Christmas Countdown

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 (#ulink_11a58360-cd70-5a80-ad7d-dc81c03c5b72)

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.”