Cassie Miles - Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe

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.

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