Christmas

Countdown

Jan Hambright

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Copyright

About the Author

JAN HAMBRIGHT penned her first novel at seventeen, but claims it was pure rubbish. However, it did open the door on her love for storytelling. Born in Idaho, she resides there with her husband, three of their five children, a three-legged watchdog and a spoiled horse named Texas, who always has time to listen to her next story idea while they gallop along.

A self-described adrenaline junkie, Jan spent ten years as a volunteer EMT in rural Idaho, and jumped out of an airplane at ten thousand feet attached to a man with a parachute, just to celebrate turning forty. Now she hopes to make your adrenaline level rise along with that of her danger-seeking characters. She would like to hear from her readers and hopes you enjoy the story world she has created for you. Jan can be reached at PO Box 2537, McCall, Idaho 83638, USA.

I have it on good authority that there are horses in heaven. So to all of the equine I’ve had the humble pleasure of saddling up to ride, and brush, and love, this one’s for each of you: Smokey, Peggy, Whiskey, Moccasin, Brownie, Mid-Bar Dandy, Honey, Starr, Ophelia Mine, and Texas.

Chapter One

Mac Titus raced for the horse barn with the echo of a woman’s scream still reverberating inside his head. He was two hours late, thanks to an accident on the freeway from Louisville.

Was it Emma Clareborn, the woman he’d been hired as a bodyguard to protect? If it was, he’d already blown his assignment.

He ran through the massive doorway into the stable and slid to a stop, prepared for a fight.

The familiar smell of fresh shavings raked his senses, but didn’t dull the blade of caution sawing back and forth across his nerves.

All these years he’d wanted to see Firehill Farm again, but not like this. Not with the grip of caution squeezing deep in his chest.

The cavernous stable was dark, the only light emanating from the open door of the tack room in the right-hand corner.

Was she there?

He started to turn for it, but saw a flash of movement to his left.

Pivoting, he saw a man sprint out of the shadows and head for the exit. He was wearing a bandanna to disguise his face and a stocking cap pulled low on his forehead.

Mac bolted and tackled him three feet from the door.

The thug fought hard, rolled over and chucked a handful of sawdust into Mac’s face.

Blinded for an instant, Mac snagged the thug around the ankles on the way down and pulled him to the floor.

His captive kicked like a mule, wrenching a single booted foot free from his grasp, and slammed it into Mac’s face.

A gash opened. Hot liquid streamed across his cheekbone.

He let go, hoping for another chance to apprehend the thug from a standing position.

Scrambling to his feet, he made another lunge for the bandanna-wearing perpetrator, but the other man beat him by a second, dodged left and ran out the barn door into the night.

Mac shook off the mental annoyance at being a step behind. That’s why he was here. That’s why he’d been relegated to this detail. To refine his skills again.

Wiping a hand across his face, he cleaned some of the debris out of his eyes and turned back into the barn.

“Miss Clareborn!” He stepped forward, trying to make form out of the shadows. “Emma Clareborn!”

The excited shuffle of horse hooves drew his attention to the first stall where a nervous Thoroughbred paced around inside the twenty-by-twenty-foot square.

He reached his hand through the upper railing to touch the horse’s muzzle.

“Get away from him!”

Jerking back he flattened against the wall of the stall, prepared to take on another attack, but the decisive ting of metal boring into wood locked him in place.

“Who are you?” A woman stood in front of him, her eyes wide, her breath coming in gasps that accentuated her state of agitation.

He was glued to the wall where the pitchfork she’d knifed at him had skewered the folds of his shirt, barely missing the concealed weapon holstered to his belt. He didn’t like feeling pinned like a moth to an insect board in science class.

Determination set her features and glimmered in her eyes.

“Mac Titus, your Solberg Agency referral. I’m the bodyguard you hired to protect you from thugs like that.”

Her shoulders drooped for a second and she let out a sigh, but the leery stare still haunted her dark eyes. “You have ID?”

“In my wallet.”

She didn’t move. “Toss it here.”

Mac dug into the back pocket of his jeans with his left hand, pulled out his wallet and lobbed it on the ground next to her.

Reaching down, she scooped it up without taking her eyes off of him. Flipping it open, she did a quick comparison. “You look better without blood on your face.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She closed his wallet and dropped it on the ground. Stepping up, she grasped the handle of the pitchfork in both hands and worked it out of the wall, freeing him.

“It’s the second time this week someone has tried to get to my horse. That bandanna-wearing bastard woke me up when he tried to jimmy the latch on the stall door.”

Almost on cue the horse in the stable behind him thrust his head over the gate and bobbed his head up and down several times.

“But I’m not your assignment Mr. Titus. Navigator is.” She pointed at the horse.

Mac sputtered, dragging the residual particles of sawdust up onto his tongue where he wiped them off with the back of his hand.

“I’m in the business of protecting people, not horses.”

“Solberg assured me you could handle this assignment. He claimed you have lots of experience with racehorses.”

Navigator bobbed his head again as if he were in some sort of conspiratorial agreement.

Another protest churned inside of him, but he held it in, taking in the subtle shade of sleep deprivation tinting the skin under her expressive eyes, and the cot made up next to the stall gate with a thick sleeping bag to keep out the chill in the December air.

“You’ve been sleeping out here?”

“Yeah. Every night since I received an anonymous threat over the telephone the day after Navigator won the Clark Handicap at Churchill Downs two weeks ago.”

“That’s impressive, Miss Clareborn. But he’s just a horse, and I usually protect those standing on two legs.”

Her eyes went wide, her body stiffened; he’d insulted her.

“He’s not just any horse. He’s going to win the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes. The Triple Crown, Mr. Titus.”

Navigator bobbed his head.

Amusement glided over Mac’s nerves. It wouldn’t serve to insult her again, and from the set of her jaw to the surety in her sexy dark eyes, he knew she was certain. He’d seen the obsession before, experienced its destructive power firsthand. People with that much belief in something they couldn’t control belonged in Gamblers Anonymous.

“Do you have any idea who’s behind the threats against your Thoroughbred?”

“I didn’t recognize the voice on the phone and my caller ID registered it as an unknown number. It could be from half the farms in Fayette County, anyone with a Derby prospect. They’ve been slinking around my practice track, clicking their stopwatches from behind the bushes since early this fall. They’ve seen the speed he has and they don’t want to compete against him.”

She stepped to the horse and stroked her hand along the wide white blaze zigzagging down the big bay’s forehead.

His head drooped slightly, his eyes blinked shut.

Even a novice could see the woman loved her animal and believed in him, but he knew the inherent error in her thinking.

“I’ve got a first-aid kit in the tack room. I’ll clean you up.” She headed for the open door. “Besides I’d like to see what sort of man my money gets me.”

Mac scooped up his wallet and fell in behind her as she headed for the tack room in the corner of the barn, watching the sway of her curvy hips clad in tight jeans. The view put an unexpected hustle in his step.

Emma Clareborn was all grown up. A far cry from the girl he remembered seeing once twenty-five years ago. She’d gone from a freckle-faced kid with long, dark braids to a curvaceous woman who at the moment turned up the heat in his blood.

“How long have you been running Firehill Farm?”

“Since my father had a stroke about the time Navigator was foaled.”

Mac’s footsteps faltered. His dad’s old nemesis, Thadeous Clareborn, was still alive?

“It put him in a wheelchair and he never mustered the courage or the physical ability to get out of it.” Emma stepped through the tack room door with every nerve in her system attuned to the man behind her. Even bloody and covered with grit he caused an instant attraction just under the surface of her skin.

Dark hair dragged his collar. His five o’clock shadow had advanced well past seven. He was physically just what she’d ordered, but aside from that one question mattered—could he protect her horse?

Mac stepped into the tack room right behind her.

“Sit.” She gestured to a stool pushed under the edge of a workbench against the side wall.

Mac pulled it out and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest.

She turned around to reach into an overhead cupboard and grab the first-aid kit. He was unprepared for the sweet smile on her generous lips when she turned back around, or the fact that it was directed at him.

“Solberg did a great job referring you. You’re just what I needed—someone who looks the part and fits in with my work crew. No suit-and-tie stuffed shirt, aviator shades … you know, that movie-star-bodyguard type.”

“I aim to please.” And he planned to give Winslow Solberg a good understanding of the less-than-ideal employment situation he found himself in right now. Bodyguarding a horse. He uncrossed his arms and watched her smile fade.

She cleared her throat and put the kit down on the work counter next to him. “For what it’s worth, Mac—I can call you that, can’t I?”

Engrossed in the pleasant vibe jolting his body, he almost fell off the stool when she reached out, grasped his chin and forcibly tipped his face up toward the overhead light.

“You can call me anything you like, Miss Clareborn. You’re paying the bills.”

A slight furrow formed between her eyebrows and smoothed a second later. “Call me Emma, please. Ooh, he kicked you good.”

It took every ounce of restraint he had to ignore the heat pulsing from her hand and spreading on his skin. Her grasp was firm, but tender. She let go and opened the kit.

“It’s a clean cut. I’ll glue it shut.”

“Glue?”

“A trick I leaned from my dad. Superglue works wonders on a clean cut. Barely leaves a scar.”

Annoyance pitted his thoughts and dragged a reply up his throat, but he clamped down on it. Soon enough she’d discover that scarring was the least of his worries.

Refocusing, he studied her delicate hands as she manipulated a piece of gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

Curiosity opened up inside of him. He reached out and grabbed her right hand the instant she set the bottle down. Turning it over he stared at the bridge of hardened calluses spanning her palm. “Work crew, huh.”

A tinge of color spread on her cheeks. She swallowed hard and pulled her hand back.

“Someone has to make sure Navigator gets his run for the roses.”

Irritation flooded his brain, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her the odds weren’t in her horse’s favor. “I’ll take up the slack for you, since I’ll be here 24/7.” He stared into her eyes, but it wasn’t appreciation he saw there. “Don’t worry. I can protect your horse at the same time.”

There it was, a brief veil of relief passing over her features for an instant. He liked it, but it didn’t stay long enough.

“I hope so,” Emma whispered. She raised the gauze and began dabbing at the cut on Mac’s cheekbone. “Things haven’t been the same around here since my dad had his stroke.” Not the same was an understatement, a sweet lie she wasn’t proud of, but didn’t care to clear up with the muscle-bound protector she’d been forced to hire using some of the farm’s draining liquidity. Between her Derby ambitions, Firehill’s operating expenses and her father’s private nurse, there was no room for financial surprises like having to hire a bodyguard.

Silence encircled them and she focused on her task of scrubbing away the blood and sawdust from the two-inch gash on his handsome face. Her stare locked on his left jawline.

Tension gripped her muscles, forcing her to suddenly withdraw her hand, as if she’d just been scalded.

“One more scar isn’t going to make a hell of a lot of difference on me.” His matter-of-fact observation was ground out with as much emotion as a traffic cop issuing a citation to an upset motorist.

Sucking in a breath, she continued working, unable to take her gaze off the thick, ruddy scar riding the length of Mac Titus’s left jawbone, from his ear to his chin.

She stepped back, watching his dark blue gaze raise to meet hers.

This scar was fresh … this had been a life-threatening injury in his recent past.

“It’s none of my business … but how—”

“Did I get it?” He glanced down at the floor, then dragged his gaze back up to hers, and for a moment she thought she saw his rock-hard features soften.

Anticipation bubbled up inside of her and she automatically leaned closer, like a confidante waiting to hear a juicy confession.

The moment burst like a bubble in her face as he stood up.

“The only thing you need to know, Miss Clareborn, is I’m here to make sure nothing happens to your animal. Anything beyond that is off-limits.”

She looked at him, measuring the seriousness in his eyes, but there was something else there. Something raw and exposed. Pain?

The shuffle of footsteps rushing into the barn drew her attention to the door.

Victor Dago poked his head into the room.

“My horses are going ballistic, something stirred them up. Everything okay in here?”

Tension snapped in the air. Mac watched hostility spread across Emma’s face, tightening it until he was certain she had some sort of aversion to the man who darkened the doorway.

“Victor Dago, I’d like you to meet my new farmhand, Mac. He took a tumble and spooked Navigator. I’m sorry if it got your horses riled up.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. He stepped through the doorway into the room and reached out to grasp Mac’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m glad to see Miss Clareborn has finally hired someone to help her.”

Mac released the man’s thick fingers, trying to attach a country of origin to his accent.

“You stable horses here?” he asked.

“Yes, half a dozen, with two still in quarantine via the Virginia Port Authority at Front Royal. They’re on day two of a fourteen-day evaluation.”

“Anything contagious?”

“No. Just waiting for their Coggins results. They’ll come in soon. We’ll go to pick them up and put some track time on them before the Christmas Classic at Keeneland on the twenty-fourth.”

Emma inched closer to him. If he pushed his elbow away from his body he’d be able to touch her.

“Sorry for the commotion. I’ll be more careful next time.”

Victor nodded and turned around. “Good night, then.” He disappeared through the door.

Emma slumped against the workbench the moment Victor was gone.

Mac sat again, allowing her to finish what she’d started before the interruption. He held comment until he was sure the man had left the stable. “Who is he?”

“He trains horses for a sheikh I’ve never met or talked to. They lease my stud barn across the paddock for their racing stables.”

The explanation was straightforward, but it didn’t explain the visible tension that had sucked the air out of the room less than a moment ago. “I take it you don’t like the man.”

“He creeps me out. That’s all. Close your eyes, this glue is an irritant. It’ll burn.”

He did as he was told and a few minutes later he was staring at her again, amazed at how little the cut stung, and how beautiful her eyes were.

“Nice fix, doc,” he said, patting the closed gash with his fingertips.

She smiled and he resisted the urge to physically smooth away some of the fatigue he could see lining her face. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll take over here. We can talk in the morning.”

Emma nodded. For the first time in a month she felt a measure of hope. This battle-scarred bodyguard was here to help, she was sure of it. She stepped out of the tack room and glanced at the blade of light cutting across the barn floor. There, peeking up out of the wood shavings in the exact spot where Mac had tackled the intruder, she saw a syringe.

She reached down to pick it up, but Mac’s fingers closed around her wrist.

“Don’t touch it. If it belongs to the assailant we might be able to get a print off it.”

“It’s not mine. I keep my supplies locked up.” She straightened.

“Have you got something we can wrap it in?”

“I don’t know, I’ll look.” She moved past him and back into the tack room, where he heard her pulling open one drawer after another.

Mac hesitated and turned his head slightly to the right, listening with his good ear as he stared deep into the darkness, trying to dispel the nagging sensation crawling up from inside his gut. Instinct had saved his hide more than once and now wasn’t the time to challenge its validity. They were being watched from somewhere in the wall of shadows built into the nooks and crannies of the barn.

He was sure of it.

Emma shuffled back to his side. “I found a latex glove. Will that do?”

“Yeah.” He took it from her and pulled the glove on. Reaching down he picked up the capped syringe by the end of the plunger and raised it to the light coming from the tack room.

“We need to find out what’s in this.” He studied the syringe full of clear liquid. “It’s likely the creep intended to administer it to your horse if he’d gotten into the stall.”

Mac carefully pulled the glove off over the syringe, cocooning it in the protective layer. “We have another problem.” He turned his attention on Emma.

Her eyes narrowed.

“I think there’s someone in the barn. I want you to put this on the bench and come with me.”

She didn’t protest, didn’t question—a good sign, in his opinion. She’d be safer if she followed his lead and let him do the job he’d been hired to do.

Taking the gloved syringe from him, she went into the tack room, put it on the counter and returned to his side as he flipped up the tail of his shirt and unholstered his weapon.

“Stay close.”

She nodded and snagged the pitchfork from its spot next to Navigator’s stall.

The air thickened around them as Mac focused on the rear exit of the stable. One by one he kicked open the stall gates with his booted foot, clearing the cubicles on both sides of the row as they made their way down the wide aisle.

Staying two steps behind him, Emma wielded her pitchfork like some sort of medieval she-warrior.

He stopped at the last stall door.

The hair on his neck bristled.

Reaching out he shoved it open with his hand and aimed inside, spotting over the barrel of his.44 Magnum.

Empty, save a tabby cat with a mouse in its jaws, who freaked and shot past them, vanishing into the barn somewhere.

“It’s clear,” he said as he scanned the loft for anything that moved. Nothing. He tried to relax and lowered his weapon. But the sensation of being watched persisted, locking onto his senses with a tight grip that wouldn’t release.

Relief softened Emma’s features, convincing him to let it go for the night. The search hadn’t turned up anyone.

“I’ll walk you to the house.”

She smiled up at him and turned for the exit. “Thanks. I’ll show you the bunkhouse real quick. I stocked the refrigerator, and I’ll spot you a couple hours a day so you can clean up.”

“SWITCH TO CAMERA ONE, Agent, and capture a clear shot of his face.”

“You’ve got it.” The man flipped a toggle switch on the control panel inside the surveillance van. An image appeared for an instant on the second monitor, then faded to a black screen peppered with white specks. “We’ve lost camera one again. We’ll have to get inside the barn to fix it.”

NSA Agent Renn Donahue stared at the blank monitor. “Go back to camera two.”

The opposite screen flicked on, displaying a clear image.

Agent Donahue studied the man next to Emma Clareborn as the video streamed in live from the single working surveillance camera hidden high in the stable’s hayloft. There was a new player on the scene, but how did he fit into everything?

“Log his image. I want to know who he is and what he’s doing at Firehill Farm. He’s packing a concealed weapon. Consider him armed and dangerous.”

Chapter Two

Mac dumped the last wheelbarrow of manure he’d mucked out of Navigator’s stall and pulled off his leather work gloves.

A crisp December dawn was breaking and he watched the first rays of sunlight push through the waves of mist blanketing the rolling Kentucky hills encircling Firehill Farm.

He’d forgotten how much he appreciated this time of morning. The stillness that gripped the air, the cold, quiet peace before another day roared to life and sucked him into its grind.

“Good morning.”

The sound of Emma’s voice just over his right shoulder jolted anticipation into his blood. He turned around, letting his gaze slide over her curvy body. His impression of her from last night solidified.

She was beautiful, but his eyes had lingered an instant too long, he realized when their gazes locked and he saw color flood her cheeks.

“I see you’ve done my morning chores.” She stepped past him and walked into the barn. “Thank you.”

He followed, not totally unaffected by the sway of her hips, or the thick brunette braid brushing the low-rise waistband of her Levi’s. Yeah, he liked mornings and this was by far the best one he’d spent in a while.

“My gallop boy will be here at seven to work Navigator.” She emerged from the tack room with a halter, lead rope and a brush. “He needs to be warmed up. We’re going for a timed gallop this morning.”

Ahead of her he reached out, unlatched the stall door and pulled it open. She stepped past him into the cubicle, dropped the horse brush and put the halter on Navigator.

A nicker rumbled deep in the big bay’s throat. He nudged Emma affectionately as she bent over and picked up the brush.

Mac watched her take quick, even strokes across the colt’s back and down his withers.

“What’s his Beyer Speed Figure?”

She gave him a glance over her left shoulder and continued to groom the horse. “You do know something about racing.”

“Yeah.” A measure of hesitation pulled back any need he felt to enlighten her about his past in the world of Thoroughbred horse racing, or his knowledge of the Beyer system of combining a horse’s race time and the inherent speed of the track into a single performance number.

“It’s 126.”

A low whistle hissed between his lips. He eyed the bay, pausing on his definable attributes: a well-chiseled head, long neck, deep chest, long legs and powerful hindquarters.

“That’s not too shabby. Where’d he last run?”

“Churchill Downs, the Clark Handicap. He won his one and one-eighth mile race by five lengths.”

A charge buzzed through him, its pulse almost pushing him over the edge into excitement, but he cut the current off with memories of the disappointment that came after the high. A nose-first dive into reality. One he’d seen many men take. The one that ultimately had claimed his horse-trainer father.

“He’s got good confirmation and a great Beyer. He has a shot.” Mac stepped through the stall gate and leaned against the outside wall, his back to her and the horse.

“His great-grandfather won the Derby in 1987.”

Mac ran the date in his head, trying to reconcile the edge of anger creeping through his body like poison. He turned back around, clutching the iron bars that surrounded the stall. “Alysheba?”

“Yeah. He sired Smooth Sailing, who sired Nautical Mile, who sired Navigator’s Whim.”

The world was shrinking and he found himself smack in the middle of it. Smooth Sailing was the horse Thadeous Clareborn had stolen from his father in a claiming race. Now he was the grandfather of a Derby prospect? If the Beyer Speed Figure was any indicator, Navigator’s Whim stood a better-than-average chance of winning the Kentucky Derby, and reaching for the Triple Crown.

EMMA PUT HER FOOT INTO the stirrup, grabbed the saddle horn and climbed aboard her pony horse, Oliver. She reached down for the lead rope attached to the colt and Mac put it in her hand. He stepped back, catching her eye from under the brim of a well-worn hat he’d found in the tack room.

His gaze was electric, its intensity arcing through her body with a conductivity that left her breathless.

“It’s only forty-four degrees this morning, Emma. Warm him up good.”

She nodded. “I’ll jog him out a half-mile and back, then meet you at the gate.” Reining for the opening onto the racetrack, she hoped like crazy he hadn’t seen the blush she could feel stinging her cheeks even as the morning mist cooled her skin. She was feeling shy. She’d had a boyfriend or two, but there was something magnetic about Mac Titus, something primal, untamed, sexy and … haunting about the way he looked at her.

Tugging on Navigator’s lead rope, she threaded them through the opening and out onto the track.

Layers of fog obscured the mile-and-a-half oblong, but she could see it with her eyes closed; she’d ridden it a thousand times. Even in the dark.

Nudging Oliver into a gentle lope, she focused on the rail at the first turn and relaxed into the saddle.

Mac watched horses and rider fade into the flat gray mist and put his senses on alert. Turning his head slightly to the right, he picked up the whisper of hoofbeats churning soft soil.

He closed his eyes, letting the sight deprivation intensify his auditory ability. He didn’t know why it worked, but it did. Closing off one always heightened the other. Up until he’d been shot in the line of duty, he’d never really appreciated his razor-sharp senses or the capabilities they afforded him.

The hearing in his left ear would never—

Mac jerked around at the pressure of a hand on his shoulder.

Caught in an instinctive reaction, he leveled the man with his forearm and shoved him back into the fence rail.

“Easy!” The kid’s eyes went wide. He raised his gloved hands in surrender.

The adrenaline in Mac’s system diluted as he sized up the young man clad in a coat, breeches, boots and a riding helmet, its loose strap swinging back and forth from the force he’d exerted against him.

“Oh hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you coming until you were on me.” He lowered his arm and took a step back. “I overreacted. I’m Emma’s new groom, Mac. Are you Navigator’s gallop boy?”

“Yeah. Josh Duncan.” He smoothed the front of his jacket. “I’m early. My 5:30 a.m. ride over at McCluskies’ canceled. I came straight here.”

“Is Chester McCluskie still running Rambling Farm?”

“Yeah. He has a heck of a Derby prospect himself … had a prospect, I should say, until this morning. His filly Ophelia Mine went AWOL sometime last night, and went down in her stall. Hurt herself pretty bad. They’ve got the vet there now.”

Caution sluiced in Mac’s veins. Was it possible Navigator hadn’t been the only target of the disguised thug last night? He’d have to get the syringe they’d found turned over to the police for analysis.

“Emma ponied the colt out to the half-mile post. She should be back any time.” He turned his attention once again to the track, picking up the rhythmic clop of horse hooves in the dirt. “So what do you think? Does Navigator’s Whim have what it takes to win the Derby?”

“He’s a powerhouse with heart. I’ve barely tapped his speed potential. Under the right jockey he could take the Triple Crown.”

Great, another true believer. Mac gripped the top rail of the fence while he watched Emma, Oliver and Navigator materialize out of the mist like an apparition. For the first time he found himself analyzing the bay colt’s stride. Looking for that it factor. The look of eagles in his eyes. Knowing. Confident. Fierce. An old saying in the Bluegrass reserved for winners.

His heart hammered in his chest. There it was, a rush of hope that sent men and women over the edge. Compelling them to move heaven and earth for a chance to bet on a winner. He should turn around and get the hell out while he had the chance. He had nothing at stake in this gamble … but Emma Clareborn did.

Judging by the run-down condition of Firehill Farm in the light of day, she had everything to lose if the colt didn’t come through.

Concern embedded itself in his brain and he made a silent vow to do whatever he could to ensure disappointment didn’t destroy her.

Emma reined in her horse next to the gate and dismounted. “He’s good and warm, Josh. Take him to the wall this morning.”

“You’ve got it.” Josh took hold of the reins while Emma unfastened the buckle on the halter she’d used to pony him and slipped it off.

“Break on the outside rail and move him inside, just like last time. If we get a bad gate pick, he’ll be ready to overcome it.”

Mac stepped out onto the track and approached Josh. “Rider up,” he called. He caught Josh’s foot and hoisted him onto Navigator’s back.

Josh put his feet into the irons on the flat saddle and gathered the reins in his hands.

“I wish this blasted fog would burn off,” Emma said. Leading her pony horse, she headed for the opening in the rail.

Mac followed, watching her tie the leggy black gelding up before moving over to stand next to him.

“Want to do the honors?” She opened her hand to expose a silver stopwatch. Every horse racer’s instrument of delusion.

It should have been a simple decision, but he wrestled with it anyway. The track time wasn’t going to lie, it was finite, a rock-solid indicator of what the horse was capable of.

“Sure.” He plucked the watch from her palm and saw a slight smile bow her lips.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d spent a considerable amount of time around racehorses.”

Caution glided through him. Would she have been old enough at the time to remember the feud that tore their fathers’ friendship apart?

“It was a long time ago, I was a kid. But you don’t forget something ingrained in your DNA.”

“Solberg was right then, you’re the man for this job. I’m glad you’re here.”

Mac stared over at her, at the surety in her whiskey-brown eyes as she searched his face with her gaze. His throat tightened. He could easily fall under her spell if he didn’t pull back.

He turned abruptly, waiting for the sound of the horse breaking from the far left end of the track.

The fog dampened the swish of the mock starting gate, but there it was, hoofbeats pounding Kentucky soil. He raised the stopwatch in front of him, feeling his heart rate shoot up. Closer … closer … the colt flashed in front of them.

Mac started the clock, listening to the horse thunder down the front stretch and into the first turn.

Emma put her hand on his forearm and shook him. “I told you he’s fast. I know he can win.”

Her excitement leached into him and he let a degree of the sensation move through his body. Focusing, he turned his head to the right and picked up the hammering of hooves as Navigator thundered his way down the backstretch.

He didn’t dare look at the time; instinctively he knew it would be incredible. Better to wait until the colt passed in front of him. Seeing would usher in believing, and then some.

There was trouble. Mac felt it first telegraph through the top rail pipe that ran the entire length of the racetrack. Seconds later Josh’s yelp of pain reached out through the fog.

“Something’s wrong!” Emma squeezed his arm.

Navigator galloped from the mist minus his rider and shot past them on the inside rail.

Mac pressed the stopwatch and shoved it into his pocket.

“Take Oliver and go find Josh, I’ll go after the colt!” Emma said. She ran through the opening in the gate.

Mac turned for the pony horse at the same time he heard her shrill whistle for the riderless colt.

He jerked the knotted reins loose from the rail, untied the pony horse, jammed his foot in the stirrup and climbed aboard. He hadn’t ridden in years, but riding a horse was like riding a bike. You never forgot.

Spurring him forward, Mac trotted through the gate and out onto the track. Josh was somewhere on the back turn. That’s when he’d felt the vibration of Navigator’s impact with the outside rail. He reined the gelding to the inside and eased him into a lope.

A hundred yards around the track the fog vanished, giving him a clear view of the back turn.

Josh lay in a crumpled heap next to the outside rail at the one-mile post.

Worry ground over Mac’s nerves.

The kid wasn’t moving.

He nudged the horse into a gallop and reined him in just short of the spot where he lay.

“Josh! Can you hear me, buddy?”

Mac bailed off of Oliver and dropped the reins.

Going to his knees, he put his hand on the kid’s shoulder.

Josh moaned, rolled to the left and tried to sit up, but Mac held him down with gentle pressure. “No way, stay put.”

Mac gritted his teeth, staring at the dazed expression on the young man’s dirt-smudged face, but it was the deformity in his right forearm and the protruding bone, that told him Josh shouldn’t be moved. He was going to need a trip to the hospital ASAP.

“I gotta catch the horse.” Josh tried to sit up again.

Mac pressed his palm into his chest. “Relax, Emma is taking care of it. She’ll catch him. You broke your arm. Stay still.”

Josh glanced down at his right forearm and went pale.

“What happened?” Mac asked, praying he could get the kid’s attention before he passed out cold.

“I couldn’t see when I hit the midpoint on the backstretch.”

“The mist?”

“A flash of red light hit me in the eyes—”

“A laser?”

“Could have been. But it must have targeted Navigator too, because he went wide and slapped the rail. I couldn’t hang on. I hope he’s okay.”

Mac looked up and saw Emma and Navigator materialize out of the mist and into the sunlight.

“Is Josh all right?” she hollered the instant she was within earshot.

He waited until she stopped ten feet out, holding Navigator by the reins and trying to calm him down.

“Broken arm. He needs an ambulance, and we need the sheriff. This was no accident. They were targeted with a laser. Blinded. Probably from somewhere in the woods.”

Mac swept the grove of dense foliage with his gaze and considered looking for the perpetrator or perpetrators, but the shroud of fog would make it almost impossible to find them. And he had no intention of leaving Emma, Josh or Navigator alone right now.

Emma couldn’t prevent her hand from shaking when she pulled her cell phone out of her coat pocket and dialed 911. This was a turn she hadn’t anticipated. Whoever was behind the threats against her horse apparently wasn’t afraid to hurt his human handlers, as well.

She’d need Mac Titus now more than ever.

“WE FOUND THIS last night after someone attempted to get into Navigator’s stall. It could have the man’s fingerprints on it.” Mac handed the glove encased syringe to Sheriff Riley Wilkes.

“This happened last night?”

“Yeah, just after I arrived around 10:00 p.m. I heard Miss Clareborn scream, booked it to the stable and caught the man trying to run. I tackled him, but he got away. My guess is he wanted to administer whatever’s in that hypodermic to her horse.”

Mac watched the ambulance carrying Josh pull away and considered his revelation about McCluskie’s Derby prospect. “Josh mentioned one of Rambling Farm’s horses had some trouble last night, too. Maybe the incidents are related.”

“I’ll get this to the lab and speak with Chester about it. There’s been some trouble at other farms in the area over the last couple of weeks. The horsemen are concerned.”

Caution pulled Mac’s nerves tight. “Any other horses targeted with lasers on the practice track?”

“Not specifically. But I can tell you two of the reported incidents have been at farms where Victor Dago stabled horses. I’m glad to hear you’ve been hired as a bodyguard by Miss Clareborn to look after her horse. Keep your eyes open and contact me immediately if anything else happens.”

Mac took the business card Sheriff Wilkes dug out of his shirt pocket. “I will, and we’d like to know the results of the toxicology on the syringe’s contents as soon as possible.”

“I’ll put a rush on it.” The sheriff turned to one of his deputies.

Mac scanned the paddock and focused in on Emma, leaning against the fence watching Navigator cool down on the hot-walker. He walked over and took a spot next to her.

“Sheriff Wilkes is going to find out what’s in the syringe.”

“Who would want to hurt him?”

Mac followed her gaze to the big bay colt moving around the circumference of the electric walker’s path. “I’d like to try and find out.” He watched the horse move, studying him for problems stemming from his contact with the rail.

“He looks good.”

“Yeah, not a scratch, but why can’t they just leave us alone? Making it in this business is hard enough without someone trying to sabotage you.”

He nudged her with his elbow. “I’m not going to let anything happen to him, Emma.”

Turning, she gazed up at him, her expression contemplative at best, skeptical at worse. “We’re so close to making the cut for the Derby prequalifiers. I need to win the Holiday Classic before I can nominate him in January so we get our shot at the Triple Crown. I need this, Mac. Firehill needs this.”

“How bad is it?”

She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “Bad enough that I had to ignore the rumors circulating about Victor Dago and his crew and lease my stud barn to the man so I’d have the entry fee to get into the Clark Handicap.”

“Has he done anything to you?” Tension coiled inside his body, ready to spring on Dago if he’d hurt her in any way.

“Other than make a few inappropriate comments and giving me the creeps, not a thing. The sheikh sends a check religiously the first of every month. They respect my property and privacy. It’s nothing I can put my finger on and I should be satisfied when I put their money in the bank—”

“But something’s off?” he said.

“Exactly.”

The sunlight had incinerated the fog and it blazed down a streak of copper in a loose strand of her dark hair.

He resisted the urge to stroke it back into place behind her ear. “What kind of rumors are following Dago?”

Her gaze dropped to the ground and she turned back to the fence rail. “Prowlers. Lots of movement after dark. At the Loomis farm, my friend Janet came out of the house to call in her dog and saw a man dressed in black and wearing a ski mask come out of their stable and disappear into the woods. The next morning she found her dog tied to a fence with duct tape around his muzzle to keep him from barking.”

Caution worked through him. “Do they have a Derby prospect?”

“No. They’re an anomaly in the Bluegrass—they raise quarter horses, for crying out loud. After that incident they decided to give Dago notice, and he came to me. I needed the money desperately, so I let him in.”

He reached out and brushed his hand across her back, a gesture meant to reassure her, but it jolted him hard, and he broke contact. “I’ll keep my guard up. No one is going to hurt you or your horse.”

“Thanks.” She grinned and pulled the lead rope off the fence post next to her then went to take Navigator off the hot-walker.

Mac shoved his hand into his jacket pocket, coming in contact with the stopwatch. He pulled it out and glanced down at the time. His breath hung up in his lungs as he raised the watch out in front of him, like distance from his stare could somehow alter the race time, but it didn’t work.

It read 1:56. Three-plus seconds faster than Secretariat’s record Derby-winning time in 1973.

Navigator’s Whim could win the Kentucky Derby with a time like that.

All he had to do was keep the colt and his determined owner safe long enough for that to happen.

Chapter Three

Mac jolted upright on the cot, unsure what had awakened him. He glanced at the illuminated hands on his watch: 4:35 a.m. Turning his focus to his surroundings, he searched for visual threats inside the barn and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The only noise he heard was the sluice of Navigator moving through the fresh straw bedding in his stall.

Heard. The hearing in his left eardrum had come back one decibel at a time after the shooting, but the healing seemed to have reached a plateau now. It would never be the same, at least that’s what the audiologist believed, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet.

He laid back and thrust his hands behind his head, staring up at the cavernous ceiling overhead ribbed with giant timbers.

Maybe he could attribute waking up to the sensation of being watched that seemed to follow him every time he entered the damn stable. Whatever it was, he’d made peace with it after clearing every stall twice last night, and poking around in the haylofts for half an hour only to come up empty.

An electric purr coming from the entrance of the barn, reignited the caution in his blood.

He sat up again.

Silhouetted in the doorway by the first hint of dawn was a man in an electric wheelchair. Thadeous Clareborn.

Mac cleared his throat as the chair advanced. He’d changed his last name, but would the old man recognize his face? He smoothed his hand over his hair, snatched the hat from next to the cot and slapped it on his head. Throwing back the sleeping bag, he stood up and prepared to go toe-to-toe with the man who’d, in his father’s opinion, destroyed everything Paul Calliway had going for him.

Thadeous stopped the motorized chair. “What’s your … name, son?” The question was slurred, each word formed with extreme exertion. A by-product of his stroke.

“Mac. Mac Titus.”

The old man grunted and rocked the lever forward, rolling up next to the stall gate. “Emma hire … you?”

“Yes.”

He raised his hand and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Good horse?” Angling his head, he stared up at Mac, his eyes narrowing in the shallow light streaming in the barn door.

“Damn straight, Mr. Clareborn.”

A crooked smile pulled up one side of his mouth. “Do I … know you?”

Mac’s nerves tensed as he shook his head back and forth. It wasn’t a lie. He’d been a distant witness to the transactions that had transpired between his father and Thadeous Clareborn. He didn’t know the man personally, had only seen him one time. The afternoon he and his father had delivered Smooth Sailing to Firehill Farm, after which Paul Calliway had descended into a bottle of Kentucky bourbon on Christmas Eve and never found his way out.

Glancing over the stall door, concern took hold of Mac’s senses. Something wasn’t right. Navigator was an animated colt who enjoyed haranguing anyone who ventured close enough to his stall gate for him to nudge, but he stood in the corner now, his head pitched below his withers, his breath coming in long low grunts.

Mac stepped around the wheelchair and opened the door latch. He stepped inside and moved up on the animal. Reaching out he brushed his hand down Navigator’s right shoulder, the one he’d slammed into the railing.

“His shoulder’s swollen. We better get the vet in.” Worry ground through him, bringing his thoughts to Emma, and the devastating reality an injury could cause her and Firehill Farm.

“I’ll … go.” Thadeous turned his wheelchair and rolled out of the barn.

“Hang in there,” Mac said, rubbing the horse’s neck.

DOC REMINGTON STOOD outside Navigator’s stall next to Emma. “Three weeks, a month. Keep him moving, so he doesn’t stiffen up. But no strenuous exercise on that shoulder muscle. It’s a deep bruise.”

From the pained look on Emma’s face, Mac knew the vet’s prescription for Navigator was going down like a poison pill. The Holiday Classic was three weeks away and Navigator’s fitness level would rapidly decline without regular workouts, thereby diminishing his chances of making the first open qualifier for the Kentucky Derby.

“What about a yarrow-and-mustard poultice?” he asked, recalling the technique his dad had used more times than he could count to speed healing.

A line creased between the vet’s eyebrows. “That’s an antiquated remedy, labor intensive, but you might get it to draw. It’s worth a try.”

His only consolation was the look of hope that flared in Emma’s dark eyes.

MAC SPOONED ANOTHER square of cheesecloth up from the kettle of boiling water and plopped it down on the piece of plywood they’d been using as a makeshift table since dawn.

Wearing rubber gloves, he spread out the hot cloth and dumped a cup of the yellow paste he’d concocted onto it. He smoothed it around, folded it over to form a pocket for the poultice and pulled off his gloves.

Emma smiled at him as she reached down, picked it up in her gloved hands and headed back into Navigator’s stall where she pressed the remedy against his shoulder.

He stepped into the cubicle and watched her over the bay’s back. “How are you holding up?”

“My shoulders hurt like crazy and I’ve got a cramp, but I’m not going to stop.”

He liked knowing she wasn’t a quitter. The physical strain would have already put an average woman under the table, but not Emma Clareborn. She wasn’t the spoiled Kentucky blue blood he’d expected to find living at Firehill Farm. She had grit and substance. Respect stirred in his bloodstream.

Moving around to her side of the horse, he smoothed his hand between her shoulder blades, feeling the knotted muscles. Working them with the palm of his hand, he felt the tension dissipate.

“Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.” A tiny shiver rocked her body.

Stepping back he realized he wasn’t immune to the effects of the contact either. He left the stall to heat another poultice, his body still buzzing.

“We should walk him out after this one, see if the swelling and stiffness have been alleviated.”

“Where’d you learn about this anyway?”

“My dad. When you can’t afford to call in a veterinarian every time something goes wrong, you learn to improvise.”

“Sounds like he was old-school.”

“Yeah.” Turning his back to her, he ripped another section off the bolt of cheesecloth and fed it into the kettle. With any luck the treatment would do the trick, but they wouldn’t know for sure until they worked him.

Mac looked up and watched Sheriff Wilkes stroll into the barn, remove his sunglasses and push his hat back.

“Afternoon.”

“Sheriff.” Mac reached out and shook his hand.

He nodded in Emma’s direction. “You were right. The drug in that syringe matched the one the vet found in McCluskie’s filly. It was a synthetic hallucinogen. Made the horse go plumb nuts in her stall. She’s too banged up to race and won’t make the Holiday Classic.”

Emma came out of the stall and flopped the cold poultice on the board. “That’s awful. I know Chester put a lot of hope in her. She has some great track times.”

Mac dragged up the piece of cloth from the kettle sitting on the gas camp stove and spooned it onto the board.

“What about prints?”

“None that my technician could find. I wish I had better news, but I don’t. My best advice is to stay vigilant. I’m going to send a patrol car by a couple times a night, starting tonight. Maybe they’ll get lucky and catch the culprit.”

Mac pulled on his rubber gloves and spread out the cloth with his hands.

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

“No problem.” He slipped on his shades and left the barn.

“Maybe we should get a truckload of motion-sensor lights. Blaze the place out like a Christmas tree if anyone comes near the barn.” She arched her eyebrows a couple of times and grinned.

“That’s not a bad idea.” Mac poured a cup of the poultice on the steaming cheesecloth and smeared it around. “One at the outside front entrance and one at the back would do the trick. I’d also like to put an electronic lock on the stall gate.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” He stared at her, hoping some of the concern he felt rubbed off on her. This was war, and it could get more intense as the key races got closer. “This person is going to get desperate. The more times we turn back their attacks, the more intense those attacks could become.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared, that’s what’s going to keep you and your horse safe.”

He folded the cloth over and she picked it up, moving back into the stall where she applied it to her horse.

“I’ll call the hardware store and have them send over the lights tomorrow. And a locksmith to install a lock on the stall door. You can put the lights up, can’t you?”

“Yeah.” Mac let out a breath and pulled off the gloves.

Any deterrent would help. In fact maybe they should consider rigging the whole damn stable.

“It’s cooled off. Let’s see if it worked.” Excitement stirred in Emma’s veins, encouraged by the fact that the swelling was completely gone from Navigator’s shoulder. Her racing dreams were alive, well and pinned on the next few moments.

Mac snagged the lead rope and held it out to her.

“You do it,” she said. “You’re the one keeping my hopes off of life support.”

His expression was serious as he clipped the shank on the halter ring and led Navigator out of his stall.

Emma stood next to the gate and held her breath, watching the Thoroughbred move around in a circle beside Mac. His stride was smooth, easy and uninhibited by pain or stiffness.

Relief washed over her. “He’s going to be okay! You did it.” She rushed Mac and threw her arms around his neck before she’d even thought out the target of her elation.

His chest was a collection of rock-hard muscles, his arms gentle as he encircled her, lifted her up off the floor and put her back down.

Their gazes locked and his slipped to her lips.

She wet them with her tongue and knew she was in trouble.

Navigator shuffled backward, his ears pitched forward.

Lowering his mouth to hers, Mac hesitated six inches from her lips.

Frustrated, Emma made up the distance and pushed up onto her tiptoes.

Contact. Searing, mind-blowing contact fused them together for an instant before Emma pushed back and struggled to catch her breath. She tried to make sense of her body’s overwhelming response to kissing Mac Titus, but she couldn’t.

Mac stepped away, pulling Navigator with him as he headed for the barn door. What the hell had just happened? More to the point, why had he let it happen? With every passing minute at Firehill he was being sucked in. And kissing Emma … well, that had been a mistake, he decided, realizing his entire body wanted in on the action and ached for more.

He led Navigator to the hot-walker and clipped him on, then went back to the gate post where he switched the contraption on and climbed up on the fence to watch—get his lust under control, was more like it. He wasn’t surprised when she leaned on the top rail of the fence next to him a moment later.

“He looks great, Mac. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. We need to rub liniment into his shoulder every half hour and again tonight before it cools down outside. He’s going to need a blanket, too. We’ve gotta keep the muscle warm and loose.”

“Hey, why don’t you head to the bunkhouse and wash up? I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Are you saying I stink?”

Emma stared up at him, seeing a shallow grin arch his lips, lips she’d like to feel on hers again. “Hardly.” In fact she could easily bury her face against his chest and breathe him in for hours on end. “But mustard and yarrow have a way of sticking to you. Better to wash it off while it’s fresh. As it is I’ll have that smell stuck in my nose for a month.”

“Yeah, me too.” He climbed down off the fence next to her. There it was again, that rush of desire washing over her mind and body, drowning her resistance in its wake.

“We pulled him back today, Emma. He’ll get his shot.”

“Yes, he will. Go.” She flicked her hand toward the bunkhouse fifty feet to the left of the barn’s entrance and let out a sigh when he moved behind her and walked away.

She stared at his retreating backside, at his broad shoulders and the defined muscles beneath his snug white T-shirt. If the air got any more emotionally heated, she swore she’d pass out.

“Breathe, Emma … just breathe.” She turned back to keep an eye on Navigator and let her gaze follow him around the endless circle until she felt almost normal again.

Almost.

MAC LAY ON THE COT in the stable staring up at the beams long after midnight.

Emma had made him supper and delivered it to a patch of grass where they ate and tended Navigator’s shoulder every half hour. He should have resisted her invitation and indulged in physical activity—pull-ups in the hayloft until his body screamed, or mucking stalls—to break the hold he felt growing between them, but he’d let her get under his skin.

Hell, he was in too deep already and he knew it. Felt it in his bones. Twenty-five years of carrying his father’s animosity toward Thadeous Clareborn and the horse-racing business was crumbling like chalk in the rain. But that aversion had shaped his life, shaped who he was and what he needed.

Get in, get out … no emotional attachments.

There was no warning.

No whisper of movement, just the icy pressure of a knife blade at his throat, and the man wielding it standing over him.

Mac’s training kicked in, hard, fast, deadly.

He latched on to the attacker’s wrist and jerked it up and away.

The blade gleamed sharp in his left peripheral.

Balling his right fist he slammed it back, catching the man in the forehead.

The intruder staggered back and hit the floor.

Mac rolled off the cot onto his belly and snagged the man’s ankles just as he tried to stagger to his feet.

Jerking hard, he pulled the thug’s legs out from underneath him. He hit the ground again. A grunt hissed from between the other man’s lips.

Mac scrambled to his feet and reached for his weapon, determined to detain the invader until Sheriff Wilkes could get there.

Over his right shoulder he heard the slightest sound, the shuffle of footsteps, then the electrical hiss of a Taser gun being fired.

Muscle-paralyzing probes drilled into his back, jolting him into oblivion.

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