Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe (6 page)

“Nate Miller.” Jesse repeated the name. She had the sense that he was storing that bit of information away in the back of his head. She knew he'd been reading Burke's case files while she and Abby were at dinner. Jesse probably had a great deal of information on the locals.

He asked, “Was Belinda living here when you decided to move back?”

“A few months ago, she moved in with her boyfriend in Riverton. He's a decent man. Works at the meatpacking plant in Delta.”

“Did Belinda continue her duties as caretaker?”

“Absolutely. She came up here two or three times a week to make sure everything was okay.”

“Did she know people from the survivalist group?”

Fiona was taken aback. If he was hinting that Belinda might have something to do with the missing ransom, he could forget it. “She's my friend. A good friend. Abby and Mickey are nearly inseparable.”

“I'm glad Abby has someone to play with.”

Living here at the cabin with no nearby neighbors was far too isolated for her gregarious daughter. Abby needed to be around other kids. “After the first of the year, Belinda and I are hoping to organize a cooperative preschool for
the local toddlers. Maybe a kindergarten, too. The regular grade school is all the way in Delta. That's a forty-minute ride on a school bus for Abby.”

“Like I said, Fiona, you're a good mom.”

His gaze came to rest upon her, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. Messy strands of hair had escaped her long braid. She hadn't bothered with makeup this morning, and her clothes felt clammy against her skin. It would have been nice to present herself in a better light to Jesse. She wanted him to appreciate her, maybe even to think she was attractive.

She hadn't dated since Wyatt's death, hadn't cared what anybody thought of her appearance.
Now I care. I definitely care
.

Warmth flooded her cheeks. She stood a little straighter, aware that the waistband on her jeans was too loose. She'd lost too much weight. All her shirts drooped straight down from her shoulders.
I want to be pretty again
.

Turning away from him, she peeled off her green corduroy jacket and draped it on a peg by the door. “Have you eaten?”

“No more oatmeal,” he said. “How are you at solving puzzles?”

“I can usually make things fit together.” Her fingers laced together. “Working with clay gives me a good sense of space and balance.”

“This isn't about spatial relationships. It's logic.”

She winced. “Not my best thing.”

“I can use your help, anyway. I've been going over the crime files on the computer Burke gave me. There's a rational sequence of events, but I'm missing something.”

She glanced down the hall toward her daughter's bedroom. “After Abby goes to sleep, we can go over the files.”

Suddenly alert, he pivoted on his heel and strode toward the window. “Someone's coming.”

“What?”

“Don't you hear the approaching vehicle?”

She listened hard, vaguely hearing the sound of a car engine. “I'm not expecting anyone.”

Jesse moved to the edge of the window and peeked through the drapes. “A silver SUV. Cadillac.”

She never paid attention to cars, but she knew one family who drove only Cadillacs. It couldn't be them! Fate wouldn't be so cruel. She had enough to worry about.

The car door slammed with a solid thunk. She came close to Jesse and looked through the window. When she saw the driver emerge, she gasped. He looked like her late husband—a younger version. He had Wyatt's walk. His blond hair was curly, like Wyatt's. For a moment, she thrilled to a deeply embedded memory—seeing Wyatt come home from work, come home to her waiting arms.

But this young man despised her.

“It's Wyatt's son from his first marriage. Clinton Grant.”

Years ago, Fiona met her stepson for the first time at a Grant family dinner that took place a few weeks before her wedding.

Clinton had been a sullen teenager who resented her and blamed her for the failure of his parents' marriage even though Wyatt and his first wife were divorced for over a year before Fiona met him. The first words young Clinton had spoken to her were “You're too young for my father. And you aren't even pretty.”

His mother had laughed at his unsubtle inference to Fiona as a trophy wife. Clinton's younger sister had merely glared.

Fiona's pride had ruled the day. She refused to be drawn into a bitching match. Without hurling a single insult, she lifted her chin and walked away.

That brief exchange set the tone for all future confrontations. Even now, when Clinton was all grown up, a graduate of law school who had already started work in the family firm, his attitude toward Fiona had not mellowed.

He hammered on the front door. With each heavy thud of his fist, her anger ratcheted higher, but she refused to let Clinton know how much he affected her. Over the years, she'd always faced him with ice, not fire.

She stiffened her spine and opened the door. “Clinton, I'm so surprised to see you. Unfortunately, this isn't a convenient time.”

He peered past her shoulder and saw Jesse. “Am I interrupting a booty call?”

“May I introduce Jesse Longbridge? He's my bodyguard.”

“Whatever.” He stepped forward, but she didn't move. “Let me in, Fiona.”

“Not convenient,” she repeated.

“I'd advise you to step aside. Otherwise, I'll be back with the sheriff and a warrant. You have several items that belong to me.”

Clinton and his mother had already taken more than their fair share. After Wyatt's death, they swooped in like vultures. Now he was back to pick the bones. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Heirlooms,” he said. “Valuable objects that have been in my family for generations.”

Before she could slam the door in his face, Abby flew into the room and wedged her way in front of her mother. Wearing her pink flannel pajamas, she beamed at Clinton and held up her little hand. “High five.”

Not even a greedy creep like Clinton could resist Abby's charm. His mouth loosened in a grin as he slapped hands with her. “High five.”

She tugged on his trouser leg, pulling him into the house. “I'm going to get a pony,” she said. “And his name is going to be Turquoise, and he'll have a long, curly blue tail.”

Clenching her jaw to keep from screaming, Fiona stepped aside. Abby was at that curious age when everything interested her: bugs, snakes and obnoxious stepbrothers.

Her daughter pushed Clinton to the dining-room table
and ordered him to sit. When he was seated, she cocked her head to one side, then the other. Clinton played along, matching her movements. The physical resemblance between them was obvious. And somewhat depressing.

Playing hostess, Abby said, “Me and Mommy will bring you a healthy snack.”

“No snacks,” Fiona said. “It's past your bedtime.”

“But, Mommy, it's polite.”

Her daughter had picked a lousy time to remember proper behavior. Fiona couldn't bear the thought of sitting down at the table with Clinton.

Jesse stepped forward. “Let's go, Abby. I want you to show me your room. We'll leave your mom and Clinton alone for a while. They have something important to talk about.”

“More important than a pony?”

He chuckled as he led her from the room. “I don't suppose there's anything more important than a blue-tail pony.”

As soon as they left, Fiona confronted Clinton. Her icy veneer was beginning to melt under the heat of her anger. “Don't ever use my daughter to get to me. Leave Abby out of this.”

“But my little stepsister loves me.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

He reached into the inner pocket of his Harris tweed sports coat and took out an inventory sheet, which he placed on the table so she could see it. “This is it.”

Over twenty items were listed, ranging from a Tiffany lamp to a pink crystal tiara. Fiona pushed the list back toward him with one finger. “I don't have any of this stuff. Nor would I want it. Out here in cattle country, there isn't much call for tiaras.”

“Then you shouldn't mind if I take a look around.” A
purely evil sneer distorted his handsome face. “Abby can help me search. We'll make it a treasure hunt.”

The fact that he wanted to recruit her daughter to help in his scheme almost blinded her to the more obvious truth. “You want to search my property.”

“If you were more cooperative—”

“Were you here before? Did you enter my house without my permission?”

“Of course not.”

She didn't believe him. It wasn't a stretch to imagine Clinton sneaking into her house and searching. He could have pulled out the large box in her studio while looking for a Tiffany lamp she never owned. This scenario made a hundred times more sense than kidnappers searching for a ransom.

“It was you,” she said. “You saw me leave with Carolyn, and you took advantage of my absence to search.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Grasping at shreds of her composure, she said, “Please leave.”

“You're crazy, Fiona.”

He was dangerously close to being right. She was mad, mad, mad. “Please. Leave us alone.”

“Or else? What are you going to do? Sic your bodyguard on me?”

Right on cue, Jesse appeared behind him. “You heard the lady. It's time for you to go.”

Clinton stood to confront him. In his tweed jacket and cashmere sweater, he resembled an old-fashioned gentleman, the lord of the manor. Fiona wouldn't be surprised if he took a formal pugilistic stance with his fists raised.

But he didn't dare.

Even with his arm in a sling, Jesse exuded masculine
confidence. If it came to a physical fight, he could handle Clinton without breaking a sweat. Jesse's dark eyes shone with a hard, cold strength. He meant business.

And Clinton didn't challenge him. Her stepson might be pushy and underhanded, but he wasn't stupid.

He stalked toward the door, yanked it open and turned back toward her. “You need to pull yourself together, Fiona. This isn't a fit environment for raising a child. If you're not careful, you might lose Abby, too.”

His threat went way over the top. There was no way in hell he could dispute her custody of Abby. The idea was not only absurd but infuriating. How dare he even suggest that she wasn't a fit mother! Her self-control shattered. She was beyond mad.

She thrust her hand toward Jesse. “Give me your gun.”

Clinton gaped. “What are you doing?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago. Teaching you some manners.”

“You can't—”

“I'm within my rights. Around here, we shoot trespassers.”

He slammed the door as he left.

Rage swirled around her like a red tornado, but she was calm in the eye of the storm.
This is what it feels like to defend your home
.

It felt damned good.

 

J
ESSE WAITED AT THE
dining-room table for Fiona to finish reading Abby a bedtime story. Her attack on Clinton had surprised him. Who knew she was such a firecracker?

He'd overheard enough of her earlier conversation with her stepson to know that she suspected him of breaking into her house and going through her things. In a way, he hoped
her accusation was true. Clinton was a mean son of a bitch who took pleasure in harassing a widow, but he presented less of a threat than Pete Richter.

Unfortunately, Jesse didn't believe that Clinton was the culprit. Sure, he had a motive to search for his supposedly valuable things. But no reason to murder Butch Thurgood. Nor could Jesse imagine the polished young lawyer creeping around in the forest, waiting for his opportunity to sneak inside and search.

Fiona's stepson was another piece of a big puzzle where nothing fit together right. Too many details about the kidnapping and the kidnappers—from the haphazard way Nicole was abducted to her refusal to come home—were skewed.

The only part that made sense was the way Burke and the FBI had closed down the survivalist smuggling operation. Using high-tech precision, they took all the men into custody and protected the women and children from harm. They'd even rescued a pregnant woman in the throes of childbirth who was still at the Delta hospital, accompanied by one of the FBI profilers, Mike Silverman, who seemed to have formed an attachment to the new mother and child. According to Burke's notes, Silverman was taking a leave of absence so he could escort the mother and child home to her parents.

Fiona came to the table and sank into the chair to his right. She folded her arms on the tabletop and rested her forehead upon them. While she'd been putting Abby to sleep, she'd unfastened her long braid. Her long brown hair tumbled around her shoulders in shiny waves.

He reached over and stroked her hair. His intention was to comfort her, but another urge rose up within him. He wanted to caress her, to pull her toward him and feel her slender body
pressed against him. From the first moment he saw her, he'd been drawn to her quiet beauty. He liked her spirit, her warmth, even the anger that hinted at a deeper passion.

Only one thing held him back. He couldn't help thinking of her as another man's wife. She'd never stopped loving her husband.

She lifted her head and looked at him with tired gray eyes. “It's been a long day.”

Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand from her shoulder. “Very long.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“Hell, no. I slept for three days in the hospital. I'm fine.” Not exactly true. He'd been taking pain meds, and his body was sore. He was worried about how he'd stay awake tonight to keep watch. “Tell me something. If I'd given you my gun, would you have shot him?”

She grinned and pushed the curtain of hair away from her face. “I wanted to. But I don't think I could have pulled the trigger. It would probably upset Abby if I killed her stepbrother.”

“Probably.”

“By the way, thank you for giving her that turquoise stone. She loves it. And now you're on her Christmas list.”

“I don't need a present.”

“Making Christmas presents is as much fun for her as giving them. She's sculpting little clay figures that we fire in the kiln. A lot of them are ponies.”

Her mention of Christmas reminded him of a possibility that would ensure her safety more effectively than having him here as a bodyguard. She could go home. “Do you have family nearby?”

“My parents are archeologists. A couple of months ago,
they rented out their house in California and went to a dig site in Peru.”

“You have no one you could stay with until the threat of danger passes?”

“There's Wyatt's family. They all adore Abby, and most of them aren't as obnoxious as Clinton. But I wouldn't be a welcome guest.” She tossed her head. “I'd rather stay here. We're safe. Aren't we?”

He wished that he could reassure her, but he wouldn't soon forget the ravaged corpse in her front yard. “I can't guarantee it. Not while Richter is still at large.”

A series of emotions played across her face. A frightened twitch. A worried frown. Her gaze flicked upward as if searching for an answer. She was one of the most open people he'd ever known, utterly without guile.

Her jaw set. She showed determination. “We'd better figure out this puzzle and get Richter arrested.”

He turned the computer screen toward her. “You can read Burke's case file.”

With a gesture that managed to convey exhaustion and disgust, she waved the laptop away. Her hands were nearly as expressive as her face. “I'm too tired to read. You can tell me the important points.”

With a nod, he started at the beginning. “Nicole was kidnapped by Richter and Logan and taken to the Circle M. When Burke interviewed Logan, he learned that Logan—the leader of the SOF survivalists—sent Nicole away with Richter and Thurgood for safekeeping.”

“He told Burke that?”

“Logan is in custody and talking his head off, hoping to make a deal. He says that after Richter and Thurgood took Nicole, he never saw her again.”

“Does Burke believe him?”

“There's no evidence that shows Richter and Thurgood returned to the Circle M. But Nicole herself gave them the clue that she was there.”

“How?”

“Proof of life,” Jesse said. “Standard operating procedure in kidnap cases is to demand proof that the victim is still alive. Here's the first photo of Nicole.”

On the computer screen, he pulled up a still picture of Nicole with a newspaper showing the day's headline. “Look at the way she's holding the paper. Her fingers form a circle and an M.”