bed found in the secret room under Fiona's barn. If Richter or Butch had constructed that room, it seemed likely that they'd use furnishings from the Circle M.

This connection needed further investigation. He quickly checked the rest of the rooms, searching for clues. Where was Nicole now? He didn't think she'd run off with Richter, a man with a criminal record and a mean streak. Had she simply collected the ransom and ridden off into the sunset?

His gut instinct told him otherwise. Even though Dylan was convinced that his wife was gone, Jesse worried that she might still be in danger.

When he stepped outside, Nate was coming toward him, fists clenched and angry as a wet badger. He called out, “Hey! Looking for something?”

Jesse said nothing. He didn't feel the need to apologize or explain.

“If you find that ransom,” Nate growled, “you'd best remember that it's on my property. That makes it mine. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“I assume you've already searched all these outbuildings.”

“You bet I have. But if you want to poke around, go right ahead.”

“When the SOF rented your property, did you provide furnishings? Like the beds?”

“My pappy bought those metal frames a long time ago when we had a full crew, and I've never seen a need to replace them. Good, sturdy frames.”

“Are any of the beds missing?”

His thin shoulders stiffened. “What the hell are you saying? Did somebody steal one of my beds?”

Jesse wasn't about to tell him about the hiding place at Fiona's house. Sharing information could only lead to trouble. “Let's head back to the horse barn.”

“Fine with me.” He lurched forward. His earlier swagger was gone, replaced by tension. “Maybe you can convince my ex-wife that it's okay for my son to get up on horseback. All I want to do is put him in front of me on the saddle and pace around the corral. No harm in that.”

“No harm at all.”

“She's turning my boy into a scaredy-cat.”

He suspected that Belinda's hesitation had less to do with Mickey's safety and more about his father's demeanor. Nate's bitterness was toxic and pervasive. And mostly aimed at his neighbors, the Carlisles. “How did your feud with the Carlisles get started?”

“You really want to know?”

“That's why I asked.”

“I'll tell you.” Nate came to a halt, stared at the dirt beneath his boots. “Sterling Carlisle killed my pappy.”

Though surprised by this allegation, Jesse kept his reaction to himself. He merely nodded.

“Happened six years ago.” Nate's lips barely moved when he talked. “The sheriff called it an accident, but I know better.”

“How did he die?”

“We only had about fifty head of cattle. They were in the feeding pen, getting fat before slaughter. Pappy collapsed inside the pen. He got trampled.”

An ironic death for a man who swore by the procedure of confining cattle in tight pens and force-feeding. “Where does Sterling Carlisle come in?”

Nate squinted as if looking back at the past. “I heard Pappy talking to him. Arguing, real loud. Telling him that his organic methods were a bunch of baloney. He was right.”

“Yeah?”

“Beef cattle don't need to roam free and eat grass. They're meat. Nothing but damn meat.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Hell, no. I had my chores. After Mama died, I took care of the cooking and housework. It was only Pappy and me at the ranch.”

Though Jesse guessed that Nate was in his mid-thirties, he sounded like a kid. Under his pappy's thumb, he hadn't fully matured. “Did you hear Sterling Carlisle make a threat?”

“Not exactly. I didn't have time to stop and eavesdrop.” He jabbed the air with a gnarled finger, making his point with an invisible jury. “But I know what happened. Sterling came over here and provoked my pappy into a heart attack. Then he left without summoning help. Left him to die.”

Jesse made no comment, offered no judgment. He could tell that Nate believed this unlikely scenario. His eyes shone with a fanatical fervor. His breathing was shallow and strained as if hate had squeezed the air from his lungs.

Jesse's grandfather would have said that Nate was like a man bitten by a rattler. Either the venom would work through his system or he would die a poisonous death.

Nate continued. “The Carlisles ruined us. They're so righteous. So rich. They can all go straight to hell.”

Jesse wondered if Nicole was included in his hatred. She hadn't been around six years ago when his father died. “The Carlisles are suffering now. With the kidnapping.”

“Nicole isn't kidnapped anymore.” But a cruel smirk twisted his mouth. “The way I heard it, she told Dylan she wanted a divorce and wasn't ever coming back to him.”

“You believe that? You believe she ran off with Pete Richter?”

“I never would have thought it. Richter isn't a handsome man. Handy with an ax, though. He was a logger up in Oregon.”

Jesse doubted that lumberjack skills would be enough to cause Nicole to leave her husband. “What else can you tell me about Richter?”

“He didn't strike me as somebody who was going to be a cowboy for the rest of his life. He kept talking about tropical beaches and hula skirts.” Nate scoffed. “Butch Thurgood is a different story. Tall and good-looking. A regular ladies' man. Nicole might have been taken with him.”

But Butch was dead.

As Jesse watched Nate stalk toward the horse barn, he wished that he had more training as an interrogator. His gut instincts told him that Nate was withholding vital informa
tion, but he didn't have the key to make him open up. Nor the authority to compel him to answer questions.

Inside the horse barn, Mickey ran to his father. “Mommy says I can ride on the saddle with you.”

In the blink of an eye, Nate transformed from bitter to better. He'd never be Father-of-the-Year material, but his grin appeared to be sincere. Like a king, he gestured to the horses that he didn't really own. “Take your pick, son.”

Nate hadn't thought to include Abby, and the disappointment written on her face was tragic. Jesse could see Fiona holding back, trying not to be rude and demanding. She was a strange and intriguing mixture of passionate emotion and strict politeness.

Jesse was far more simple. “Nate, you forgot about Abby. We'll saddle up two horses, and I'll give her a ride, too.”

“Fine with me.”

Fiona beamed as if he'd done something incredibly heroic, then leaned down to her daughter's level. “What do you say, Abby?”

“Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

“Sure thing, kid. Pick your horse.”

Unlike Mickey, Abby knew exactly what she wanted. She marched up to the stall and pointed to a black mare with a calm manner and intelligent eyes. “I like her.”

“You've got good taste,” Nate said. “She's one of the best riding mounts. But she threw a shoe the other day, and I want to let her rest.”

If the choice had been up to Jesse, he'd pick one of the two Arabians—beautiful, proud animals. But he was sure that Nate didn't want to use such prized horseflesh to train kids for riding. He directed Abby toward a dappled mare.

“I'll call her Chip,” Abby said, “because she looks like chocolate chip ice cream.”

“She probably already has a name,” Fiona said.

“It's Chip,” Abby insisted.

“That's a take-charge attitude,” Jesse said. “You need that when you're riding. The horse needs to know who's boss.”

“Don't we all?” Fiona murmured softly. “Did you find anything?”

“Not much.”

As he bridled and saddled the newly christened Chip, Jesse regretted the time he'd wasted with this trip to the Circle M. Finding the metal bed frame might confirm that someone from the Circle M—either Richter or Butch—had constructed the secret room under Fiona's barn. But that wasn't earth-shaking news.

When he lifted the saddle, his injured shoulder ached, and he was glad to step back and let Fiona take over. From the way she handled the gear, he could tell that she knew about horses.

“Like mother, like daughter,” he said. “Abby must have gotten her love of ponies from you.”

“I'm nowhere near as devoted,” she replied with an open smile. “Before we started coming up here, I'd never been interested in horses.”

“California girl,” he said, remembering.

“Hurry up,” Abby demanded.

Fiona rested her palm on Chip's flank. “We're ready.”

“Mount up,” Jesse said. “You ride. I'll lift Abby up to you.”

That hadn't been the plan sanctioned by Nate Miller, but Jesse didn't see a problem. As soon as Fiona and Abby were settled on horseback, he took the bridle and led the horse into the corral.

Nate followed with Mickey, who was making wild whoops and waving his arms. Not so for Abby. She took her time on horseback seriously, paying careful attention to everything her mother said.

Belinda stepped up beside him, her fists jammed into the pockets of her black slacks. Her eyes, half hidden by shaggy brown bangs, looked worried. “Do you think Nate will be able to keep these horses?”

He shrugged. “Don't know.”

“He thinks he's come into a windfall. He plans to sell his little house in town, move back here and turn this place into a horse farm.” She shook her head. “I have a nasty feeling that my alimony checks are about to stop coming.”