Jan Hambright - Christmas Countdown

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?