Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe (14 page)

A frown pinched Andrea's brow. “I wish there was more I could do. I feel so helpless.”

“We all do,” Fiona said.

“You must stay for dinner,” Andrea said to her. “You and your adorable daughter.”

“It's been a long day,” she said. “Especially for Abby. I think it's best if I take her home and get her to bed early.”

Until that moment, she hadn't realized how anxious she was to get home. She was looking forward to tonight when she would spend time alone with Jesse. He'd promised to return to her house after he and Burke reached the end of their trail.

She had a fleeting thought of sitting close beside him on the sofa, their thighs touching. He'd caress her cheek. She'd trace the line of that tiny scar on his chin. She dragged herself out of her reverie. “But thank you, Andrea.”

“Maybe tomorrow I could come to your house for a visit,” she said. “Carolyn tells me that you're an artist. I'd like to see your work.”

Fiona sensed something more than polite interest in her comment. “I don't have many pieces here. I left several sculptures in storage with an artist friend in Denver, and there's a shop in Cherry Creek that takes my pottery on consignment.”

“You might want to dig out your portfolio,” Carolyn said as she patted her mother on the shoulder. “Mom runs an art gallery in Manhattan.”

With another smile, Andrea said, “I'm always looking for new talent.”

Fiona blinked as if a flashbulb had exploded in her face. Opportunities appeared in mysterious ways. “A gallery?”

“I try to showcase artists from across the country. What's your focus?”

“Right now I'm working on pottery that's a variation on the Navajo wedding vase with a drinking spout on each side.”

“I'd love to see it,” Andrea said. “Tomorrow morning?”

“It's a date.”

This timing couldn't be better. She'd been working on a Web site to sell her handiwork. If Fiona could get her worked placed in a Manhattan gallery, her reputation would increase by leaps and bounds. It might even be possible for her to make a living selling her art.

As she hurried out the door with Wentworth, a shiver went through her. Earlier today, her outlook had been pretty gloomy. But now things seemed to be going well.
Maybe too well
.

For one thing, Jesse and Burke had found a tangible trail that might lead to the ransom.

For another, Carolyn's mother had opened the door to possible career opportunity.

And then, there was Jesse. The attraction she felt toward him was growing deeper with every shared glance, every smile, every laugh. An electricity arced between them whenever they touched. She couldn't deny that their friendship was poised on the verge of becoming something more.
And wouldn't that be…amazing? To make love again? To spend the night in his sheltering embrace? It was too much to hope for.

Another shiver creased her spine. Being too happy was dangerous.

The kidnapper had taken an erratic escape route, dodging into the cover of the trees, up toward a ridge, down to the fence, then back to the forest. Jesse read the tracks and the mind-set of the man who made them—a man who was running scared.

At the time of the ransom pickup, all hell had been breaking loose. Burke described three hundred cattle in the pen, bawling and jostling. A dozen ranch hands poured into the area near La Rana. Two other FBI operations were under way. There had been helicopters, bullhorns and armed assault teams.

No wonder the kidnapper had been clashing back and forth. He was a villain and a criminal but also a mouse peeking out of his hole and hoping to get away.

Finally, he'd settled on a route, eventually leaving the Carlisle Ranch and riding parallel to the main road. Since his horse had lost a shoe, he avoided the hard surface of the pavement.
A lucky break for Jesse
. He had a trail to follow, and it led into Riverton.

By the time he and Burke reached the edge of town, dusk had turned to darkness.

Jesse dismounted and shone his flashlight on a hoofprint at the shoulder of the road. There was no corresponding print on the opposite side. He walked to the corner of the street and back again, finding plenty of other footprints and the track of a mountain bike. No hoofprints. “This is it. End of the trail.”

He surveyed the area. There were mailboxes on posts and long driveways. Lights shone through the windows of small frame houses, set back from the road. A single streetlight cast dim illumination on the rural neighborhood.

“There could be witnesses,” Burke said.

“In a town like Riverton, seeing a man on horseback wouldn't be unusual.”

“You never know. I'll contact the sheriff and have his men canvass the area.”

“Sheriff Trainer.” Jesse spoke the name with undisguised disgust. “He's already missed too many clues. His men should have found these tracks.”

“Doubtful.” Burke adjusted his baseball cap. “I've done my fair share of hunting, and I've never seen anybody follow a trail the way you just did, especially in the dark. Admit it, Jesse. You're half bloodhound.”

Jesse grinned. “Are you calling me a dog?”

“Where the hell did you learn how to track like this?”

“When I was a kid, I spent summers on the reservation with my grandfather, a wise man. He taught me a lot.”

“Ute?”

“Navajo.” Jesse turned toward the lights of the main street in town. He hated to think they'd come this far to reach a dead end. “Why was he headed into town?”

“He must have planned to meet up with his buddy,”
Burke said. “I can't think of anybody else he'd want to see in Riverton. Most of the townsfolk thought the Sons of Freedom were troublemakers.”

“The track we've been following,” Jesse said, “do you think it was Butch or Richter?”

“My gut tells me it was Richter. When the ransom was being delivered, he was quick on the trigger. Just like he was when he shot you.”

“My gut agrees with yours.” Obviously, Richter was the more dangerous of the two. “But if Richter had the ransom, why did he kill his partner?”

“Greed.” One of the most common and deadly of motives.

“Carrying a million dollars in a backpack, he sure as hell wouldn't want to be seen. There had to be a damn good reason why he risked coming into town. More than that, why did he cross the road here? At this particular street?”

Burke concluded, “His destination in Riverton—wherever it was—must be nearby.”

A block away was the main commercial strip. They mounted and rode at a walk on the edge of the pavement toward the stop sign. Riverton was too small to merit a stoplight or a grocery store. The people who lived here shopped in Delta where Jesse had been in the hospital.

Though it was only seven o'clock, most of the storefronts were dark, except for their twinkling Christmas decorations. The only activity seemed to be at the far end of the block-long business district where the tavern and the diner were located. A number of cars and trucks were parked at the curb outside those two establishments.

They approached the gas station, a shabby-looking place. The office windows were streaked with grime, as were the three garage doors on the repair bays.

“I've never seen this gas station open,” Burke said. “The old guy who runs it keeps his own schedule.”

“Silas O'Toole.” Jesse remembered the incident that took place when he and Wentworth had driven through town. “I saw him in action with a double-barrel shotgun in his hands, warning some cowboy to get off his property.”

“What was the argument about? A flat tire?”

“O'Toole has a grandson who works with him. A mechanic, I guess. Silas mentioned his parole officer. The grandson took off before he had finished some work for the cowboy.”

“He left town,” Burke said. “When?”

“Right after I got out of the hospital. The day after the ransom was delivered.” Jesse paused. The significance of this episode was beginning to sink in. “Damn it, I should have paid more attention.”

The timing was right. O'Toole's grandson could have been working with Richter and Butch, could have gotten a payoff from them and blown town.
Why didn't I make this connection sooner?
There wasn't time for mistakes.

Jesse dismounted. His boots hit the pavement of the parking lot outside the gas station and jolted him into a state of alertness. There was one light over the pumps and one over the door. He needed his flashlight to peer into corners.

Around the back of the station, four cars—all in varying states of disrepair—were parked. The stink of oil, gas and grit hung in the air. He and Burke prowled, looking for hoofprints in the mud. He needed a sign, an indication that the kidnapper had been here.

“I should have paid more attention,” he said. “A grizzled old guy in overalls waving a shotgun is a pretty big clue.”

“Or just local color,” Burke muttered. “I'll tell you what.
I've had enough of ranches and cattle and cowboys. Can't wait to get back to my office in Denver.”

“What about Carolyn?”

“She works in Denver, too. Don't let her cowgirl persona fool you. She's a high-powered businesswoman who likes sushi for lunch and Gucci for shoes. It's a damn good thing. I love Carolyn, but I don't think I could live out here.”

“I could.”

Though he hadn't been thinking about settling down here, or anywhere else for that matter, Jesse enjoyed mountain living. Every view was as pretty as a postcard. The air was fresh. He liked being here, especially because Fiona was here.

The minute he thought of her, his heart beat a little faster. A vision of her gentle smile filled his mind. He saw her long hair flowing behind her as she rode beside him. Tonight, they'd have some quiet time together. He'd make sure of that.

At the front of the gas station, he twisted the handle on the door to the office, hoping that O'Toole's lax business practices extended to leaving the place wide open. No such luck. The door was locked.

He went to the repair bays and yanked on the first garage door. Also locked.

The second door slid up with a loud screech that made their horses jump. He turned to Burke and grinned. “Ready for a little breaking and entering?”

“No problem. I'm an FBI special agent.”

“Which doesn't put you above the law.”

“But gives me a lot of experience in coming up with plausible, semilegal excuses.”

Jesse entered the garage and turned on the bare-bulb
lights. The inside of the auto repair area gave new meaning to the concept of neglect. Tools scattered across a grime-encrusted counter. Grease-stained rags overflowed a metal barrel. A worn calendar from 2002 showed a sexy redhead in black leather chaps leaning against a motorcycle. These concrete floors didn't look as though they'd been swept since the day that calendar was new.

It didn't take long to find a hoof print on the floor, clearly outlined in a combination of mud and grease. “There was a horse in here, but this hoof has a shoe. There's no way of knowing if it was the kidnapper's mount.”

“It was him.” Burke rose from the floor where he'd been picking through a pile of trash. “I might not be a bloodhound, but when it comes to finding money, I'm top dog.”

In his gloved hand, he held a grease-stained one-hundred-dollar bill. Part of the ransom.

 

A
FTER
F
IONA GOT
A
BBY
to bed and made sure Wentworth was comfortable, she got busy in her studio at the rear of the house. Tomorrow, Carolyn's mother would be coming to see her work, and Fiona wanted to show her best pieces.

She still needed to finish the glaze on her interpretation of a Navajo wedding vase. Her intention had never been to create a replica; she didn't presume to understand the rituals of the wedding ceremony. Instead, she'd taken inspiration from the idea of two spouts rising from one vessel: one for the bride, the other for the groom. She liked the idea of both drinking from the same source while maintaining a separate identity.

Though she'd started with the traditional coiled pot method, her creation was more fanciful. The long spouts rose
from delicate vines that curled around the pot with overlapping leaves—an effect that was both modern and organic.

She carefully painted a pearly white glaze on the once-fired bisque-ware. The design was elaborate enough without painted embellishment.

Since it didn't make sense to fire up the kiln for only one piece, she found herself adding glazes to a couple of other chalices and cups. The theme of her current work seemed to be drinking. Was she thirsting for something?

“Jesse,” she murmured.

These designs had been completed before she met him. But since the moment when she first recognized the man who saved her husband's life, Jesse had never been far from her mind. She'd been ready for him to come into her life.

After placing the pottery in the kiln, she carefully put away the glazing chemicals that she kept in a locked cabinet far out of Abby's reach. She set the timer on the kiln.

What else could she show to Andrea? She pulled open the cabinet doors and started opening boxes that she hadn't touched since she moved into the cabin. Going through these pots and sculptures was like reading a diary.

Before Abby was born, her work had been bigger. The largest piece was two feet tall—an eruption of roses that she'd saved because the coppery glaze was so vivid. She'd been thinking of her marriage when she sculpted this bouquet. Though it was bright and happy, the technique lacked maturity and depth.

After her daughter was born and her time for work was more limited, she made several whimsical little houses. Dwellings for fairies. Her plan had been to build an elfin city, a magical place. Many of these houses had sold, but she still had a few left.

After her husband's death, her work turned predictably dark. Charred vases. Jagged abstract shapes. She opened a box and took out an eight-inch-tall sculpture. A tree struck by lightning with clawlike branches and a glaze that reflected dark, bloodred in the crevices.

The tree appeared to be screaming and dying. When she'd carved these lines, she'd been driven by sorrow and rage. Now she could turn it around in her hands and calmly admire the emotion without being affected by it. “Not bad.”

Definitely, she'd show this one to Andrea.

Though her kiln was properly vented, the small studio always got extrahot when she was firing her work. She stripped down to her black sports bra.

Even if Andrea didn't want any of her work for her gallery in Manhattan, this was a useful project. She could photograph these pieces for her Web site. She dug deeper into the cabinets, looking for a photo portfolio of some pieces she had on consignment in Denver.

Andrea had asked for her focus, but Fiona hadn't really settled on a particular style. Her pottery reflected her emotional state, which ranged from happy as a cloud to miserable as a lump of coal.

She wanted to sculpt Jesse. His handsome face showed depth of character. His hands were gentle but strong. Creative energy raced through her veins. Where was her sketchbook? She hadn't felt so dynamic in a very long time.

In a burst, she sketched him. Wearing a flat-brim cowboy hat. Clenching a fist. His dark eyes were fierce. His smile was predatory and, at the same time, sexy as hell. Oh, yes, she'd like to be devoured by him.

A rivulet of sweat trickled between her breasts. Her ponytail was damp on her neck. The intense heat came partly
from her kiln, but mostly from an internal fire. She needed to take a break before she erupted.

Leaving her studio, she went through the kitchen to the back door, unfastened the locks and stepped outside. The chill of the night air rippled around her. She lifted her hair off her neck.

When she inhaled a gulp of air, her lungs cooled. She exhaled a contented sigh. She'd been utterly consumed by artistic inspiration, and it felt amazing.