Jan Hambright - Christmas Countdown

“He looks great, Mac. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. We need to rub liniment into his shoulder every half hour and again tonight before it cools down outside. He’s going to need a blanket, too. We’ve gotta keep the muscle warm and loose.”

“Hey, why don’t you head to the bunkhouse and wash up? I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Are you saying I stink?”

Emma stared up at him, seeing a shallow grin arch his lips, lips she’d like to feel on hers again. “Hardly.” In fact she could easily bury her face against his chest and breathe him in for hours on end. “But mustard and yarrow have a way of sticking to you. Better to wash it off while it’s fresh. As it is I’ll have that smell stuck in my nose for a month.”

“Yeah, me too.” He climbed down off the fence next to her. There it was again, that rush of desire washing over her mind and body, drowning her resistance in its wake.

“We pulled him back today, Emma. He’ll get his shot.”

“Yes, he will. Go.” She flicked her hand toward the bunkhouse fifty feet to the left of the barn’s entrance and let out a sigh when he moved behind her and walked away.

She stared at his retreating backside, at his broad shoulders and the defined muscles beneath his snug white T-shirt. If the air got any more emotionally heated, she swore she’d pass out.

“Breathe, Emma … just breathe.” She turned back to keep an eye on Navigator and let her gaze follow him around the endless circle until she felt almost normal again.

Almost.

MAC LAY ON THE COT in the stable staring up at the beams long after midnight.

Emma had made him supper and delivered it to a patch of grass where they ate and tended Navigator’s shoulder every half hour. He should have resisted her invitation and indulged in physical activity—pull-ups in the hayloft until his body screamed, or mucking stalls—to break the hold he felt growing between them, but he’d let her get under his skin.

Hell, he was in too deep already and he knew it. Felt it in his bones. Twenty-five years of carrying his father’s animosity toward Thadeous Clareborn and the horse-racing business was crumbling like chalk in the rain. But that aversion had shaped his life, shaped who he was and what he needed.

Get in, get out … no emotional attachments.

There was no warning.

No whisper of movement, just the icy pressure of a knife blade at his throat, and the man wielding it standing over him.

Mac’s training kicked in, hard, fast, deadly.

He latched on to the attacker’s wrist and jerked it up and away.

The blade gleamed sharp in his left peripheral.

Balling his right fist he slammed it back, catching the man in the forehead.

The intruder staggered back and hit the floor.

Mac rolled off the cot onto his belly and snagged the man’s ankles just as he tried to stagger to his feet.

Jerking hard, he pulled the thug’s legs out from underneath him. He hit the ground again. A grunt hissed from between the other man’s lips.

Mac scrambled to his feet and reached for his weapon, determined to detain the invader until Sheriff Wilkes could get there.

Over his right shoulder he heard the slightest sound, the shuffle of footsteps, then the electrical hiss of a Taser gun being fired.

Muscle-paralyzing probes drilled into his back, jolting him into oblivion.

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