Cassie Miles - Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe

“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.

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.