by Lise Fuller
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Guardian Angel
ISBN 9781419922527
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Guardian Angel Copyright © 2009 Lise Fuller
Edited by Sue-Ellen Gower
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book Publication May 2009
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
GUARDIAN ANGEL
Lise Fuller
Cherished Reader ~
Long ago, in a life far, far away, I would travel to a small place named Fort Bridger for work. Nestled in the Bridger Valley of Wyoming, the old remains of what was once a major stop along the Oregon Trail stirred my feeble imagination. I was a budding writer then, and one night, after walking around the buildings on the silent post and feeling the contentment and refuge of the place that to this day remain, the story came to me. I went to my motel room and jotted down fifty pages that night—an accomplishment for any writer. Yes, the town of Fort Bridger and the remnants of the fort are real. Even the Mountain Man Rendezvous, which is held every Labor Day—a sight in itself to enjoy and appreciate because, as one walks around, one seems to have fallen through a doorway to the past. There is one thing to note, however, be it true or not, although the events at the rendezvous and elsewhere, and other people and places in this story are only those of my imagination, it is said by the locals that there is a ghost of an old infantryman that roams the fort at night…
Perhaps, it was he who used his ghostly skills to inspire me.
My greatest thanks go to Sue-Ellen Gower for her immense help in resurrecting this story and bringing it to fruition. As always, I bless my family for their support, especially my husband’s for his insight. Additional thanks go to the people of Bridger Valley for their kindness, their comradeship for the many times I labored there and their unique view of the world; and especially, to Jim Bridger, his partner and the elders of the valley from so long ago for creating the wonder of the fort to begin with.
This story is for all of you, and all my readers. God bless.
~ Lise
P.S. If you are interested in learning more about Ft. Bridger and the rendezvous there, check out their website at: http://www.fortbridgerrendezvous.net/
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Beretta: Fabbrica D’armi P. Beretta, S.P.A.
BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke Aktiengesellschaft
Colt: Colt Industries, Inc.
ESPN: ESPN, Inc.
Mustang: Ford Motor Company
Stetson: John B. Stetson Company Lise Fuller
Prologue
Headlights.
Beams from the other car cut through the night and skittered across Marie’s misted windshield. Had they found her? Her heart pounded. Her clammy hands gripped the steering wheel of her parked BMW.
Her heavy breaths whispered in the otherwise silent interior.
She rubbed a small spot clean in the glass to peer through. The car sped closer. Marie sank deeper in the seat and grabbed the keys in the ignition, ready to run. She prayed no one would spot her beneath the leafy trees.
A red Mustang convertible cruised by. The occupants reeled with laughter and, she surmised, strong drink.
Relief flooded her. She sat a little higher as the car travelled down the parkway that paralleled the lazy, running Potomac. A zephyr wind whistled. She jumped before she realized the breeze came from the small round hole in the window behind her.
The lights from the other car shifted and were gone. The gust wailed once more. Goose bumps rose on her neck. She trembled, unsure if her shivers came from the cool wind or raw terror.
“Breathe, Marie. Breathe,” she murmured. The sound of her own voice comforted her, let her know she was still alive. She rubbed a hand over the soft skin exposed above the low-cut bodice of her black silk dress. The effort failed to still the pulse that raced beneath its surface.
She cracked open the driver-side window. A draft wafted in and forced out the stale air that panic and the cool night had caused to fog on the glass. She gulped the moist evening breeze. The pungent scent of the polluted river came to her. Unbidden, the cicadas called in the quiet night.
She worked to clear her mind. How could she get out of this mess? The police were after her. They had to be. But the other men who tailed her were what caused her to fear.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Even now she could hear the angry voices, the footfalls in pursuit. Marie covered her ears to dispel the sounds, but she couldn’t. The discharge of a gun, her rear window cracking—the thud as the slug hit the back of the driver’s seat. She’d barely escaped her swank Georgetown apartment. If she went to the law, the others would kill her for sure.
Gingerly, she touched the welts on her neck. A gift given a few hours ago from her now-dead partner. It happened so fast. She choked at the memory. His viselike grip around her throat. His thumbs pressed against her windpipe. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even gasp for air. He’d backed her up against the fireplace. Hit her head on the mantel. Unable to loosen his hold, she’d become frantic. The stand with the hearth tools clanged as they struggled. She’d reached behind her to grasp whatever she could to defend herself. Cold metal settled in her hand. Before she passed out, she’d lifted the poker and struck her wannabe lover.
Bill, how could you? I trusted you.
Her mind raced. The abruptness of her business partner’s betrayal made her head throb, caused the cold terror that made her body shiver.
She ran. She had to. Her business associate lay dead. His dangerous friends were hot on her trail.
She rubbed her arms to ease her tremors and racked her brain for a place where she could be safe. Unlike most militia groups, the Back to America Movement had long arms. If she wasn’t careful, they would find her through the maze of computer lines that hooked up the world.
She fortified her resolve. To save herself, she had to find somewhere to hide, someplace far away from here. She snapped the glove compartment open and took out a U.S. map then unfolded the chart across the steering wheel. She held the diagram to the faint moonlight, closed her eyes and jabbed a finger into the paper. Squinting, she eased her lids open, half in dread. Half in hope. Where would her next stop be?
West.
She smoothed the crinkled map with her free hand and leaned over to get a clearer view.
Wyoming.
With the meager light, she couldn’t see any towns. The area appeared totally desolate. She lifted her finger
and checked again.
Nothing.
She looked closer. In very small print was a dot and some letters but it was too hard to see in the dark. She sifted through her purse to find her penlight. When she felt the small cylinder, she pulled it out and covered most of the bulb with her hand. Then she snapped on the beam. The brightness blinded her. She blinked to focus then narrowed her eyes.
Fort Bridger.
She bit her lip and wondered if she shouldn’t go to the police after all. She shook her head. No, better not. BAM’s infiltration ran too deep in the local law enforcement and who knew what else? She couldn’t risk trusting the law. She’d found that out the hard way.
She scanned the road then steeled herself and started her BMW. Would Fort Bridger be safe? She didn’t know but it would be riskier to stay here. Besides, what else did she have to lose but her life?
She pressed her lips together and drove onto the empty parkway, determined to protect herself.
Go west, young woman. She inured herself to her apprehension.
Exiting onto the beltway, she mumbled, “Fort Bridger or bust.”
Chapter One
“Wake up, boy.”
Jake Colder felt the shove on his shoulder. He groaned. His body still ached from the rough night. He’d broken up a fight at the local bar and put the culprits in a cold jail cell to sleep it off. It’d been late when he arrived home.
The shove came again. Jake let out a mumbled curse and burrowed deeper into the cool sheets as he spread himself across the double bed. “Go away.” He lifted an extra pillow and plopped it on his head.
“C’mon, soldier. Roll call. You’re supposed to be dressed.”
Jake sat up and jammed the surplus cushion against the bed sheet. “And you’re supposed to be dead.”
The old infantryman grinned. “I am dead, boy. You know it too. Died right here in Fort Bridger. At my post, I was. Run over by a Modoc chieftain.”
His dress blues were as fresh as the day they’d buried him.
“Ugh.” Jake flopped backward then dropped the spare pillow over his face. “Old man, I’m thirty-five years old.” He lifted the pad off his head and looked at Gramps. “When will you leave me alone?”
The apparition spit a ghostly chaw of tobacco in a plant by the window and set his hands on his hips. “When I’m satisfied with your happiness. Hell, boy, yuh got a nine-year-old son who needs a mother and it’s about damn time I had more grandchildren. How’s the family line suppose’ to continue?”
Jake looked at the green glop. The goop dripped off the plant. “Gramps, I’ve asked you not to do that.”
The elderly ghost straightened and looked at the pot. His brows furrowed. “Er…sorry. Well hell, boy, you oughta have a decent spittoon.”
“I told you, tobacco’s bad for you. Most people don’t chew anymore.”
The old ghost spat again. “Dammit, son, t’ain’t bad for me. I’m dead. Now don’t change the subject. It’s time you got a woman in this house and I don’t mean one of those painted-up fly-by-night types.”
Jake squinted from the sunlight that filtered through the window. “What the hell for? You never did. If I remember right, my family’s from the wrong side of the sheets.”
In a flash, Jake’s tan pants lifted off the hook at the back of the door. The garment shot toward him and slapped him in the face. “Times were different then. I loved Josephine. Purtiest gal in all Wyomin’. Problem was, she married a sterile bastard and divorce was unheard of. Couldn’t help myself, son. She wanted a kid.”
Jake scowled as he pulled his pants off his face. “You gave her seven.”
“Up.” The old man rushed him with a frantic wave of his arms. “Git up and git dressed. Time’s a wastin’ and it’s high time you grewed up. ’Sides,” he said as his grin spread from one ruddy cheek to the other, “trouble’s comin’.” He leaned into Jake’s face. “And in a right purty package too.” He smacked his lips and disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Jake sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He’d had this argument with the undead man since he was a kid. “A woman…” He rubbed his neck. “Hell, old man, a lady is the last thing I need.” He rose and pulled on his uniform pants then walked over to get his shirt. The golden glow from the morning sun settled on his badge. The light radiated in his face. He’d been the county sheriff for some time now, thank God. It helped pay the bills and the money he earned kept the ranch, his real love, going.
A soft knock sounded and a patch of tawny hair appeared around his bedroom door. His son took one look at him and frowned. “Aw, Dad, aren’tcha gonna wear your loincloth? The Rendezvous’s started. The loincloth contest is today.” The boy’s eyebrows raised and lowered several times. “Katie says she and the other gals cain’t wait.”
Jake pressed the corners of his mouth downward. “Jesse, what makes you think I’m going to enter?”
“Shoot, you won last year and this year they’re givin’ two hundred bucks to the winner, donated by the ladies of Bridger Valley.” The boy’s grin broadened.
“Jesse, I did the show before because I owed Katie a debt. You could say she took that out in trade.”
“Aw, Dad. The girls cheered hard for you last year.” The boy slapped his leg then put his hands on his hips in mock seriousness. “You know, you shouldn’t disappoint your adoring public. I’m tellin’ ya, Dad, we take your naked butt to Hollywood and we’ll make millions.”
His son reminded Jake of his great-great grandfather, God rest his soul. Now if the old coot would actually rest…
Jake frowned. “You know I’m supposed to be there in an official capacity. You’re nine years old. You’re not supposed to pay attention to those women.”
Jesse shrugged. “Gramps says it’s all right.”
“Gramps.” Jake grimaced and rolled his eyes upward. “Gramps lived over a hundred years ago and stayed a confirmed bachelor.”
“Yeah,” the boy said, “but his being single didn’t stop him from having fun.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jake jerked his shirt off the iron hook. The badge banged on the metal peg. “Now get outta here and feed the horses.”
The boy pulled his straw cowboy hat from around his back and plopped it on his head. “I already dun it, so hurry up. I’m hungry and Cal says there’s a new dish down at the Chuck Wagon.”
Jake half listened as he buttoned his shirt. “And what dish is that?”
The boy covered his mouth with his hand and stifled a giggle. “Her name’s Marie.” He shook his hips. “Long dark hair and skin like fresh cream.” He winked. “According to Cal anyways.”
“Boy,” Jake grabbed his hat from the chair by the window, “you’ve been listening to too many old cowboys. No more hanging with them at night. Next thing you know, I’ll get a call to pick you up for drunk and disorderly.”
“Yeah? Then who are you gonna get to watch me on your night shifts?” Jesse sniggered. “They’re the only ones not afraid of Gramps.”
Jake looked up from threading his belt through his pant loops. His son’s face crinkled with humor. Jake couldn’t help but smile at him. “You think I’ll win?”
“Heck yeah.” The boy straightened as much as he could and threw his shoulders back.
Jake nodded. “Go on and get my buckskin.” He cinched his belt. “You riding your horse to the diner?”
“Yep.” Jesse tipped his hat.
Jake chuckled. “I’ll meet you there.”
The boy ran off. Jake shook his head. Jesse needed new jeans and two hundred bucks would come in handy. Still, when Jake put on his hat, he made a mental note to give Katie’s big mouth a piece of his mind.
—
“But, Jake, I didn’t mean anything bad by it.” Katie rubbed her hands up his arms and snuggled next to him. He’d caught up with her around the back of the diner between serving omelets and dumping trash. She smelled of fried bacon and sweet perfume—a combination that would have made
him lose his breakfast if he’d had any.
“Remember what I said,” he warned.
She purred her ruby lips against his neck. “And if I don’t, you gonna handcuff me?”
He grabbed her and held her at arm’s length. “Katie, you’re taken. You know attached women are out of bounds with me, especially when they’re hitched to a miner with arms the size of tree trunks.”
“But we’re just dating.” Her fleshy lips formed a pout. “Honey, he’s never home. I need someone who can take care of business.”
“Katie, I ain’t your man. Now where’s Jesse?”
She folded her arms and shrugged. “He ate and already run off to the games.”
Jake gave her a curt nod and swung around to the front of the diner. The Mountain Man Rendezvous was an annual Labor Day event at the old fort and one of his biggest headaches. It brought over twenty-five thousand people to the small town of three-hundred-andsome, and a lot of them reminded him of things that crawled out of the woodwork. He rubbed his jaw where he’d taken a punch the night before. Some of them should’ve stayed in the timber with the other termites.
He stopped and looked at the remains of the garrison across the street. The army had occupied the place before the turn of the century. His great-great grandfather had lived and died there.
Jake frowned, thinking the old man should have stayed dead.
He scanned the grounds. A couple milled about. Some of the small camps stirred. Jake knew he’d better eat fast before more folks were up. He turned toward the diner. The cowbell on the door jangled as he reached the entrance. A neighbor dressed in fringed leather exited. Jake nodded to him then grabbed the door before it closed and walked in.
The place reeked of grease but he liked his breakfast with a lot of butter. He slid into a booth and dropped his tan Stetson on the seat. When Katie threw him a kiss he scowled at her.
“Would you like coffee this morning?” A soft, prim voice floated to him.
“Yeah.” Jake didn’t look at the speaker but he registered an Eastern accent. Instead, he frowned at Katie who wiggled her fingers at him. Frustrated, he rolled his eyes and rubbed his hand across his face. He needed to get Katie off his back—fast.
