Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe

Chapter Two (#u01b2731f-755e-5438-879d-e3905adcd6b7)

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?”