Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe. Cassie Miles

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      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.

       Chapter Five

      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.

      His job as a bodyguard was mainly reactive. He saw a threat and took action to stop it. His preparation consisted of briefings on possible enemies and memorizing dozens of photographs so he could scan a crowd and pick out those individuals who might pose a risk. His powers of observation were pretty good; he could tell the difference between a man reaching for a gun and a casual gesture.

      When it came to his work, he was confident. In any situation—from a black-tie diplomatic reception to a ski slope in Aspen—he could assess the possible points of attack and take steps to avoid them. He and the men who worked for him at his Denver headquarters were expert marksmen, capable with a handgun or a sniper rifle. They were skilled drivers, knew hand-to-hand combat maneuvers and crowd control techniques.

      But Jesse wasn’t a detective. He left the crime solving to others…until now. This situation would tax a different section of his brain.

      Burke had brought him to the Carlisle ranch house to look at mug shots. Hopefully, Jesse could identify the men who had shot him and grabbed Nicole. As for the dead man on Fiona’s property, he couldn’t tell if he’d seen that person before. Half of his face had been gnawed off by indigenous scavengers, like coyotes and mountain lions.

      Fiona fidgeted behind the chair at the head of the table, too agitated to sit. She’d asked to come along, preferring not to be at her house while it was being processed by the Delta County Sheriff’s Department. Her voice was low and worried. “What if Abby had found the body? What if she’d run down the hill, playing a game with her imaginary pony, and stumbled over a dead man?”

      “It didn’t happen that way,” he said.

      “You’re right. No need to borrow trouble when I’ve got plenty of my own problems.” She rested her palms on the tabletop leaned toward him, staring intently. “How are you doing?”

      What the hell was she up to? “Is there a reason you’re right up in my face?”

      “I’m checking your eyeballs for dilation.”

      “Don’t.” He wasn’t her patient. “I’m fine.”

      Looking down, he glided his fingers on the surface of the table. Someone had recently dusted and cleaned. Underlying the lemony scent of furniture polish was another fragrance. Coffee! Though he hadn’t eaten solid food in three days, he wasn’t really hungry. But he deeply craved a rich dose of caffeine.

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