Kit Wilkinson - Sabotage

And the television news van that followed.

Quickly, he dismounted the horse, handed the reins over to the evening stable hand and dashed to Emilie’s office. But already two policemen were escorting her through the front doors of the stable. One of the officers held up a hand, indicating for Derrick to stay back.

Emilie lowered her head and looked away. “Call my lawyer. And my father.”

“And tell them what?” Derrick’s voice cracked through the tense air.

“Can’t you guess? I’m being arrested,” she said, trying to sound bravely unaffected.

Derrick could see she was close to tears. “For what?”

“For the murder of Camillo Garcia,” one of the officers answered.

is a former Ph.D. student who once wrote discussions on the medieval feminine voice. She now prefers weaving stories of romance and redemption. Her first inspirational manuscript won the prestigious RWA Golden Heart and was published in 2009 by Steeple Hill Books as Protector’s Honor. Besides writing, she loves hanging out with friends and family, cooking for lots of people and participating in almost any sport. She and her husband reside in Virginia with their two young children and one extremely energetic border collie mix named Bear.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.

—Psalms 20:7

To the real Emilie Ann, may your life be filled with

love and the blessing of the Lord

PROLOGUE

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

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Burn it.

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.

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.