Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe (8 page)

By dawn of the following day, Jesse felt damn good. The aching lessened. His drumming headache was gone. He'd recovered a decent range of movement in his arm and shoulder but continued to wear the sling as a reminder to be careful.

Best of all, his appetite had returned. He sat at the table in Fiona's cheery tangerine kitchen, scarfing down the excellent pancakes she'd whipped up. On the other side of the table, Wentworth polished off the last morsel of food on his plate. Fork in hand, he eyed a sausage link on Jesse's plate.

“Don't even think about it,” Jesse growled.

“As a medical professional,” Wentworth said, “I'd advise you to turn over the meat.”

“Based on what diagnosis?”

“Anatomy charts. There's a link-size space in my belly.”

“To match the hole in your head,” Jesse said. “You're crazy if you think I'm not eating this.”

Abby was between them, kneeling on her chair because she was, as she had informed them, too grown-up for a booster seat. Her eating process was complicated. Each bite she took was followed by a bite for her plastic palomino pony. “What are we going to do today?” she asked.

“Mickey is coming over,” Fiona said as she slid another pancake from the frying pan onto Wentworth's plate.

“Mickey?” Jesse glanced up at her.

“Abby's friend.”

“My best friend,” Abby clarified.

Jesse couldn't believe what he was hearing. Fiona had scheduled a play date? “You'll have to cancel.”

“Or not.” She was pretty in the morning with her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and her cheeks flushed pink from the heat of the stovetop. “Mickey's mom should be dropping him off any minute.”

“So early? It's barely light outside.”

“Yee-haw,” Abby cheered. “I gotta get dressed.”

Fiona looked down at her daughter's plate, gave a satisfied nod and said, “You're excused.”

Abby hopped off her chair and bolted from the room with her pony tucked under her arm.

Jesse had the distinct feeling that he was losing control of the situation. “This is wrong, Fiona. Wentworth and I are here as bodyguards. Not babysitters.”

“Mickey always comes over on Wednesdays while Belinda works the morning shift at the café. I couldn't ask her to reschedule on such short notice.”

He reminded her, “Richter is still at large.”

“He's not going to attack while you're here,” she said. “Besides, it'll be easier for everyone if Abby's occupied with her friend. Otherwise, she'll be underfoot.”

After she shoveled the last pancake onto his plate, Fiona excused herself and went to oversee her daughter.

Jesse cut his sausage in half, looked at Wentworth and shook his head. “A playdate.”

“I used to date a single mom,” Wentworth said. “There's nothing more sacred than their babysitting schedules.”

“Even when you find a dead body in the front yard? Fiona ought to have the good sense to be more cautious.”

“That's why she's got you, buddy.”

“And you.” Jesse shoved the sausage into his mouth. “I need you here today, instead of at the Carlisle Ranch.”

Wentworth carried his plate to the sink. “Have you got a plan?”

“Searching.” He envisioned a widening circle. “We'll start here at Fiona's house.”

“But we already searched,” Wentworth said.

“I need to see for myself. And I want Fiona with me. She might notice something that others missed. Then I want to take a look around at the Circle M where Nicole was held prisoner. After that, I'll check the site where the ransom was dropped. Maybe I can pick up the kidnappers' trail.”

“After two days?” Wentworth scoffed. “You're a genius tracker, Jesse. But that's nearly impossible.”

“It's a long shot,” he agreed. “But we haven't got much to go on.”

He heard Abby racing through the house and shouting, “Mickey's here. Mickey's here.”

Jesse went to the front door, where Abby tugged at the brace that was holding it shut. She looked up at him. “The door's broke.”

“This is a special lock.”
A childproof lock
. Though the brace was supposed to keep intruders out, it also ensured that Abby couldn't go racing outside whenever she wanted. An unexpected benefit. “Whenever you want it moved, ask me or your mom or Wentworth.”

“Open,” she said.

Fiona stood beside them. “Did you hear what Jesse said? For the next few days, you aren't to go outside without permission.”

“Yes.” Her blond curls flounced as she nodded. “Open.”

Fiona opened the door and welcomed her guests. Mickey was a skinny, three-and-a-half-foot tall bundle of energy with a buzz haircut and freckles. He threw off his jacket and ran down the hallway behind Abby.

His mother had a nicely rounded figure. Her full hips were packed into black slacks. The fringe on her leather jacket jiggled when she moved.

“Belinda Miller,” Fiona said, “this is Jesse Longbridge and Tom Wentworth.”

Though her smile was dimpled and friendly when she shook hands, he saw caution in her brown eyes. Belinda couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old, but she'd already learned to be wary of men. From what Jesse had read in Burke's reports, her ex-husband had a nasty temper.

“Tell me the truth,” she said. “Is there any real danger?”

As Jesse said, “Yes,” Fiona said, “Not really.”

Belinda planted her fists on her hips. “Which is it?”

“Even if there is somebody after us,” Fiona said, “these two men are professional bodyguards.”

Belinda's gaze assessed him and Wentworth; then she gave a satisfied nod. “Nobody is going to mess with you guys.”

Fiona gave her a hug. “See you after lunch.”

“Thanks, hon. I really need this shift. It's almost Christmas, and I'm dead broke.”

He watched Belinda return to her car and drive away. The morning skies grew brighter. It was a new day. When
he returned to the house and locked the door, he was warm. Comfortable. His belly full of good food.

At the far end of the hallway, he heard the kids playing. Fiona smiled at him, and he fought the urge to give her a little peck on the forehead.
This must be what it's like to have a family
.

He seldom considered the idea of having a family of his own. Bodyguards needed to look on the dark side, to recognize potential threats before they became lethal. If he had his own family, there was also the possibility that he might lose them.

But when he looked around this comfortable cabin, he felt content. He wouldn't have minded starting a fire in the hearth and spending the whole day playing with the kids and gazing into Fiona's soft gray eyes. Maybe read a book. He remembered a December, long ago, when he had whittled kachina dolls for Christmas presents. Whittling was a good hobby. He should take it up again.

Yeah, right
. Then he could have some hot chocolate with marshmallows. Coming back from death might have mellowed him, but he wasn't about to turn into a lazy, domesticated tomcat. Clearing his throat, Jesse took command and issued orders. “We need to get started. Wentworth, you stay here with the kids. Fiona, come with me to search.”

Someday, there might be time for whittling and reveries in front of the fireplace. But not today.

 

F
IONA ZIPPED HER WINTER
parka all the way to her chin as she led Jesse to the structure nearest the house. “This was going to be my art studio. Wyatt never had a chance to finish it.”

They went up two steps and entered through the unlocked double-wide door. The single room was two stories high at the front with large windows to admit natural light. The ceiling slanted down to a single story at the rear. Except for a couple of sawhorses and a stack of two-by-fours, the room was empty.

Jesse strode across the wood floor. His footsteps echoed. He stopped at the rear where there was a section of concrete. “You'd put the kiln here.”

“Right. This whole building rests on a concrete slab. You wouldn't believe how much Wyatt enjoyed that part of the construction. He got to use a backhoe.”

“Heavy equipment,” Jesse said with obvious relish. “Yeah, that's fun stuff.”

“A lot of the men in the Grant family seem to think so. Most of them are professionals who sit at a desk all day. But when they come up here—supposedly to relax—they take on building projects.”

“It's satisfying to create something solid.” Jesse rested his hand against an exposed stud on the framed wall. “Wouldn't take much to finish this. Add the insulation and the drywall.”

“And the electric,” she reminded him. “And minimal plumbing. I don't need a toilet, but I'd like a sink. And a tile floor so it would be easy to clean up.”

He removed his hand. “A bigger job than I thought.”

“I've had Belinda's ex-husband out here to give me an estimate on finishing. Nate's a handyman, and he's pretty good.”

“I saw in Burke's investigation notes that he was a suspect in Nicole's kidnapping.”

Fiona wasn't surprised. Nate was an efficient worker,
but she didn't have a high opinion of his character. “He hates the Carlisles and blames them for losing his ranch.”

“Any truth to his opinion?”

“It's an old grudge. Years ago, when Carolyn's father changed his ranching procedures to all-organic with grass-fed cattle and no antibiotics, everybody thought he was nuts. Organic beef is more expensive to raise, and involves a lot more effort. But old Sterling Carlisle knew what he was doing. Carlisle Certified Organic Beef grew into a multimillion-dollar international success story.”

“And Nate lost almost everything.”

“I think it was his father who told Sterling Carlisle to go to hell when he offered to buy Circle M cattle if they made the required changes in ranching procedures. The Circle M became less and less profitable. Nate finally closed down the cattle ranch and sold off some of his land. He was lucky when the Sons of Freedom rented his property.”

Jesse scowled. “Given that he's not a particularly charming individual, why did you hire him?”

“Indirectly, I was helping Belinda. If her ex-husband has money, he can pay his child support.”

“Anything else?”

“I guess, in a way, I feel sorry for Nate. He was terrible to Belinda. When they were first separated, he pestered her until she took out a restraining order. But he adores Mickey. When he's with his son, he lights up.”

“You like to find the good in people. Even when you have to look deep.”

“It's my greatest flaw.”

Her positive attitude had certainly betrayed her. Instead of seeing how Wyatt's first wife and grown children would greedily gobble up every asset they could get their sticky
fingers on, she believed they were—like her—grieving his death and wishing her the best. Had she made a similar mistake with Nate Miller?

Jesse stamped his foot on the floor again and listened to the echo. “Is there a basement under here?”

“Just a crawl space. It's probably only three feet high.”

“Big enough to hide the ransom,” he said. “We'll need a flashlight.”

“There's one in the barn. I'll get it.”

“Fiona, wait. You shouldn't be alone.”

“Don't worry. I know exactly where the flashlight is. I'll be right back.”

She darted out the door and jogged across the yard toward the old barn with a stable in back. She hadn't been in here recently. Since they weren't keeping livestock, there wasn't a need to visit the barn.

She opened the small door on the side and slipped inside. It smelled stale and stuffy. This old, empty building reminded her of how much she'd lost. It'd take a miracle for her to get Abby the pony she wanted so much.

She flicked the light switch. None of the lights came on. The bulbs must be burned out.

It didn't matter. The light from the door and the two high windows was enough for her to see. She carefully picked her way through the junk stored in the central area below the loft: a space heater that didn't work, camping supplies, an ancient tractor, a Jeep with a snowplow attached to the front.

Near the tool bench were several metal boxes where Wyatt had stored his tools when he wasn't using them. Some of the lids stood open. When Burke and the deputies searched last night, they must have dug through here. She
was glad that others had been the first to search. They probably knocked away most of the cobwebs.

She reached toward the dusty shelf above the workbench and found a heavy-duty silver flashlight. She'd purchased it herself because it had a specially designed reflection system and a fancy battery that was supposed to last for years and years. True to that guarantee, a strong, steady beam shot through the musty air as soon as she touched the switch. She moved the flashlight back and forth; the light scanned across the discarded equipment and the muddy footprints on the wood floor. The old wood creaked beneath her sneakers.