Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe
Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Author the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Copyright

About the Author

Though born in Chicago and raised in L.A., CASSIE MILES has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post.

After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. A lot of wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

To Rick. I thought about you a lot when I was writing this book.

Chapter One

He wasn’t dead yet.

The darkness behind his eyelids thinned. Sensation prickled the hairs on his arm. Inside his head, he heard the beat of his heart—as loud and steady as the Ghost Dance drum. That sacred rhythm called him back to life.

His ears picked up other sounds. The beep-beep-beep of a monitor. The shuffle of quiet footsteps. The creaking of a chair. A cough. Someone else was in the room with him.

The drumming accelerated.

His eyelids opened—just a slit. Sunlight through the window blinds reflected off the white sheet that covered his prone body. Hospital equipment surrounded the bed. Oxygen. An IV drip on a metal pole. A heart monitor that beeped. Faster. Faster. Faster.

“Jesse?” A deep voice called to him. “Jesse, are you awake?”

Jesse Longbridge tried to move, tried to respond. Pain radiated from his left shoulder. He remembered being shot, falling from his saddle to the cold earth and lying there, helpless. He remembered a gush of blood. He remembered…

“Come on, Jesse. Open your eyes.”

He recognized the voice of Bill Wentworth. A friend. A coworker. Good old Wentworth. He’d been a paramedic in Iraq, but that wasn’t the main reason Jesse had hired him. This lean, mean former marine—like Jesse himself—always got the job done.

They had a mission, he and Wentworth. No time to waste. They needed to get into the field, needed to protect…

Jesse bolted upright on the bed and gripped Wentworth’s arm. “Is she safe?”

“You’re awake.” Wentworth grinned without showing his teeth. “It’s about time.”

One of the monitor wires detached, and the beeping became a high-pitched whine. “Is Nicole safe?”

“She’s all right. Arrests have been made.”

Wentworth was one of Jesse’s best employees—a credit to Longbridge Security, an outstanding bodyguard. But he wasn’t much of a liar.

The pain in his shoulder spiked again, threatening to drag Jesse back into peaceful unconsciousness. He licked his lips. His mouth was parched. He needed water. More than that, he needed the truth. He knew that Nicole had been kidnapped. He’d seen it happen. He’d been shot trying to protect her.

He tightened his grip on Wentworth’s arm. “Has Nicole Carlisle been safely returned to her husband?”

“No.”

Dylan Carlisle had hired Longbridge Security to protect his family and to keep his cattle ranch safe. If his wife was missing, they’d failed. Jesse had failed.

He released Wentworth. Using his right hand, he detached the nasal cannula that had been feeding oxygen to his lungs. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he felt the bump where it had been broken a long time ago in a school-yard fight. He hadn’t given up then. Wouldn’t give up now. “I’m out of here.”

Two nurses rushed into the room. While one of them turned off the screeching monitor, the other shoved Wentworth aside and stood by the bed. “You’re wide-awake. That’s wonderful.”

“Ready to leave,” Jesse said.

“Oh, I don’t think so. You’ve been pretty much unconscious for three days and—”

“What’s the date?”

“It’s Tuesday morning. December ninth,” she said.

Nicole had been kidnapped on the prior Friday, near dusk. “Was I in a coma?”

“After surgery, your brain activity stabilized. You’ve been consistently responsive to external stimuli.”

“I’ll say,” Wentworth muttered. “When a lab tech tried to draw blood, you woke up long enough to grab him by the throat and shove him down on his butt.”

“I didn’t hurt him, did I?”

“He’s fine,” the nurse said, “but you’re not his favorite patient.”

He didn’t belong in a hospital. Three days was long enough for recuperation. “I want my clothes.”

The nurse scowled. “I know you’re in pain.”

Nothing he couldn’t handle. “Are you going to take these needles out of my arms or should I pull them myself?”

She glanced toward Wentworth. “Is he always this difficult?”

“Always.”

FIONA GRANT PLACED a polished, rectangular oak box on her kitchen table and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in red velvet, was a pearl-handled, antique Colt .45 revolver.

In her husband’s will, he’d left this heirloom to Jesse Longbridge, and Fiona didn’t begrudge his legacy. She’d tried to arrange a meeting with Jesse to present this gift, but their schedules had gotten in the way. After her husband’s death, she hadn’t been efficient in handling the myriad details, and she hoped Jesse would understand. She was eternally grateful to the bodyguard who had saved her husband’s life. Because of Jesse’s quick actions, she’d gained a few more precious years with her darling Wyatt before he died from a heart attack at age forty-eight.

People always said she was too young to be a widow. Not even thirty when Wyatt died. Now thirty-two. Too young? As if there was an acceptable age for widowhood? As if her daughter—now four years old—would have been better off losing her dad when she was ten? Or fifteen? Or twenty?

Age made no difference. Fiona hadn’t been bothered by the age disparity between Wyatt and herself when they married. All she knew was that she had loved her husband with all her heart. And so she was thankful to Jesse Longbridge. She fully intended to hand over the gun to him when he got out of the hospital. In the meantime, she didn’t think he’d mind if she used it.

Her fingertips tentatively touched the cold metal barrel and recoiled. She didn’t like guns, but owning one was prudent—almost mandatory for ranchers in western Colorado. Not that Fiona considered herself a rancher. Her hundred-acre property was tiny compared to the neighboring Carlisle empire that had over two thousand head of Black Angus. She had no livestock, even though her daughter, Abby, kept telling her that she really, really, really wanted a pony.

Fiona frowned at the gun. Who am I kidding? I’m not someone who can handle a Colt .45. She turned, paced and paused. Stared through the window above the sink. The view of distant snow-covered peaks, pine forests and the faded yellow grasses of winter pastures failed to calm her jangled nerves.

For the past three days, a terrible kidnapping drama had been playing out at the Carlisle Ranch. Their usually pastoral valley had been invaded by posses, FBI agents, search helicopters and bloodhounds that sniffed their way right up to her front doorstep.

Last night, people were taken into custody. The danger should have been over. But just after two o’clock last night, Fiona had heard voices outside her house. She hadn’t been able to tell how close they were and hadn’t seen the men. But they were loud and angry, then suddenly silent.

The quiet that followed their argument had frightened her more than the shouts. What if they came to her door? Could she stop them if they tried to break in? The sheriff was twenty miles away. If she’d called the Carlisle Ranch, someone would come running. But would they arrive in time?

The truth had dawned with awful clarity. She and Abby had no one to protect them. Their safety was her responsibility.

Hence, the gun.

Returning to the kitchen table, she stared at it. She never expected to be alone, never expected to be living in this rustic log house on a full-time basis. This was a vacation home—a place where she and Abby and Wyatt spent time in the summer so her husband could unwind from his high-stress job as Denver’s district attorney.

Water under the bridge. She was here now. This was her home, and she needed to be able to defend it.

She lifted the Colt from the case, surprised by how heavy it felt when she supported it with one hand. The lethal weapon seemed foreign in her cheerful kitchen with its tangerine walls and Abby’s crayon artwork decorating the refrigerator.

It was a good thing that her daughter was with the babysitter in town. She didn’t want to frighten the child. Or, more likely, send her into gales of laughter at the sight of her mousy, pottery-making mother acting tough.

Peering down the long barrel, Fiona aimed at the toaster on the counter. She snarled, “Go ahead. Make my day.”

The toaster didn’t back down.

Through the kitchen window, she saw a figure on horseback approaching the rear of the house. Carolyn Carlisle.

Quickly, Fiona tucked the antique gun back into its case and placed it on top of the refrigerator. She grabbed a green corduroy jacket from a peg by the back door. Thrusting her arms into the sleeves, she pulled her long brown braid out from the collar and went down the steps into the yard.

After a skillful dismount, Carolyn met her with a quick hug. A tall woman with her black hair pulled back in a ponytail under her cowboy hat, Carolyn looked comfortable in boots, jeans and a black shearling vest.

Though Fiona had grown up near San Francisco, she loved Western outfits, except for the boots. They squeezed her toes. She preferred sandals. Or the sneakers she was wearing today.

“Good news,” Carolyn said. “Jesse Longbridge is awake. He’s expected to make a full recovery.”

“That’s a relief.”

“I don’t know if my brother ever thanked you for recommending Longbridge Security. Jesse and his men have been more than competent.”

Fiona wasn’t surprised. Her husband always said Longbridge Security was the best. “What about Nicole?”

“We’ve heard from her. She says she’s okay, and we shouldn’t worry.”

“But she’s still not home?”

“Things didn’t work out the way they should have.”

Fiona’s heart went out to her neighbor. “I’m sorry.”

“I have no intention of leaving things this way. My brother’s sulking around like a whipped puppy. We lost a million-dollar ransom. And I won’t believe Nicole’s all right until I hear the words from her own lips.” Her hand fisted. “I’m not done yet. Not by a long shot.”

Fiona wished she had one-tenth of Carolyn’s determination. When she wasn’t at the ranch, Carolyn was a hard-driving businesswoman, the CEO of Carlisle Certified Organic Beef—an international, multimillion-dollar business.

“Would you like to come inside?” Fiona asked. “Have a cup of coffee?”

“Not necessary.”

Fiona moved closer to Carolyn’s horse. Elvis was a big handsome mahogany brown stallion with a black mane and a white blaze on his forehead. She glided her hand along his bristly coat. Gently, she encouraged her friend to open up. “I heard that the kidnappers were arrested.”

“The FBI closed down that survivalist group that was staying at the Circle M Ranch. Nicole wasn’t there.”

“You said she called last night.”

“It’s crazy. I don’t even know where to start.”

While Fiona waited for Carolyn to sort out her thoughts, she continued to pet the horse. Elvis ducked his head and bared his teeth in a horsey grin. “Is he flirting with me?”

“Elvis is shameless, but don’t give him anything to eat. The last thing I need is a fat Elvis.”

Fiona chuckled, but Carolyn didn’t crack a smile. She was so tightly wound that Fiona thought she might start spinning like a top. Apparently, she wasn’t ready to continue with her story because she changed the topic. “I haven’t even asked about you, Fiona. How’s Abby?”

“She’s fine. Right now she’s with the babysitter in Riverton.”

“You’re not usually at your cabin in December.”

Not wanting to launch into a dissertation about her own problems, Fiona looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “The weather’s been amazing. Almost as warm as Denver. Do you think we’ll have a white Christmas?”

“Christmas is Nicole’s favorite time of year.” Her voice cracked. “She decorates like mad. I don’t know how to do any of that stuff.”

“I’ll help,” Fiona offered. “Let’s walk while we talk.”

With Elvis following behind them, they made their way across the dry winter grass, skirting the edge of the lodgepole and ponderosa pines that formed a natural barrier around Fiona’s house. Her rocky, forested land had never been intended for farming or grazing.

“Before Nicole was abducted,” Carolyn said, “she and my brother had an argument. Last night, when they met face-to-face, she told him that the kidnapping gave her time to think, and she decided not to come home. She never wants to see Dylan again.”

“She wants a divorce?”

“Apparently.” Carolyn kicked a pinecone from her path. “Dylan won’t talk to me. Or anybody else. Whatever Nicole said, it was enough to convince him. He called off the search.”

“Can he do that?” No matter what the victim said, kidnapping was still a crime. “Isn’t the FBI involved?”

“The FBI profilers and search teams were willing to back off. They blame Nicole’s behavior on Stockholm syndrome.”

“They think Nicole fell in love with her captor?”

“I don’t believe it. Nicole and my brother are soul mates. Damn it, she wouldn’t leave him. Not like that.” Carolyn’s determination flared. “I’m not letting this investigation die. I convinced one of the FBI agents to stay. Even if my brother doesn’t like it.”

She stopped walking. They stood at a high point on a ridge, looking down at the barbed-wire fence that separated their property. In a pasture near the trees, a large herd of cattle were grazing. A field of improbably green winter wheat, planted in late September, stretched out to the road.

Fiona loved this view—a patchwork of subtle winter colors punctuated by the green of the wheat and the heavy black shapes of cattle.

Elvis stepped up beside her and nudged her shoulder like an oversize dog who wanted to be petted. She stroked his neck. “If Nicole is with her kidnapper, that means he’s still at large. Right?”

“There are two of them. One of them has a criminal record as long as your arm. The other is Butch Thurgood—supposedly the guy Nicole likes. He’s won top prizes in rodeos for bronc busting, and he has a reputation for being a horse whisperer.”

“Last night,” Fiona said, “I heard two men arguing. I didn’t see them, but they were close to my house.”

“Did you search?”

Fiona shook her head. It had never occurred to her to go poking around in the dark. “Do you think it was them?”

“It’s worth investigating. I’ll tell Burke, and we’ll come back over here.”

“Burke?”

“The FBI agent who stayed behind.” When she said his name, her features relaxed. “Can I ask you something? Woman to woman.”

“Okay.”

“How did you know? When you met Wyatt, how did you know he was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with?”

“It’s not something I planned for. My heart told me.”

“Lucky you.” Carolyn gave a wry grin. “My heart isn’t so direct. I’d know what to do about Burke if I could refer to a balance sheet or see a prospectus.”

Though Fiona respected her neighbor’s keen business sense and focus, she didn’t believe these denials. “It’s obvious that you care about him. Even if it doesn’t make rational sense, you might even love him.”

“I’ve been in love before, and it hasn’t worked.”

“You’ll never know what’s going to happen with Burke unless you give it a try.”

“Oh, hell. I couldn’t possibly pick a more inconvenient time for this to happen.” She stuck the toe of her boot into the stirrup and mounted Elvis. “I’ll be back with Burke to investigate your mysterious voices in the night.”

“I can’t wait to meet him.”

Fiona watched as Carolyn rode down the ridge to the road where she wouldn’t encounter any barbed wire. Though they were the same age, Fiona felt much older. She’d already been through her own cycle of life—marriage, childbirth and the death of her husband.

Now she was alone again. Starting over. She envied the glow of first love that flushed Carolyn’s face when she spoke of the FBI agent. Someday, she hoped to feel that way again. She remembered the sudden rush of emotion that came with love. The shivers. The heat. Hot and cold at the same time.

Instead of walking directly back to the house, she climbed the ridge. From a vantage point behind a boulder, she looked down at her property.

A cool December wind shook the branches of the pines. In spite of the bright sunlight pouring down, she shivered. The voices she had heard last night could have been coming from the barn. Or the toolshed. Or the unfinished pottery studio Wyatt had been constructing for her.

She glimpsed something moving at the back of the house. A shadow that resembled the silhouette of a man. She squinted hard, trying to be sure of the vague shape she thought she’d seen. Was someone creeping around her house?

Her back door slammed. The noise jolted through her like a shot. She hadn’t locked up when she’d gone to greet Carolyn. That shadowy figure could have gone inside her house.

Chapter Two

Riding in the passenger seat of a black SUV with the Longbridge Security logo on the side, Jesse stared through the windshield at the blue Colorado sky. He was on his way to the Carlisle Ranch to put things right.

Behind the steering wheel, Wentworth sat tight-lipped and disapproving. He hadn’t said a word on the drive from Delta to the small town of Riverton.

Red and green Christmas decorations were plentiful on the storefronts. An inflatable snowman stood outside the drugstore. No chance for making the real thing; the weather had been mild for December.

Wentworth pulled up at a stop sign. To their left was the only gas station in town. In front of the auto repair bay, a cowboy slammed the door on his truck and cursed.

“For the record,” Wentworth muttered, “I think you should have stayed in the hospital.”

“Duly noted.” Jesse looked toward the gas station where the cowboy’s ranting got louder. “What’s going on over there?”

“That guy sounds like he’s unhappy about the repair job on his truck. Not exactly in keeping with the spirit of goodwill to all.”

As Jesse watched, the cowboy grabbed a tire iron and stormed toward the office. “Pull over.”

“Aw, hell. I don’t want to get involved in this.”

Still, Wentworth swung the SUV into the gas station and parked by the pump. Longbridge Security wasn’t connected with law enforcement, but Jesse felt a personal obligation to uphold public order.

A white-haired man in coveralls shuffled out of the gas station office. In his grease-stained hands, he aimed a double-barrel shotgun at the cowboy. “Take your business elsewhere,” he growled. “Your truck ain’t worth the rubber you leave behind on the road.”

“I got no problem with you, Silas.” The cowboy backed off. “Where the hell’s your grandson?”

“I’m not the boy’s keeper. Or his parole officer. Get off my property.”

“I’m going.”

As the cowboy made his prudent retreat, the old man lowered his shotgun and glared at Wentworth. “You boys got a problem?”

“No, sir.”

Wentworth backed up and made a speedy exit.

“Quaint little town,” Jesse said.

“The old man’s a real character. Silas O’Toole. He opens the gas station when he feels like it and charges what he thinks is right. I got a fill-up for less than twenty the other day.”

“Colorful.”

“I notice you didn’t jump right out of the car to help. Are you feeling a little pain?”

“I’m fine.”

That wasn’t entirely true. He’d taken three bullets, and the left side of his body was hurting. His upper left thigh had been shot clean through. His left arm was nicked. The worst damage had been in his upper chest near the shoulder where the bullet burrowed deep through muscle and flesh, requiring surgery to remove it. He wore a sling to keep his left arm and shoulder immobilized.

He’d signed half a dozen forms releasing the Delta hospital and the doctors from liability if he croaked because of his insistence on leaving before they recommended.

“You lost a lot of blood,” Wentworth said.

“Just flesh wounds. No bones broken. No internal organs harmed.”

“When you were in surgery,” Wentworth said, “the doc thought he lost you. You were dead for four minutes.”

“I remember.”

Jesse hadn’t experienced his death as a white light. Instead, he saw himself as a youth on the reservation where he went to visit his grandparents. His mom—a blue-eyed woman of Irish descent—always encouraged him to stay in touch with his deceased father’s Navajo heritage.

In his vision, he climbed up a crude wood ladder from the ceremonial kiva. His chest heaved as he inhaled a breath redolent with the richness of the earth and the scent of burning sage. His black hair hung past his shoulders, much longer than he wore it now.

Across the plain, he saw his grandfather, a white-haired shaman wearing a turquoise belt and holding an eagle feather.

His grandfather beckoned. But Jesse’s feet were rooted to the soil. He couldn’t go. Not yet. There was still something he needed to do on this earth.

“You remember dying?” Wentworth asked.

“Something like that.” He adjusted the sling to fit more comfortably around the bandage and dressing near his shoulder. If his grandfather had still been alive, the old man would have given him herbs to use for healing. “Tell me what happened to Nicole.”

“How much do you remember?”

Jesse thought back to the morning before she was grabbed. Her husband, Dylan, had hired Longbridge Security for surveillance and protection. There had been several incidents of sabotage on his ranch, including a fire that burned down one of the stables.

Jesse and three of his men, including Wentworth, had only been on the job a few hours when Nicole stormed out of the ranch house. Though she’d been warned not to take off by herself, she saddled up and rode across the field into the pine trees near a creek. Jesse followed on horseback.

He’d gotten close enough to see the two men who abducted her. He’d heard them say, “Dylan will pay a lot of money to get her back.” And then…disaster.

If he’d moved faster, if his horse hadn’t stepped on a twig, if he’d had a clean shot, he could have protected Nicole. Instead, he’d been shot.

“I remember getting back on my horse. But I didn’t make it far before I fell out of the saddle. I talked to a woman.”

“Carolyn Carlisle,” Wentworth said. “Dylan’s sister.”

“Then I went unconscious. Tell me what happened next.”

“The first thing? I saved your sorry ass.”

“And I thank you for that.”

“Wasn’t easy,” Wentworth said. “I slowed the bleeding, threw you in the back of a truck. One of the ranch hands—a kid named MacKenzie—drove like a NASCAR racer to get you to the hospital. Might have been the best triage I ever did as a paramedic.”

“Is this your way of asking for a raise?”

Finally, Wentworth laughed. The level of tension between them dropped. “I guess you’ve done okay by me.”

“That’s good because I’m not sure who’s going to hire Longbridge Security after word gets out that I let our client get kidnapped. What happened next?”

“The FBI was called in. There was a ransom demand for a million bucks. The FBI tracked down the kidnappers—a bunch of survivalists who were also smuggling. Case closed. Right?”

“Was it?”

“Hell, no.”

Jesse shifted uncomfortably in his seat. With his right hand, he felt in his jacket pocket for the amber vial of prescription painkillers. “Go on.”

“They couldn’t find Nicole. Last night, she called her husband, met with him and told him that she wasn’t coming home. She wants a divorce.”

Jesse wasn’t sure he understood. “I thought you said the kidnappers were arrested.”

“Two are still at large.”

“And the ransom?”

“Gone.”

The Carlisle ranch house came into view in the distance. The property was bordered by a white slat fence. A gently curving road led to a big, two-story, whitewashed house with a veranda that stretched all the way across the front. Pine-covered foothills framed the area. Hard to believe so much turmoil had taken place in such an idyllic setting.

The drumbeat inside Jesse’s head started up again. A low, hollow throb. “What else do you know?”

“That’s about it,” Wentworth said. “I haven’t been to the ranch house. The client instructed me to stay at the hospital. To protect you. You’re the only eyewitness, and it seemed likely that the kidnappers might want you out of the way.”

Jesse hadn’t seen their faces well. They were wearing cowboy hats that shadowed their features. When he closed his eyes to get a mental picture, his pain intensified. He opened a vial of painkillers, tapped one out and gulped it down.

He didn’t know what he’d say to Dylan. The word sorry sprang to mind. Sorry I messed up and let Nicole get kidnapped. Sorry you lost a million-dollar ransom. Sorry your wife left you.

He winced. All of a sudden, leaving the hospital seemed like a really bad idea. He wasn’t ready for a confrontation. “Don’t go through the gate. Take a left.”

Wentworth followed his instruction. “Are we headed any place in particular?”

“I need a few minutes to think before I face Dylan.”

It went without saying that Jesse wouldn’t quit this job until it had reached a conclusion that satisfied both him and his client. Even if Dylan was ready to take his wife at her word, Jesse wanted confirmation from Nicole.

He turned his head and looked out the window. On the other side of a barbed-wire fence was a field of winter wheat. Still green. Even in December. “Slow down.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Not sure.”

He was hoping for clarity—a flash of insight that would point him in the right direction. In the skies above the field, a hawk circled. His grandfather would have called the bird an omen, a sign that Jesse should be like the hawk. He should be the hunter. Find Nicole. Find the money.

Wentworth stepped on the brake.

A woman was running toward the SUV. Her green jacket matched the low grasses growing in the field. Her long brown braid flipped back and forth behind her.

She yanked open the passenger door. She was thin, delicate. Her cheeks flushed with the effort of running. Her gray eyes shone with a feverish light that made him want to look deeper.

“Your logo.” She gasped. “You’re Longbridge Security.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Jesse Longbridge.”

“I have your gun.”

His gun? As she bent at the waist to catch her breath, he climbed down from his seat. His muscles were stiff from lying in a bed for three days, and his bandaged left leg trembled with the effort of supporting his weight as he stood in the road beside her. “What’s your name?”

“Fiona Grant.”

Wyatt Grant’s widow. He never would have recognized this waiflike creature from the photograph her late husband kept on his desk. Wyatt had been proud of his young bride. In that picture, Fiona was as serene as the Mona Lisa. Her long hair fell around her shoulders in shining curls. A diamond necklace glistened against her smooth olive skin. He’d been hired to protect Wyatt Grant a little over four years ago. If he recalled correctly, Fiona had been pregnant at the time and on bed rest.

When she caught her breath and looked up at him, he said, “I was sorry to hear about your husband’s death. Wyatt was a good man.”

“You have to come with me right away,” she said with a sense of urgency. “I think the kidnappers are at my house.”

“Did you see them?”

“Last night, I heard voices. And just a little while ago, I left the house and didn’t lock the door. As I was coming back, it slammed.”

“But you didn’t actually see or hear them?”

“I saw something. A man.”

“Describe him.”

“It was only a fleeting glimpse. A shadow.” She shuddered. Whatever she’d seen had scared her. “I’m not even sure I saw anything. And the wind could have slammed the door. I might be overreacting.”

He reassured her. “You’re right not to take any chances.”

“Do you believe me?”

Much of what she’d said was jumbled, especially the part about having his gun. But she was obviously distressed, and she didn’t strike him as being crazy. “We’ll make sure your house is safe.”

After losing Nicole to the kidnappers, he wouldn’t take any more risks. Fiona needed his protection.

Chapter Three

Jesse shifted his thinking from speculation to action. If there really was an intruder at Fiona’s house, they needed to act fast to make sure he didn’t escape.

“Wentworth, call the Carlisle ranch for backup. Tell them we’re heading to the Grant house.” He opened the back door of the SUV for Fiona. “Climb in.”

In the few moments it took to reach the turnoff to her ranch, Jesse formulated a simple plan. He and Wentworth would cover the front and back of the house, keeping the intruder trapped until backup arrived. With more manpower, they could search the house, then spread out and search the entire property.

Wentworth got off the phone. “Agent Burke and some men from the ranch are on the way.”

“How long until they get here?”

“Five or ten minutes.”

They drove up the packed dirt road leading to the house. Unlike the other ranches in the area, there was no fence circling Fiona’s property. Her long one-story log cabin nested in a stand of aspen that would be beautiful in the fall when the leaves turned to gold. Behind the cabin, he saw a barn and a couple of outbuildings.

“Fiona, how many entrances does your house have?”

“Only front and back.” Her voice was soft but not breathy. The tone reminded him of gentle notes played by a wooden flute. “But there are windows. If somebody wanted to escape, they could go out a window.”

“Stay in the car, Fiona.” Jesse glanced at Wentworth. “I’ll take the front. You go around back. Don’t enter until backup arrives.”

As soon as Wentworth parked outside the detached garage, Jesse got out of the car. The adrenaline rush masked his pain. His gun felt natural in his hand. He could handle this. No problem.

Moving as quickly as he could with a bum leg, he took a position at the corner of the house beside a long, one-step, wood-plank porch covered by a shingled roof. From this position, he could see the entire front of the house and another side in case the intruder decided to exit through a window.

Leaning against the logs of the cabin, he felt his heartbeat drumming inside his head. His blood pumped hard. He was sweating. In his peripheral vision, darkness began to close in. Not a good sign. He shook himself. Stay awake. Stay alert.

If Fiona’s intruder was, in fact, one of the kidnappers, they were armed and dangerous. They hadn’t hesitated before opening fire on him when he tried to rescue Nicole.

His knees began to weaken. Wentworth had been right. He needed more time to recuperate. Too late to turn back now. No way in hell would he allow himself to collapse. This was his job. His life.

When he glanced toward the car, he was surprised to see Fiona dart across the yard toward him. What the hell was she doing? Didn’t she know it was dangerous? She flattened her back against the log wall beside him.

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

“You could have stayed in the car,” he said dryly.

“This is my home. I need to be ready to defend it.”

In different circumstances, he would have read her the riot act about why she ought to leave the business of security to professionals. But he wasn’t exactly a shining example of rational behavior. Not today. Not when he’d left the hospital only an hour ago. Not when he was taking prescription painkillers. He wasn’t fit for duty.

Later, he’d reprimand himself. For now, the best he could hope for was to avoid getting himself or Fiona shot.

“Stay close,” he said to her.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Damn it, I’m fine.

“I’ve thought about you often, Jesse. I never got to thank you in person for saving my husband’s life.”

“You sent me flowers in a handmade vase.” A strange gift for a man like him whose job meant he was seldom home. “And a note.”

“Which wasn’t enough. That was such a crazy time. I was pregnant, and the doctor told me I had to stay in bed. Then I had the baby.”

“Boy or girl?”

“My daughter’s name is Abigail. Abby.” As she spoke her child’s name, her voice turned musical again. “She’s with the babysitter.”

As he focused on Fiona’s delicate face, the dark edge of unconsciousness receded. Conversation might be what his brain needed to stay alert. “You said this cabin was your home. I thought you lived in Denver.”

“Not anymore.” She peeked around him to see the front door. “Shouldn’t we be rushing inside or something?”

“We’re waiting for backup.” He didn’t tell her that the idea that he could rush anywhere was just about as likely as sprouting wings and flying. “Why did you move up here?”

“Not by choice,” she said. “I lost the house in Denver. And the Mercedes. And the boat. Pretty much everything, actually.”

Her problems distracted him. He couldn’t imagine that Wyatt Grant, a savvy attorney, would have left his widow in such bad shape. “Everything?”

“Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Her gaze turned downward. “I haven’t told anybody.”

“You can tell me,” he said. “It won’t go any further.”

“Are bodyguards confidential? Like lawyers.”

“Not in a legal sense. But I wouldn’t have many clients if I started telling them their business.”

“I’m not your client,” she pointed out.

“As of this minute, I’m working for you. No charge. Pro bono.”

“Deal.” She held out her hand for him to shake before realizing that he was holding a gun in his right, and his left was in a sling. Her confusion ended with a fist bump against his left elbow.

“Now you can tell me anything,” he said.

“There’s not much to say, really. Wyatt had an ex-wife, and two adult children from that marriage. They weren’t happy with the terms of his will. Their attorneys froze everything that was jointly owned, including our checking and savings accounts. When I couldn’t pay the bills, they swooped in. The only reason I have this cabin is that Wyatt signed the deed over to me on our first anniversary. It’s in my name only.”

“You must have contested the family’s actions.”

“Not as much as I should have. Obviously.” There was an edge of bitterness in her voice. “I didn’t have a taste for arguing. Nothing seemed to matter, except for my daughter. It took all my energy to crawl out of bed and take care of her.”

“You let everything go.” Probably even that diamond necklace she’d been wearing in the photograph.

“Didn’t seem worth the effort to hold on. Not when I’d already lost the most important thing in my life.”

A caravan of vehicles from the Carlisle Ranch made the turn off the main road and poured toward them. Jesse would have liked to be the man in control; leadership was natural to him. But he was in no shape to be calling the shots.

He looked down at the slender, delicate woman who stood beside him. “I’m sorry, Fiona.”

“Don’t be.” A mysterious Mona Lisa smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “Starting over isn’t the worst thing that could happen.”

Two trucks and a Jeep parked beside the Longbridge SUV. Nine or ten armed men disembarked. Through a blurry haze, Jesse watched the guy who seemed to be in charge disperse the other men to surround the house. Then he ran across the yard toward Jesse and Fiona.

“Special Agent J. D. Burke,” he introduced himself. “You must be Jesse Longbridge.”

“Must be.” Burke was a big guy, as broad-shouldered as a linebacker. Standing next to Fiona, he looked like a giant—a competent, intelligent giant. “You got here fast.”

“We were already planning to come over here when Wentworth called. Carolyn mentioned that Fiona heard voices last night.”

“But I haven’t actually seen anyone,” she piped up. “Agent Burke, you’re not going to break my front door down, are you?”

“I’d rather not.”

“The back is unlocked.”

He gave a brisk nod. “We’ll enter through the back. You both stay here and keep an eye on the front. Does that sound all right to you, Jesse?”

“It does.”

He appreciated the way Burke had consulted him before taking action. Jesse wanted to think he was still capable. Like all marines, he was a sharpshooter. Even with blurred vision, he trusted his aim. “Stay behind me, Fiona. If I need to open fire, you should run to the back of the house.”

“I’ve never done anything like this,” she whispered.

“You shouldn’t have to. You’re a mom.”

“That’s exactly why I should know how to protect myself and my daughter.”

From the rear of the house, he heard Burke making his entrance. Jesse’s muscles tensed. He raised his handgun and stood ready to shoot.

No one came out.

After a long couple of moments, he heard Wentworth call to him, “All clear, Jesse. There’s nobody in the house.”

Staying focused had been a strain. His gun hand dropped to his side. He sagged against the wall. As soon as his eyes closed, darkness welled up around him. Sweet and silent. For three days, he had rested in the embrace of darkness, peaceful as a tomb.

He felt a hand against his cheek. Her touch was cool, soothing. He blinked and focused on her wide gray eyes.

“Jesse? Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he mumbled.

As she studied him, her face filled with concern. Though her lips didn’t move, he heard an echo of her soft voice inside his head. Starting over isn’t so bad.

After his failure to protect Nicole, he wouldn’t mind having a fresh start. A new direction for his life.

He’d been looking for a sign, a reason he had come back from death. And he sensed that Fiona might hold the answer to his deepest questions. She might provide him with a reason to go on living.

Chapter Four

Standing in her front room, Fiona wasn’t sure whether she should be scared or embarrassed that she’d reported an intruder who didn’t exist.

She couldn’t turn to Jesse for guidance; he’d disappeared into the kitchen, moving slowly. When they were outside and he leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, she’d thought he was going to keel over, which wasn’t surprising considering his injuries. Carolyn had told her that he was unconscious for three days. Jesse was still weak and ought to be in bed. Not that he’d ever admit it. Typical man! When men got sick, they either put on a macho attitude or curled up in bed and whined like babies.

Agent Burke was giving the orders. “Everybody out,” he said. “We need to spread out and search.”

It went against her instincts as a hostess to have these men troop through her house without offering hospitality. “I should make coffee.”

“Later,” Burke said.

Turning away from her, he spoke to the man who had been in the car with Jesse. Wentworth? Burke rattled off instructions about how the outbuildings should be searched and reminded him that they should proceed with caution.

Fiona could see why Carolyn had fallen for this big, rugged FBI agent. Not only was Burke a fine-looking man, but he seemed strong-willed enough to stand up to Carolyn’s dynamic personality. These two would strike sparks off each other for sure.

While the searchers dispersed, she asked, “Is there something you’d like me to do, Agent Burke?”

“I’ll get the sheriff over here to dust for prints, but I doubt we’ll find anything. You keep a tidy house, Fiona.”

“Except for the enclosed porch off the kitchen. I’m using that as my pottery studio.”

“Let’s take a look around and see if anything’s missing.”

Dutifully, she scanned the living-room furniture and the shelves near the door where she stored some of her finished pottery. The TV was still there. And the computer. Nothing seemed out of place.

Burke followed her down the hall to her bedroom where she checked the contents of her jewelry box that rested on the knotty pine dresser. “Nothing appears to be missing, but the door to my walk-in closet is open. I didn’t leave it that way.”

“It might have been opened when we searched,” he said. “Take a look inside.”

Against the back wall was a neat row of dressy clothing, still in plastic dry cleaner’s bags. Matching shoes were stored in their original boxes. She never wore those clothes anymore. They were part of her old life.

Jesse joined them. Though still pale, he seemed to have regained some of his strength. “I’ll take over in here,” he said to Burke. “You might want to keep an eye on the search.”

“Thanks. Except for your man Wentworth, these guys aren’t trained in forensics. They wouldn’t know a clue if it jumped up and bit them on the ass.” He gave Fiona a wave. “I’ll be back.”

Jesse came toward her. In spite of his slight limp and the black sling on his left arm, he moved with confidence.

“You seem better,” she said.

“I’m getting a handle on these pain pills. Just a little foggy around the edges.” He peeked around her into the closet. “Tidy.”

“I haven’t touched most of those things since I unpacked.” She looked up into his eyes. His pupils were so dilated from the medication that she could barely see the dark cognac brown of his irises. “Maybe you should rest.”

“When I need a nap, I’ll let you know.” He flashed that killer grin. “In the meantime, I’m your protector.”

In spite of his light tone, she took him seriously. Her instincts told her this was a man she could trust with her life. In a way, she already had. Within moments of meeting Jesse, she’d told him the secret behind her move to the mountains. None of her friends in Denver knew how much she’d lost. Fiona’s story was that she and Abby were going to live at the cabin and seek a more peaceful life. Peaceful? Not today!

She cleared her throat and said, “Burke told me to look for signs that someone had been in my house.”

“Keep at it.”

She closed her closet door and led him into Abby’s room, which was more cluttered than the rest of the house but didn’t seem to have been ransacked.

“I can’t imagine why anybody would want to rob me,” she said. “I don’t keep valuables here.”

“From what you told me, you don’t keep valuables at all.”

“Things aren’t important to me. I care about people. People matter.”

He mattered. She’d only just met Jesse, but he mattered to her. Why was she so drawn to him? Very likely, because he was an incredibly good-looking man. His straight black hair was combed back from his forehead. He had high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and a firm jaw. But his features weren’t perfect. His nose looked as if it had been broken more than once. And he had a scar on his chin. An interesting face.

“Let’s go to the next room,” he said.

The guest room with the colorful handmade quilt was neat as a pin. Again, the closet door stood open. It was the same in the den.

The only rooms left to search were the kitchen and her studio. She backtracked through the living room, passing the dining table where she and Abby had begun their Christmas decorating with a centerpiece of handmade clay elves and reindeer.

In the kitchen, her gaze went to the top of the fridge where she’d left the antique Colt .45. The rectangular box appeared to be unmoved. She should take it down and make sure the gun was still inside. But something else caught her attention.

“The apples.” She pointed to a bowl on the table. “There are only three, and I’m sure I had four. I remember because I was going to run in here and grab an apple for Elvis.”

“Elvis?”

“Carolyn’s horse. She dropped by earlier.” It seemed crazy that someone would break into her house for a healthy snack. “I could be wrong. Nothing else is out of place.”

That left only her pottery studio. She went through the laundry room attached to the kitchen and stopped outside a closed door. “I always keep this door locked so Abby can’t come in here unsupervised. Too many sharp implements. And a kiln.”

She reached up for the key that hung from a hook near the top of the door frame. It was gone. Had she misplaced it?

Jesse reached past her and turned the doorknob. “It’s open.”

She stepped inside. Her potter’s wheel was in one corner. The kiln in the other. The long table between them was cluttered with sketchbooks and current projects. On the opposite side of the room, tall storage cabinets against the wall were opened. The larger boxes had been dragged out to the center of the room and opened. “Someone was in here.”

“Don’t touch. There might be fingerprints.” Using one of the sketching pencils, he opened the lid on one of the boxes and peered inside at an assortment of small kitchen appliances that she didn’t use anymore. “Anything missing?”

“Hard to tell. That’s just clutter.”

“Your intruder didn’t come here to rob you. He didn’t take the flat-screen TV or the computer. I’d say he was looking for something specific.”

But her house hadn’t been torn apart. The drawers and cabinets in the kitchen were untouched. “He was searching for something big enough to fit into one of these boxes.”

“Something that’s about the size of a suitcase.” With the fingers of his right hand, he raked his black hair off his forehead. “Something that’s gone missing.”

Fiona realized that she should have been frightened. The unlocked door and the boxes were evidence. An intruder had been inside her house. Instead, she felt angry and confused as she imagined a stranger wandering through her house, poking into her things. “I’m not in the mood for guessing games. What was he looking for?”

“The ransom,” he said. “A million dollars in cash. That much money in small bills would fill a suitcase.”

“Why would anyone think the ransom was in my house?”

“That’s a million-dollar question.”

“How about an answer?”

“Your property is close to the Carlisle’s. If the kidnappers were on the run and had to stash the money, they might have stopped here.”

“If so, they wouldn’t have to search,” she said. “They’d remember where they stashed it.”

“There are two of them.” He rested one hip on a high stool beside her worktable. “One of them might have decided he didn’t want to share with his buddy. So he hid the money in your house. Now his buddy is looking for it.”

She remembered the voices she’d heard last night. It has been late, after two o’clock. She couldn’t make out the words but they sounded angry.

Her awareness of fear became reality. The danger—real danger—had come too close.

She stared through the window of her studio and saw the searchers approaching the barn. If anything was hidden here, they’d surely find it. But if they didn’t, what should she do?

“Fiona.” He spoke her name softly. “It’s all right. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“How can you say that? Those men could have come into my house last night. How would I have protected Abby?”

“I’m here now. I’ll keep you and your daughter safe.”

Panic shivered through her. She wanted to run, to get as far away from here as possible. But where could she go? She didn’t have a house in Denver anymore, didn’t have enough money to stay in a hotel. “I can’t afford to hire you, Jesse.”

“You already did. Remember? Pro bono.”

She wasn’t too proud to accept charity, especially when her daughter’s safety was involved. Still, she asked, “Why?”

“I owe you,” he said simply. “Your husband took a chance on hiring Longbridge Security when I was first starting out. Because I proved myself capable of protecting Wyatt Grant—the district attorney of Denver—my reputation was established. I’ve been busy ever since.”

His calm tone and steady gaze bolstered her confidence. Her fear began to recede. “You’ll stay with me and Abby until this is over?”

“Your guest room looks comfortable.”

Gratitude urged her toward him. Avoiding his sling, she hugged the right side of his body. “Thank you.”

His right arm encircled her. For a long moment, they held each other in a clumsy embrace. Fiona had touched plenty of other men since her husband’s death; she was an unrepentant hugger. But being this close to Jesse was different. His nearness awakened long-suppressed feelings of sensual warmth, the memory of what it was like to be a woman.

She stepped away from him. “There’s something I need to give you.”

She saw a subtle change in the way he looked at her. Had he felt it, too? The tiny sparks of passion that might ignite into a wildfire?

“You don’t need to give me anything, Fiona.”

“It’s a bequest. Something Wyatt wanted you to have.”

She turned on her heel and went back to the kitchen. Reaching up, she removed the polished oak box from the top of the refrigerator. It didn’t seem right to just plop the box into his hands. This occasion required some kind of ceremony. “Are you well enough to walk?”

“Not for a twenty-mile trek,” he said. “But I’m mobile.”

“I’d like to take you to the place where I scattered Wyatt’s ashes. That way I’ll feel like he’s with us.”

Jesse nodded. “Lead on.”

She took him out the front door and followed a single-file path that led through the white trunks of aspens surrounding the south side of the house. Over her shoulder, she said, “This property has been in Wyatt’s family for generations. His great-grandfather built the cabin.”

“But they weren’t ranchers.”

“Definitely not. The Grants were always professionals. Lawyers and doctors. They used the cabin as a hunting lodge, a vacation place where they could get away and relax.”

Wyatt had loved coming up here. Every time they made this trip from Denver, he told her it felt as if he’d shoved his daily hassles and responsibilities in a bottom drawer and locked it tight. At the cabin, he was free.

When he died, she knew this was where he would want to be laid to rest—eternally a part of the mountain landscape that fed his soul.

She turned to watch Jesse making his way along the path. There was a slight hitch in his stride, not even a full-fledged limp. His strength was returning, but she didn’t want to push him too far.

At the edge of the aspen grove, she stood on a rise overlooking a knee-high fence that surrounded a small plot of land. Four weathered wooden crosses marked the graves of past generations. The hand-carved cross she’d made for Wyatt still looked new. “In the summer,” she said, “I plant flowers here. It’s a nice view, don’t you think?”

“Beautiful.”

“Wyatt never forgot what you did for him, Jesse. In his will, he specifically requested that this gun be given to you.”

She opened the case. Afternoon sunlight glistened on the silver barrel of the pearl-handled, antique Colt .45.

Jesse lifted the gun from the case, balancing it easily in his right hand. “I’ll treasure this gift as much as I appreciate the memory of the good man who wanted me to have it.”

A gust of wind kicked up, and she imagined Wyatt’s spirit watching over them, approving of this moment between her and Jesse Longbridge.

He made his way closer to the small graveyard, circling a boulder that stood in the path. Abruptly, he came to a halt. His body tensed.

“What is it?” she asked.

He returned to her and placed the gun back in the case. “Go back to the house, Fiona. Get Burke and tell him to meet me here.”

Though she trusted Jesse’s judgment, she wouldn’t allow herself to be brushed aside like a child. “You saw something.”

“Let me save you from this nightmare.” He positioned his body to block her view and held her arm, keeping her from going any farther on the path.

“I need to know.”

“There is a dead man on the other side of this boulder. He’s been murdered, and the coyotes have gotten to him.”

She froze. Her blood ran cold. A dead, mutilated body. Here. Only a few steps away from her front door.

Chapter Five

Jesse clearly remembered the interior of the Carlisle ranch house from when he’d been here before. Generous-size rooms. Rustic but not old-fashioned. He sank into a chair on the far side of the dining-room table, mindful of the need to protect his injured shoulder from being accidentally bumped. Under the dressings that covered his wound, his skin felt damp, and he hoped it was only sweat, not blood oozing from the stitches. The pain had subsided to a dull throb. Though tempted to take another painkiller, he kept the amber vial in his pocket. He needed to be alert.

His job as a bodyguard was mainly reactive. He saw a threat and took action to stop it. His preparation consisted of briefings on possible enemies and memorizing dozens of photographs so he could scan a crowd and pick out those individuals who might pose a risk. His powers of observation were pretty good; he could tell the difference between a man reaching for a gun and a casual gesture.

When it came to his work, he was confident. In any situation—from a black-tie diplomatic reception to a ski slope in Aspen—he could assess the possible points of attack and take steps to avoid them. He and the men who worked for him at his Denver headquarters were expert marksmen, capable with a handgun or a sniper rifle. They were skilled drivers, knew hand-to-hand combat maneuvers and crowd control techniques.

But Jesse wasn’t a detective. He left the crime solving to others…until now. This situation would tax a different section of his brain.

Burke had brought him to the Carlisle ranch house to look at mug shots. Hopefully, Jesse could identify the men who had shot him and grabbed Nicole. As for the dead man on Fiona’s property, he couldn’t tell if he’d seen that person before. Half of his face had been gnawed off by indigenous scavengers, like coyotes and mountain lions.

Fiona fidgeted behind the chair at the head of the table, too agitated to sit. She’d asked to come along, preferring not to be at her house while it was being processed by the Delta County Sheriff’s Department. Her voice was low and worried. “What if Abby had found the body? What if she’d run down the hill, playing a game with her imaginary pony, and stumbled over a dead man?”

“It didn’t happen that way,” he said.

“You’re right. No need to borrow trouble when I’ve got plenty of my own problems.” She rested her palms on the tabletop leaned toward him, staring intently. “How are you doing?”

What the hell was she up to? “Is there a reason you’re right up in my face?”

“I’m checking your eyeballs for dilation.”

“Don’t.” He wasn’t her patient. “I’m fine.”

Looking down, he glided his fingers on the surface of the table. Someone had recently dusted and cleaned. Underlying the lemony scent of furniture polish was another fragrance. Coffee! Though he hadn’t eaten solid food in three days, he wasn’t really hungry. But he deeply craved a rich dose of caffeine.

A tall, slim woman with black hair charged into the room. She held out her hand to him. “I’m Carolyn Carlisle.”

“I know.” He shook her hand, remembering that she was the first person who had gotten to him after he was shot. “You tried to stop my bleeding. Thank you.”

“You’re the one who deserves thanks,” she said. “You risked your life to help my family. You’re a hero, Jesse. If there’s anything I can do for you, just ask.”

“A cup of coffee,” he said. “Black.”

“I’ll get it,” Fiona said. She darted toward the kitchen.

Burke strode into the dining room and placed a laptop computer on the table. Though he only briefly glanced toward Carolyn, Jesse recognized the look of love in his eyes.

“Just a few hours ago,” Burke said, “this dining room was command central for the kidnapping. There were banks of computers and dozens of agents.”

“Why was the search called off?” Jesse asked.

“We had accomplished our secondary objective,” Agent Burke explained. “The survivalist group, known as the Sons of Freedom or SOF, rented the Circle M. Computer forensics showed they were linked to a smuggling operation. Guns and drugs. Additionally, their leader is suspected of murder. We’ve arrested the perpetrators, and relocated the witnesses into protective custody.”

“What about the primary objective? The kidnapping.”

“My brother wanted the FBI gone,” Carolyn said. “After Dylan talked to Nicole, he was convinced that she’s all right and doesn’t want to come home.”

No victim meant no crime. Jesse understood that part of the equation, but a million dollars had gone missing. “What about the ransom? That money is as much Carolyn’s as Dylan’s.”

“True,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I want the ransom back. But Dylan called off the investigation. He’s saying that the million dollars is a divorce settlement.”

“Assuming that it went to Nicole,” Jesse said. “That she ran off with one of her abductors.”

“Finding the body at Fiona’s house sheds a new light on the situation,” Burke said. “We’ll have to wait for DNA to be certain of his identity. Based on his height, hair color and the custom-made belt buckle, I’m pretty sure the dead man is Butch Thurgood.”

Jesse had never heard the name before. “Was he one of the kidnappers?”

“You tell me.” Burke placed the computer in front of him. “Scroll down and tell me if you recognize the men who shot you.”

Concentrating, Jesse stared at the computer screen. Though he didn’t have a clear view of Nicole’s abductors, he’d been close enough, and he was good at remembering faces. The line of a jaw. The curve of a nose.

The first three images were unfamiliar. Then came the fourth. “This man,” he said. “He’s the one who shot me.”

“Are you sure?”

Jesse studied the weak chin and narrow lines of the face. In the computer image, his eyes were visible. His cruelty, apparent. “He didn’t have as much facial hair as in this photo, but this is him.”

“Pete Richter,” Carolyn said.

Tapping the computer key, Jesse looked at other faces. Most of them were average—the kind of men who didn’t stand out in a crowd. One of them looked like a cowboy from the Old West with a thick mustache and lantern jaw. “This might be the victim we found at Fiona’s place.”

“Is he the other kidnapper?”

Jesse shook his head. “The guy who grabbed Nicole was fair-haired. No mustache.”

He stopped on another image. “This is the second kidnapper. He’s the one who said that Dylan would pay a lot of money to get his wife back.”

Carolyn gasped. “It’s Sam Logan. Damn him. I should have known.”

“Logan was the leader of the SOF,” Burke explained. “We suspected he was behind the kidnapping but didn’t think he was also the primary kidnapper.”

“He’s been taken into custody?”

“Correct.”

Jesse had a lot more questions about the delivery of the ransom and the evidence that had been gathered in the prior investigation. “I’d like to review your files on the case.”

“It’s all on this laptop,” Burke said.

“If you print it out, I can take a copy with me. I’ll be staying at Fiona’s until we’re sure there’s no danger to her or her daughter.”

“Good plan,” Carolyn said with obvious relief. “I was going to suggest that she and Abby move over here, but I’m sure the little girl would feel better in her own house.”

Fiona marched back into the dining room with a tray that she placed in front of Jesse. “Milk and oatmeal,” she said.

“No coffee?”

“Not until you have something else in your stomach. You probably haven’t eaten solid food for days.”

He glared into the bowl of mushy oatmeal. “I want coffee.”

“After you’re finished with this,” she said.

Being treated like an invalid wasn’t his thing. Even though he’d been injured. Even though he’d technically died for a couple of minutes.

But Fiona stood firm. She was so determined to nurture him that she just might pick up the spoon and start feeding him herself.

Reluctantly, he shoveled in a mouthful of oatmeal. Sweetened with brown sugar, it didn’t taste half bad. But it was heavy, thick. When he forced himself to swallow, it felt as if he could trace the lump through his digestive system.

He looked up at Burke. “How about it? Can I look at your files?”

“This is official FBI business. Technically, I shouldn’t share.” He looked toward Carolyn. “But I’ve already broken too many rules to count, and I’d like your input.”

“I appreciate your trust.” Jesse washed down another bite of oatmeal with a swig of milk.

Fiona turned to Burke and asked, “When do you think the sheriff will be done with my house? I need to pick up my daughter from the babysitter.”

“A couple more hours,” Burke said. “They’re looking for prints and other forensic evidence. And they have to process the body.”

“Have dinner with us,” Carolyn said. “I know Abby loves to be around the horses.”

“Wonderful.” Fiona beamed. “Maybe we can get started with those Christmas decorations.”

While the two women chatted about Christmas trees and family ornaments, Jesse worked on his food. His gut roiled, but he knew Fiona was right. He needed solid food. He needed to recover his full strength.

When he looked up from the nearly empty bowl, he saw Dylan Carlisle standing in the dining-room entryway. A few days ago, when he’d first met Dylan, Jesse had the impression that he was dealing with a strong, reliable man who was capable of running a cattle ranching empire. The tall, lean cowboy who stood so silently was a pale reflection of his former self.

Dylan’s shoulders were stooped. His clothes, rumpled. The circles around his green eyes made him look as though he’d been punched in the face. His cheeks were hollow. Losing his wife had nearly destroyed him.

“I’m glad to see you’ve recovered, Jesse.” Dylan’s voice was as cold as a January blizzard. “As of now, your services are no longer required.”

Apparently, Dylan didn’t share Carolyn’s opinion about Jesse being a hero. As he rose from the table to face the devastated man, Jesse felt the bitter ache of failure. There was truth in Dylan’s accusation. He’d been hired to protect the Carlisle family, and he had failed.

“I want to see this through,” Jesse said.

“There’s nothing more to do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carolyn snapped at her brother. “We still need security. They just found a dead body at Fiona’s place.”

Dylan looked at Fiona as if seeing her for the first time. “Is Abby okay?”

“She wasn’t home, thank God.”

“It was one of the kidnappers,” Carolyn said. “Butch Thurgood.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “Thurgood? The horse whisperer?”

“We need to keep investigating,” she said. “That’s why Burke is here, and I want to keep Longbridge Security.”

“Damn it, Carolyn. It’s over. Can’t you get it through your head? Nicole isn’t coming back. She doesn’t want to be with me anymore.”

“I want to offer my services,” Jesse said. “No charge.”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Dylan lurched forward and braced his hands on the table. “You were supposed to keep us safe.”

“That’s not fair,” Carolyn protested. “Nicole didn’t follow protocol. She went riding off by herself without telling Jesse.”

“She’s never coming back to me.” Dylan straightened. “She’s gone.”

“Listen to me.” Fiona’s gentle voice cut through the tension. “Dylan, you might be giving up on Nicole too soon.”

When he turned to look at her, pain twisted his features. “She turned her back. She walked away.”

“I’ve lost someone I loved,” Fiona said. “I understand your sorrow. But I’ll tell you this. If I could have one more minute with my husband, I’d go through hell to get it.”

“What if he didn’t want you?”

With her long brown braid and her quiet manner, Fiona seemed delicate—so fragile that a gust of wind could blow her away. But she had an unshakeable inner strength. “I’d still fight for him.”

Her words resonated. The relationship she’d had with her husband was deep and true. Special. Jesse hoped that, someday, he could find a connection like that—a love that went beyond the grave.

Dylan turned away. “I want no part of this.”

He left the room quickly.

From down the hallway, Jesse heard a door slam. He turned to Carolyn. “I’m leaving two men here at the house. Wentworth and Neville. I’ll be staying at Fiona’s.”

“You’re welcome to stay for dinner,” she said.

“It’s better for me to leave.”

He didn’t want to face Dylan again. Not until he had something to report.

PETE RICHTER 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.

Chapter Six

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?”