He drew his weapon, but he didn’t have a clear shot. “Do you have your cell?”
“No.” His was sitting on the counter in the tack room. Another bullet drilled into the siding halfway between the ground and the overhead eave.
They were pinned down.
Emma struggled to make sense of the situation as she sucked a couple of breaths into her lungs, feeling the weight of Mac’s body pressing her into the grass.
Someone was taking shots at them? Someone wanted them dead? Fear pushed chills through her body. She closed her eyes, listening to the whisper of Mac’s breath against her hair. Honing in on the sound to prevent herself from being caught up in the wave of panic swelling inside of her.
Mac would keep her safe, he would protect her, with his life if necessary.
“I’m going to return fire as a diversion. When I do, I want you to stay low and head for the back door. Get inside and call 911.”
“Okay.” She felt his weight shift off her. She scrambled out from underneath him, hearing the decisive crack of gunfire behind her as she half crawled, half ran and ducked around the corner of the house, up the steps and safely through the back door.
She charged the length of the hallway and burst out into the living room, almost colliding with her dad in his wheelchair.
“I called…the sheriff. Who’s outside?”
“I don’t know who’s shooting, but Mac’s still out there.”
Worry locked her in place as she knelt next to her father, straining to hear what was going on.
No more shots. Silence. Blessed silence. Worry ground over her nerves as she considered the implications.
Either the shooter had been hit, or—
Emma crawled into the dining room, where a window faced the west side of the house.
Her hand shook as she pulled open the drape an inch and stared out on the side yard.
Dusk was settling over Firehill, but in the fading light she saw Mac dart across the driveway leading back to the barn and take cover next to the trunk of an oak tree on the edge of the brushy thicket.
A measure of relief flooded her insides. He hadn’t been shot tonight. But he had been shot at some point. Realization surrounded her thoughts as she pulled back from the window and crumpled on the floor to wait for help to arrive.
The horrible scar on Mac’s beautiful face was a gunshot wound. He said he’d worked for the Secret Service. The scenario fit. He’d dived to protect another human being with his own body and had taken a bullet for that person, just like he would have taken a bullet for her ten minutes ago.
She swallowed and closed her eyes, trying to imagine the pain he had endured, but it was inconceivable.
In the distance she could hear the shrill wail of a siren. Emma opened her eyes and stood up, seeing the strobe of the police car’s lights reflecting against the drapes.
“Emma.” Her father called.
“Yes.” She moved into the living room. Concern brushed her nerves, as she stared at her dad, at the stricken look on his face and the piece of paper in his hand.
“Give this to…Wilkes. It’s why…I called him.”
Reaching out she took the paper and stared at the string of text that had been cut from a secondary source and strung together word by word to form a sentence.
Don’t race your horse or next time I won’t miss.
“Where did you get this, Dad?”
“It came in the mail…this afternoon. Sam brought it in just before she left…for the day. I opened it…twenty minutes ago, and called the sheriff. It’s a threat against…Navigator.”
There was fear in his eyes as he worked to speak.
She put her arm across his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Mac and I won’t let anything happen to him.” Her reassurance seemed to calm him. She carried the note into the kitchen, where she pulled a large Ziploc bag out of a drawer and slipped the note inside before going back into the living room.
“Where’s the envelope it came in?”
“On the desk. No…return address.”
Moving to the rolltop, she found the plain white envelope next to the stack of mail and added it to the bag. “I’ll take this to the sheriff.”
Her dad nodded and she headed down the hall, flipped on the porch light and exited the back door, coming face-to-face with Mac and Sheriff Wilkes at the west corner of the house. They were deep in conversation.
Mac looked up as she approached. “Emma. Are you and your dad okay?”
“Yes.” She turned to face Wilkes. “Here’s the note we got in the mail this afternoon. My dad called you the moment he opened it.”
Wilkes reached out and took the plastic bag, holding it up where the porch light illuminated the crude message.
“It’s the second one today. Brad Nelson over at Cramer Stables received one this morning.”
“Derby prospect?” Mac asked, feeling a measure of concern enter his bloodstream.
“Yes. He plans to nominate his horse Whiskey Fever for a spot in the Kentucky Derby.”
“Were there any potshots taken at him?” Mac asked, knowing that if one of the gunshots had been a foot lower it would have hit Emma.
“No. But with any luck you scared him off and he won’t try this over at Cramer Stables. Did you by any chance get a look at him?”
“No. He took off the moment I put a slug in the tree. But Brad Nelson would be wise to get some security in place around his horse, just in case he tries this over there. Whoever is behind these attacks is serious. It’s only a matter of time before someone is seriously hurt, or worse.”
“I agree,” Wilkes said. “And a heads-up. Some of the surrounding farms have banded together and put up a reward for the capture of whoever is behind the threats and attacks against their horses.”
“Is that right?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars and climbing. I’ll file my report and get this letter to the lab tonight after the forensics team takes a look at the scene for slugs or shell casings. I’ll drop by in the morning if they find anything.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. I’ve got to go check on the colt.”
Mac turned for the barn, anxious to make sure the horse was okay. One thing the evening’s events had made clear—Navigator wasn’t the only animal being targeted in the Bluegrass. But how did last night’s intruders and Mac’s subsequent stint trapped in a sleeping bag play into any of this?
The shuffle of footsteps behind him slowed his pace, and he was glad when Emma fell in next to him.
“Hey, where are you going? We can’t let a couple of stray bullets dissuade us. We’ve got Christmas lights to hang.”
He chuckled, pulled up short and turned to look at her in the last glimmer of Kentucky twilight.
“Do I look like the Grinch, Emma?”
“Um…maybe a little around the eyes.”
“I want to make sure the colt’s settled for the night, then I’ll help you finish the lights.”
“Okay.”
Mac headed for the barn again with Emma keeping stride next to him. Glancing across the paddock, he spotted several men standing in the doorway of the stud barn, looking into the deepening darkness.
“Do Victor Dago and his crew ever work their horses?”
“Yes. Every other day they get the practice track in the morning and I take the afternoon slot.”
He mulled her answer as they approached the barn entrance and the motion light clicked on. They entered the stable together and Emma flipped on the overhead lights.
Mack walked to Navigator’s stall and the horse immediately put his head over the gate for a scratch.
“He likes you, you know,” she said.
Mac stroked the bay’s forehead and glanced over at her where she leaned against the wall next to the gate.
“He’s a horse, Emma. They like anyone who takes care of them and slips in an occasional carrot. The finer details of an interpersonal relationship don’t exist.”
Navigator bobbed his head and
snorted, blowing a fine mist of green moisture at him.
She busted out laughing as he wiped off the back of his hand and shook his head. “Navigator loves a challenge. Even if that challenge is to convince you he wants an interpersonal relationship.” She grinned, studying him intently in the glare of the lights.
“I figured it out tonight. I figured out how you got that scar.”
He watched her mood turn serious and contemplated the sudden direction the conversation was taking.
Emma took a step closer to him, staring at the deep furrow that cut along his left jawbone from ear to chin.
Her body went on autopilot as she raised her right arm and touched his face, stroking her hand along his jaw. He didn’t pull back, he didn’t flinch, he just met her unwavering stare with one of his own.
“You saved someone’s life and almost lost your own. That’s how you got this?”
“Yes.”
Her heart was pounding out of her chest by the time her palm reached his chin and she let her arm drop to her side.
“How long ago?”
“Six months.”
“Working for the Secret Service?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“No.”
“Oh.” A myriad of questions flitted through her mind. Who, why, what, where, when and how, but her final summation ended with a level of surety she felt lock in place between them.
She trusted that he could protect her and her horse from just about anything, and he’d be willing to give his life if necessary.
Chapter Five
“Mac Titus is ex-Secret Service. He’s out on medical leave after nearly having his face blown off by a bullet meant for a foreign dignitary visiting Louisville six months ago.”
Agent Renn Donahue rocked back in his chair and took the intel report from Agent Conner. “So what’s he doing at Firehill Farm?”
“Trying to get his edge back. He was referred to Firehill by the Solberg Agency, a bodyguard service out of Louisville that mentally rehabilitates agents who’ve been through an incident so they can rejoin their respective employers if possible. More than likely he’s there to protect a high-valued horse.”
“What’s his medical history look like?”
“He has extensive damage to his eardrum. He’s almost totally deaf in his left ear. The assailant’s bullet entered below his earlobe and traveled the length of his jawbone before it exited through his chin. He protected the dignitary with his own body when the shooting started and took the bullet at close range.”
Agent Donahue jotted the fact down on the bottom of the page next to Mac’s service photo. Military-style haircut, clean shaven…a damn far cry from the unshaven, long-haired man in the surveillance still taken in the stable at Firehill. It was an identity crisis, plain and simple, but life-threatening incidents did funny things to a man’s soul, and his nerve.
“Any chance he’ll return to his post?”
“I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. But the service requires all your senses be at a hundred-and-ten percent. His never will be again.”
“Looks like the odds are against Mac Titus. Anything else, Agent Conner?”
“Not that I could access. The details of the attack are encrypted.”
Strange. A knot firmed in Donahue’s gut. “I’ll take the late shift in the surveillance van tonight. You need to spend some time at home with your new wife.”
“Thank you, sir.” Conner pulled a sly grin as he turned for the office door and Renn refocused his attention on the paperwork in front of him, searching for the name of the dignitary Mac Titus had nearly been killed protecting.
Sheikh Ahmed Abadar.
Caution seeped into his bloodstream. The NSA had been listening to chatter from Abadar for months. He was the cornerstone of their investigation at the farm.
So was Mac Titus’s presence at Firehill a coincidence? An odd twist of fate?
Or something more?
MAC LEANED INTO THE RAIL and scanned the entire perimeter of the practice track, concentrating on the wooded area adjacent to the backstretch before picking up the progress of the colt galloping into the clubhouse turn with Emma on his back.
It made him uneasy to see her astride the big bay colt in her breeches, goggles and helmet. The sooner they found a new gallop boy to replace Josh, the better. In the interim she seemed determined to work the colt herself and damn the danger that could be lurking in the woods.
He sucked in a breath of crisp morning air and tried to still the agitation circulating in his veins. He cared about the horse…and the woman on his back.
Navigator blitzed by, his powerful hooves pounding the rich Kentucky soil.
Mac focused on the sweet round curve of Emma’s bottom, pushed up above her sloping back in classic jockey form. A low whistle hissed between his lips. The woman could ride.
In the peripheral vision on his right, Mac saw Victor Dago approach the rail and he turned for an instant to acknowledge him before resetting his gaze on horse and rider.
“He’s fast. He’ll win the Classic,” Victor said.
“Yeah. If we can keep him safe and running until then.” Mac shot Victor a quick glance, trying to gauge his reaction. His eyes continued to follow the progress of the pair on the track.
“What happened last night? My animals didn’t take to all of the commotion.”
“Someone took three shots at Miss Clareborn and myself.” Again he slipped a glance at Dago, and witnessed his genuine look of surprise.
“I’ve heard rumblings of sick horses and threatening notes.”
“Where?”
“Keeneland Horse Park. I buy my crew breakfast at the Iron Liege Coffee Shop once a week. The horsemen talk. I listen.”
“Any names come up?”
“No.”
Mac watched Navigator and Emma pass in front of him for the second time and turned to face Victor. “If a name happens to surface, I’d like to hear it. Some strange things have been taking place on the farms with derby prospects, and I suspect someone is trying to up their odds of winning. Any chance you have a Derby horse?”
Victor’s eyes narrowed for an instant and his brows furrowed. “I’ve got one possibility, Dragon’s Soul, but I’m not sure if he’ll go to nomination this year.”
Mac picked up horse and rider in the backstretch and leaned on the rail. “Keep an eye on your horse, and I’d appreciate it if you’d advise your crew about what’s going on. Sheriff Wilkes is tracking some leads right now. He may want to talk to them.”
“No problem.” Dago pushed back. “Tell Miss Clareborn if she’d like to use my gallop boy, Rodriguez, on his off days, to let me know.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.” Mac nodded and watched Victor walk away, unsure what to make of him. If he or anyone in his stable were behind the attacks, Mac sure hadn’t wrangled anything out of him by perpetuating the idea the sheriff was tracking solid leads. There weren’t any.
He watched Emma rein Navigator in and slow him to a canter as they jogged down the front stretch and into the first turn for a final cooldown lap.
Pulling his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, he punched in the number of his buddy in the FBI’s Lexington office.
Every Thoroughbred trainer in Kentucky needed a license acquired through the horse-racing commission. It also required an FBI background check. He wanted to know what was in Victor Dago’s.
Emma reined in Navigator and flowed with the rocking-chair rhythm of the powerful horse underneath her. She let her knees act as shock absorbers in the stirrup irons as she kept time with his gait.
He’d barely broken a sweat in the four-mile gallop she’d just put him through. He was in peak condition. Ready to run. Ready to win.
Focusing on the final turn out of the backstretch, she tugged the reins again and shifted him down into a fast trot. The Holiday Classic was two and a half weeks away. A lifetime for something to go wrong. Thank goodness she had Mac
looking out for them.
On the right, she picked up a flash of movement in the brush.
Navigator saw it first and shied to the left.
The first bone-jarring jolt almost unseated her.
Half a dozen doves took flight out of the bushes and fluttered into the air inches above her head.
Navigator shot forward and broke into a run.
Emma sat down on the saddle, pulled back on the reins and squeezed him with her legs to bring him under control. “Easy. Just a couple of birds.” She reached down and patted his neck, feeling the tension dissipate in his body and control return. Her heart rate had slowed by the time she eased him into a fast walk and aimed for the opening in the rail, seeing Mac hurry out onto the track to meet them.
“What happened out there?”
“A cove of doves took flight and spooked him.”
“Nice recovery, but he could have dumped you. Hurt you.”
“I know.”
Mac caught one of the reins and walked the pair through the opening and into the paddock, where he stopped the horse and Emma jumped down. “He looks good.”
“He’s ready to run. I could have taken him around again at a full gallop.”
“Conditioning wins races.” He pulled up on the two leather straps of the cinch and released it from the buckle while she took off the bridle and put on the colt’s halter.
In a matter of minutes, Mac was clipping him on the hot-walker for a thorough cooldown.
She gathered up the equipment and headed for the stable, satisfied with the morning’s workout.
Mac joined her a minute later in the tack room and busied himself wiping down the saddle and bridle with an oiled rag.
“Where’d you learn to ride like that?” he asked.
She glanced up at him. “I’ve been riding since I was a kid. My dad used to let me exercise some of the horses until I got too tall.”
“Victor Dago offered to let you use his gallop boy if you need to.”
She stared at him, considering how calm she felt with him next to her. Watching the skilled manner in which he cleaned the dirt and horse sweat off the flat saddle as if he’d done it a hundred times before.
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