Sabotage

Camillo Garcia tossed the logbook into a metal can and struck a match. Holding the tiny blaze in front of him, he watched the hungry flame eat its way up the stem.

Confess your sins to each other. The words of scripture swept through his head like a whisper, gripped his lungs and constricted his airways. The little flame reached his fingertips and he dropped the match to the concrete floor and snuffed it out with his boot.

He couldn’t destroy the evidence.

But hide it?

Maybe that would buy him the time he needed.

Camillo spun around and faced the stall of the most valuable horse in the stable.

Perfect.

He stepped inside and gave the stallion a pat. Then, using a hoof pick, he pried a section of paneling from the front corner. The plank bent away just enough to drop the logbook inside the wall. Camillo took a letter from his pocket and placed it between the pages, then he slipped the logbook between the studs and allowed the sheet of paneling to snap back into position.

Satisfied, he hurried back to his office at a nervous pace. Leaning over his desk, he composed another note. The pen trembled in his hand as he struggled for the right words. They didn’t come, so he wrote what he could. When he finished, he centered the paper on his desk and placed his keys next to it.

With one last look around, he slung the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder and hurried through the facility—the state-of-the-art stable where he’d worked as groom and exerciser for four years. Regret and shame slowed his steps. Despite the cold, Camillo wiped heavy beads of sweat from his brow. He thought of his mother and younger brothers in Mexico, dependent on his income. He didn’t want to leave. He had to. And he had no one to blame for that but himself.

A hoof clapped against a stall and echoed through the quiet stable. The sharp sound urged him on, helping to slough away his heavy emotions. Camillo exited the stable and set out down a dark path between the fields. Then, cutting through the woods, he reached the edge of the estate. From there, the station would be an hour’s walk. Then three days on a bus to California. He prayed he would make it.

Bits of asphalt crunched under his feet as he walked along the highway stretched before him like an abyss. He walked on until a pair of headlights illuminated the ground around him. Panic prickled through him. His heart thumped against his chest. He stopped and turned into the bright lights. The car rolled to a stop beside him. Its fancy engine purred low. The passenger in the back waved a pistol at his chest. The driver ordered him to get in.

He slid into the familiar car, knowing why they’d come. It was for the logbook. Camillo prayed for his mother as the cold metal of the gun pressed into his neck and the car accelerated into the night.

ONE

Emilie Gill struggled to concentrate, but keeping her mind on riding and off of Camillo had proven impossible. Even with a renowned trainer evaluating her performance, she couldn’t focus. And his disapproval might cost her a spot on the Olympic team. Still, it couldn’t be helped. Something had happened to her groom. Something bad. She could sense it in her bones.

Emilie tried to shake away the distressing thoughts. Clenching the double reins, she sunk her weight into the heels of her tall black boots and coaxed the young mare onward to begin the course of fences.

The approach. Her braid struck down between her shoulders, marking the number of strides to the fence. One…Two…Three…

Takeoff. Together they soared over the four-foot spread of boxwoods and rails. Her hands and torso moved above the horse’s arched neck.

Landing. Her weight shifted back to her seat and heels, and beneath, the bay-colored mare gripped the earth.

Emilie turned to the next jump. Eyes up. Always up. Always ahead.

Continuing through the course with the same precision, she and Chelsea completed ten jumps with no faults—but her performance was lackluster. No doubt Mr. Winslow had noticed as well. She shot a furtive glance at the world-renowned trainer sitting nearby in the open stands, his expression indifferent. Emilie swallowed hard then scanned the arena for Camillo. A four-year-old habit was hard to break. She slumped in the saddle and sighed. When would she get it into her thick skull that her once faithful groom, also her best friend, had left? Without any warning. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Camillo had acted a bit strangely over the last few weeks. But when Emilie had asked him what was on his mind, he had said he was just tired. So, she had let it go. And now he’d left with no explanation. Gone.

A light rain began to trickle down. Cold November air whipped through the hilltop space, chafing her exposed cheeks. She steered the mare across the wide arena, hurrying toward the stable.

“Miss Gill, where are you off to?” The severe British accent echoed over the grassy arena. “You cannot retire on that performance. It’s simply unacceptable.”

Emilie pulled on the reins, trying to erase her frown. Chelsea turned toward the covered portion of the stands where Mr. Winslow had relocated to avoid the drizzle. The older gentleman sat down, lips pursed, with his Burberry raincoat buttoned to the neck and his iPhone pressed to one ear. As she approached, he lowered the phone to his lap and leaned over the edge of the railing.

“Miss Gill, despite your size, your equitation skills are utterly lacking in finesse. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I’m not a man to mince words. I’d like to see you take this lovely mare ’round again. But with big releases and less cattle driving between the fences. Mr. Randall is lowering the rails for you.” He turned away, putting the phone back to his ear.

Emilie lifted her head high and stared at nothing for a long moment, blinking her eyelids against the increasing rainfall. Mr. Randall?

A deep frown gripped her mouth. Searching the grass ring, her eyes narrowed on a man’s figure in full rain gear, lowering jumps in the far corner of the arena. Camillo’s replacement. A friend of her sister’s who she’d hired over the phone the day before. He’d been scheduled to start that morning. But hadn’t bothered to show. Emilie had all but given up on him.

“Did you hear me, Miss Gill? Big releases,” the trainer repeated.

She turned back to Mr. Winslow. “Uh. Yes, sir. I was just concerned about pacing.”

“Your speed is adequate.”

Emilie slumped further into the saddle. His sharp tone crushed her hopes of his ever intending to work with her. Why had he even bothered asking her to ride the course again? What was the point? If only Camillo had been there, he would have known what to say to make her feel right again. Instead, everything was wrong. Everything seemed hopeless.

Emilie pressed her lips together and gathered her wits before heading toward the new hire. And before she did something embarrassing, like cry, in front of Mr. Winslow.

Derrick Randall rushed from one jump to the next, keeping his hood low to fight the cold drizzle. The rider trotted toward him.

“Mr. Randall?” She slowed the horse and walked a tight circle around the fence he was lowering. Mr. Randall? Derrick lifted an eyebrow as he placed the last rail in the cups.

“It’s just Derrick.” He stepped toward her and lifted a hand. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic accident.”

“You had an accident?” She halted the mare, but made no eye contact, nor did she take his hand. Her pale face was tight. Her jaw clenched. But even angry or anxious or whatever her foul mood, Derrick choked on his breath as he looked at her.

Emilie Gill was one beautiful woman—stunning, actually. She had luminous green eyes, creamy white skin and hair that fell in a long, golden braid. Undone, it might have reached her waist. Her lips were soft and peach-colored under a small, perky nose. Everything arranged for the complete benefit of the viewer.

“I—uh—I wasn’t in an accident. Just stuck behind one.” Derrick took a deep breath and disregarded her unfriendly greeting. He could hardly blame her for being miffed about his tardiness. His outstretched hand moved to the neck of the gorgeous mare. Her wet coat felt warm against his palm. “She’s beautiful. A Warmblood, right? You can always tell breeds by the head and feet.”

Emilie’s face softened. Finally, she looked down at him. “Yes. She’s my latest acquisition. Just arrived from Ireland. They call her Chelsea’s Danger.”

“Very powerful and yet elegant.” Derrick smiled. “And Peter, he’s the best. I didn’t know you trained with him.”

“You know Mr. Winslow?” Astonishment filled her voice.

“Just my whole life.” He laughed. “He and my uncle are close friends.”

She glanced at Peter in the stands and then looked back, like she couldn’t believe the old man had a friend. “Well, he’s not my trainer. Not yet, that is.”

She turned away in a whirl. Derrick liked the color her strange frustration had added to those creamy cheeks. He hoped she’d get over her anger or anxiety and decide to keep him on. He needed the money if he ever hoped to finish veterinary school. And he wouldn’t mind seeing what Miss Emilie Gill looked like when she wasn’t scowling.

He made his way back to Peter, looking up at the cloudy sky.

Lord, this is all in Your hands…

Guilt nipped at Emilie for not shaking the man’s hand. But that gesture would have meant she’d accepted him as her employee and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that. Not even if he was a friend of Mr. Winslow and of her sister. He didn’t look anything like a groom. For one, he was huge—more like a football player than a horseman.

And it just seemed wrong, giving Camillo’s job to a stranger.

Camillo. Where are you?

Again, this nagging idea that he was in trouble and needed her help overwhelmed her. Only something terribly important would have made him leave without talking to her first. Or something just plain terrible… Why did she have the feeling it was the latter?