Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe

“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.”