Christmas Countdown

“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.”