Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe (5 page)

 

P
ETE
R
ICHTER LIKED
being up high, above it all. In the nest he'd made in a pine tree, twenty feet off the ground, he was damn near invisible. Not many people looked up when they were searching. They were too stupid. They kept their eyes on the dirt.

He looked down at the Carlisle ranch house, peering through small binoculars for a better view. He was close enough to hear them talking but couldn't make out the words.

All the feds, except that one guy who was having sex with the high and mighty Carolyn Carlisle, had left early this morning, taking their chopper and sniffer dogs along with them. They'd arrested Logan and everybody else in the SOF. Fine with him. As far as he was concerned, they could all go to hell.

He leaned back against the rough pine bark. Years ago, when he worked as a lumberjack in Oregon, he had stayed in the treetops all day. Except for the cold, he was comfortable. Earlier, he'd used a hand ax—a tool he carried on his belt—to chop away the small branches that poked into his back. This was a good perch for a watcher, even better for a sniper. If he'd wanted, he could have taken aim from here and picked off ten men before they noticed him.

But that wasn't his plan.

As soon as he found his share of the ransom, his five-hundred-thousand-dollar share, he intended to leave the West to the cowboys and their stinking cattle. He'd move to Baja. Live on the beach. Climb the palm trees and get coconuts for food. He'd never work again.

If damn Butch Thurgood hadn't double-crossed him, he could have been in Mexico right now. He should have known better than to trust Butch. That cowboy had been coasting on his rodeo reputation for years, but he was weak.

Richter hadn't meant to kill him. When he started hitting Butch, he only wanted to punish him, to make him talk. But things got out of hand. Butch made him mad. Real mad.

He remembered using his gloved fist, punching again and again. Then he'd picked up a rock. Butch died with his eyes wide open, staring up in surprise.

Hearing voices from the ranch house, Richter peered down. He saw the security guard he'd shot leaving the house with the fed. They got into a truck and drove south, toward the widow Grant's property where the sheriff and his deputies were digging around and searching.

The worst thing that could happen was for one of those lamebrain deputies to find the ransom. But they weren't that smart. He'd already gone through the outbuildings on the widow's land. And he hadn't found a damn thing.

Still, he knew the money was there. Butch didn't have time to move it. But where? The way Richter figured, the widow had to know. Maybe she'd been working with Butch. Or maybe she found the money and stashed it herself.

Either way, Pete needed to get his hands on Fiona Grant. He'd make her talk.

Sunset painted the December skies in streaks of pink and gold above distant, snowy peaks. For a moment, Jesse watched and marveled. He'd almost died. This might count as the first sunset of the rest of his life. Inborn wisdom told him to take a moment to appreciate this miracle of light.

He sat on the one-step covered porch outside Fiona's front door. Beside him was Sheriff Trainer from Delta. His deputies had removed the body and dusted for prints. They were still combing the area—looking for evidence and finding nothing of importance.

The sheriff took a drag on his cigarette. “I've been around a long time. Never been tangled up in anything this complicated, but I've dealt with my share of lawbreakers. And it seems to me that when people get in trouble, they're usually asking for it.”

“Not in my line of work,” Jesse said. “Most of the people I'm hired to protect are victims of circumstance. Like the Carlisles. Like Nicole.”

“Miss Nicole was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” the sheriff conceded. “Those boys from the SOF didn't set out to kidnap anybody. But you've got to admit that they
wouldn't have kept Nicole if she hadn't been Dylan's wife. They knew he'd pay any price to get her back.”

“Are you saying that it's Nicole's fault that she got kidnapped?”

“Hell, no. I'm not blaming her.” His long, narrow face grew even longer when he frowned. “I might be a rural county sheriff, but I'm not an idiot.”

“Didn't say you were.”

But he'd thought it. Before the kidnapping and murder, Sheriff Trainer might have been a good-natured, easygoing guy. Now he was as nervous as a squirrel guarding his winter cache of pinecones.

“I'm trying to make a point,” Trainer said. “There's got to be a reason why the kidnappers are searching here.”

Jesse knew where the sheriff's logic was headed. They'd all been asking the same question: why here? Logic pointed toward Fiona. She must have done something to bring trouble upon herself.

He also knew that those assumptions were dead wrong. His instincts told him that Fiona was completely, entirely innocent.

The sheriff looked down at the growing ash on his cigarette and asked, “How well do you know Fiona Grant?”

“I met her for the first time today,” he said. “But I knew her husband. A good man who died too young.”

The sheriff shot a glance toward Jesse. “Do you think she's got something to hide?”

“Hell, no.”

Not Fiona. Not that sweet, gentle woman with the appealing gray eyes. When they found the opened boxes in her pottery studio, she was genuinely surprised. Until he mentioned the ransom, the thought hadn't occurred to her.
When they discovered the body of Butch Thurgood, he'd seen her terror.

“It doesn't make sense, Sheriff. If she knew where the ransom was stashed, why wouldn't she grab it and run?”

“Could be that Butch hid the ransom before she got her hands on it.”

“Think again,” Jesse said. “If she knew the ransom was here, she'd want to keep it a secret. She wouldn't call in a search party.”

“Unless she was scared. Pete Richter is still at large,” the sheriff reminded him. “Maybe she decided it was better to hand over the cash than to face Richter's vengeance.”

Though he had a counterargument for everything Jesse said, it was all speculation. “You seem to be drawing a hell of a lot of assumptions based on zero evidence.”

He stubbed out his cigarette. “If the ransom is hidden here, it seems like Fiona would know something about it.”

“You're wasting your time suspecting her,” Jesse said. “In my line of work, I need to read people. And I'm good at my job. I can look at a crowd and know from their faces and body language if they're dangerous. Believe me when I tell you this—Fiona Grant isn't a liar or a criminal.”

“You have to say that.” The sheriff rose slowly and stretched. “She hired you as a bodyguard. You're her employee, and I'll bet she's paying you a pretty penny. She must have inherited a ton of money when her husband died.”

“If that's true…” Which it wasn't, but Jesse didn't have the right to tell the sheriff or anyone else about her distressed financial situation. “Why would she be interested in the ransom money?”

“Don't know. But I'm making it my business to find out.”

Jesse stood as Wentworth came out on the porch and an
nounced, “I've done the best I can to make sure the house is secure for the night. Windows are all locked. I installed braces on the front and back doors.”

“Good work,” Jesse said.

“I'd feel a lot better about Fiona's safety if we called down to the Denver office and got Max up here to install a real security system.”

Max Milton was one of Jesse's most valued employees. He couldn't shoot, wasn't in top physical condition, and wore glasses an inch thick. But his ability with computers and electronics was first-rate.

Jesse had already checked in with his office manager, who told him the other five bodyguards who worked for him were all on the job, as was Max, who was on-site in Cheyenne, Wyoming, setting up security at an auto parts warehouse. “I arranged for Max to come here when he's finished with his current project.”

“How's everything in the office?”

Jesse knew that Wentworth really wanted to know about their office manager, who happened to be his sister. “Elena is just fine. She likes being in charge. And she's better at coordinating things than I am.”

With a sheepish grin, Wentworth said, “Someday, we're all going to be working for Elena.”

“Don't tell her that. She already thinks she's the boss.”

The sheriff took another cigarette out of his pack. “I think we're done here. My boys are just about packed up and ready to leave.”

Good riddance as far as Jesse was concerned. The sheriff's suspicions regarding Fiona were way off base. Why the hell was he so anxious to put the blame on her? Because he had secrets of his own?

His chain-smoking and nervousness could be signs of a guilty conscience. Perhaps Sheriff Trainer had something to hide.

 

W
HILE THEY HAD BEEN EATING
dinner at the Carlisle Ranch, Fiona tried to find a way to explain to Abby that bad things had been happening. But how could she tell a four-year-old about a dead man on their doorstep? How could she explain that Nicole had been kidnapped? In an ideal world, children didn't need to know about such things.

As she drove home with Abby buckled into her car seat in the back of the station wagon, Fiona tried again. “Do you remember in preschool when Officer Crowley came to talk to your class?”

“Stranger danger,” Abby said. “Don't talk to people you don't know. Don't take candy. Run away fast.”

“You need to remember those lessons. Even at our house.”

“Okay.”

“We have someone who will help us. A man who's going to stay with us for a few days. His name is Jesse Longbridge.”

“Does he have a horse?”

“I don't think so.” But he did own a gun. Should she talk to Abby about gun safety? “He was a friend of your daddy.”

“Then he's my friend, too.”

A child's view of life was so wonderfully simple. “If you have any questions about anything, talk to me about it. Okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Their short ride was over. Fiona parked outside the garage, not wanting to pull inside where it was dark. She'd always been afraid of shadows, and now she had a tangible reason to avoid the dark corners.

After she unbuckled Abby from her car seat, she held her daughter's hand and walked toward the front door. Sheriff Trainer had been considerate enough not to festoon her house in yellow crime scene tape. Though some of the low-lying shrubs had been trampled, her log cabin looked pretty much the same. The curtains were drawn, but the porch lamp glowed cheerfully.

Jesse opened the front door before they got there. The porch light shone on his thick black hair. Standing above them on the porch, he appeared taller than his six-foot height. Though he was lean, his shoulders were wide. He looked strong and capable, even with his left arm in a sling. She was incredibly glad that he was staying with them.

He ushered them inside quickly and closed the door. When she introduced him to Abby, he squatted down to the child's level and extended his good hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

Abby's blue eyes brightened as she shook his large hand and studied him. With her blond curls and dimples, she looked like a little pixie. “Jesse, are you an Indian?”

“Navajo,” he said. “Half Navajo.”

“Navajo,” she repeated. “Thank you for the maize and turkey you gave the pilgrims.”

Fiona wasn't surprised that Abby remembered the Thanksgiving stories she'd learned in preschool. This year, when she and her daughter were celebrating, Abby insisted on doing her own version of the Thanksgiving story, complete with dancing turkeys and a singing yam.

“That wasn't my tribe,” Jesse said. “But you're welcome.”

“How come you don't wear a feather?”

Though Fiona winced at the stereotyping, Jesse grinned.
“Different tribes wear different clothes, but we all believe in hospitality and sharing. I have a gift for you.”

“You do?”

Jesse stood and went to the hooks by the front door where his denim jacket with the Longbridge Security patch was hanging. From an inner pocket, he took out a small leather bag and opened the drawstring. “My grandfather was a wise man, and he gave me many totems.”

“What's a totem?” Abby asked.

“It can protect you. Or it can remind you of your heritage or your dreams. A totem can be anything. A necklace or a coin or a picture.”

“I have a locket with a note inside from my daddy. It says, ‘I love you, Abigail.'”

Fiona's heart clenched. Though she tried to shield her daughter, life happened. Her father was dead, and Abby understood the importance of cherishing the past while looking toward the future. Quite possibly, she'd learned that lesson better than her mother.

Though the limited use of his left hand made him slightly clumsy, Jesse opened the bag and took out a small blue stone. In an open palm, he held it toward Abby. “It's turquoise. This stone will bring you luck.”

“Thank you.” Solemnly, she took it from him. “When I get my pony, I'm going to name him Turquoise.”

“That's a wonderful idea,” Fiona said, “and we'll talk about it tomorrow.”

“My pony will have a blue tail.”

“I'm sure he will.” She smiled. “Now, it's late. You need to get ready for bed. Don't forget to—”

“Brush my teeth.” Abby twirled once and scampered off toward her room.

Jesse rose stiffly and stretched his shoulders. “She's bright.”

Of course, Fiona agreed. “Smart, pretty and healthy. Everything a child should be.”

“You've been a good mother.”

She wasn't so sure about that part of the equation. After Wyatt died, she'd been depressed and not as responsive to Abby as she should have been. And she hadn't handled the disbursement of her husband's inheritance well. Thank goodness, she'd hung on to Abby's trust fund. When her daughter turned eighteen, there would be sufficient money for her to go to college and get a decent start on her life.

But that was a long time away, and Fiona had more immediate concerns. She looked toward Jesse. “Did the sheriff figure out who was snooping around my house?”

“No proof, but plenty of fingerprints,” he said. “Let me show you the security we've installed.”

At the front door, he showed her how to use a brace that held the door shut even if the lock was unlatched. Additional dead bolts had been added on front and back doors. She was familiar with security systems. “Our home in Denver had an electronic burglar alarm with a keypad.”

“Wyatt knew how to take precautions. I'm kind of surprised that he didn't have more up here. From what you've told me, this house is vacant for weeks at a time.”

“Months,” she said. “We hardly ever came up here in winter. Wyatt used to pay a caretaker. After he died, I hired someone to stay here full-time.”

“A local?”

“The same woman who babysits Abby,” she said. “She has a little boy who's the same age as Abby, and sometimes I take care of him. When she separated from her husband,
having her stay at my house was a good solution for both of us. She had a place to live. And I had somebody who could handle the upkeep. Her name is Belinda Miller.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“She's Nate Miller's ex-wife.” She frowned. Though Belinda always swore that Nate hadn't abused her, he was that type—mean-spirited and angry at the world. “He owns the Circle M Ranch. But he wasn't part of the survivalist group. He was only leasing his property to them.”