She didn’t doubt it. Horses loved the sweet taste of the iron-rich sugar by-product.
“I hope this works. Is it another one of that guy Calliway’s remedies?”
Mac inwardly flinched. “You heard Doc Remington mention him?”
“Yeah. I also caught your reaction. Have you heard of him?”
“Hasn’t everybody?” He pulled his arm out of the mix and slicked off the excess with his other hand. “I’m going to clean up at the bunkhouse, then we’ll feed him again and make more green tea.”
“Okay.”
He watched her open another bag of asparagus, lay the spears out neatly on the cutting board and slice through them with a razor-sharp knife. He turned and left the barn, trying to calm the agitation that circulated in his body. Hearing his father’s name twice in a day left him feeling one step ahead of disaster.
Nothing but trouble had ever followed Paul Calliway around until the day he died. At least he and his mother had been liberated that day.
Mac turned the knob on the bunkhouse door and walked into another disaster.
“I’ll be damned.” The place had been trashed. Every drawer in the dresser hung open. His clothes had been tossed out and heaped on the floor. The mattress on the bed was shoved off its foundation, and the kitchen had been ransacked.
Annoyed, he headed for the sink, stepping over the debris, careful not to disturb anything. The odds that Sheriff Wilkes could find any telling evidence was unlikely, but he was pretty sure he knew who’d done it.
Turning on the faucet, he ran his molasses-covered arm under the tap and washed off the sticky stuff. He shut off the water, snagged the dish towel off the rack and turned around.
Emma stood in the doorway of the bunkhouse, her mouth hanging open. “Oh, no!”
“It happened while we were gone this afternoon.” He put the towel back on the rack. “We can call Wilkes, but I’d bet whoever trashed the place wore gloves.”
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Is anything missing?”
Mac scanned the room with his gaze and finished the sweep by looking her in the eyes. “My guess is, someone was looking for information on me. Fortunately, I haven’t spent much time in here and I always keep my ID with me. We should consider questioning Victor Dago and his crew.”
“Rahul?”
“He did beat us back here by half an hour. He had plenty of time to pop in for a look.”
“Some look.” Emma shrugged. “I’ll help you clean it up.”
“Thanks. But it’ll have to wait until Navigator is secure.”
She turned back for the door and opened it, but didn’t step outside. “If you do question Victor and his crew,” she turned back around, “be careful, Mac.”
“I will.” He followed her outside into the early-evening twilight. “I got some information this morning from a source I know in Lexington.”
She fell in beside him as they walked toward the barn. “Oh. Sounds serious.”
“Hold up for a minute.” He stopped and turned toward her, grasping her upper arms in his hands. Through her jacket, he felt her body quake and second-guessed his decision to tell her about Dago. Still, she had a right to know.
“I have a buddy who works for the FBI.” Tension threaded along his nerves. “I had him check Dago out through the racing commission’s background-check system.”
Emma stared up at him, her eyes widening in increments that matched her concern. “I knew it. I’ve felt it from the minute I leased him the stable. He’s a crook.”
Mac shook his head. “I wish it were that simple. We’d call Wilkes and he’d arrest him and haul him away.” He pulled in a breath. “Victor Dago is carrying a phony trainer’s license, Emma.”
Her brows furrowed. “The license he showed me to rent my stud barn is bogus?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. You fabricate a name and information so you can rent a barn and run a second-rate racing stable for an absent sheikh? I’m not seeing any benefit here.”
She had a point.
“Come on. Let’s get back to the stable, we can talk there.” Mac glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot of their conversation and headed for Navigator’s six-o’clock feeding with a knot in his stomach and unanswered questions on his brain. Questions like, what did Victor have to gain?
MAC ADJUSTED HIS PILLOW and rolled onto his left side so he could look down into Navigator’s stall from his perch in the loft above. It was the perfect setup for spotting anyone who risked a venture into the stable to try and harm the horse. In addition, the locksmith had shown up around 8:00 p.m. and installed a keypad on the stall door.
If anyone tried to jimmy it, he’d hear them and be able to take action well before they got to the colt.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds of the night. The weak hum of crickets fighting the cold, the rustle of the straw bedding as the colt moved in his stall and a mechanical sound he couldn’t identify.
He opened his eyes and sat up, perusing the cavernous barn.
Turning his head to the right, he listened again, just picking up the whisper of a sound that seemed to be coming from somewhere in the loft.
Caution skated over his nerves. He rolled off the sleeping pad underneath him, and pushed it back along with the sleeping bag. Leaning close to the wooden decking with his right ear to the ground, he held his breath, hearing the mechanical grind again, only louder this time.
Using his hands he dusted away the layer of grass hay that covered the area where the noise seemed to be coming from, and revealed a half-inch gap between the decking boards.
Mac reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his mini flashlight. Turning it on, he aimed the beam into the crevice.
“I’ll be damned,” he whispered as the light’s beam picked up the sheen of a skinny piece of coaxial cable that had been lain in the groove.
Following it with the flashlight beam, he tracked it into the back of the loft, brushing away the hay, until he reached a spot where a void had been chiseled out and a small power supply was tacked into the hollow, flush with the wood.
This was the handiwork of a pro.
He turned around and followed the line back up to the edge of the loft, but he didn’t need a visual to confirm what he already knew.
Someone had installed a surveillance camera in Firehill’s barn.
To spy on Navigator’s Whim? It certainly explained the sensation of being watched that he’d experienced from the moment he’d set foot in the stable. But who in the hell was on the other end watching? And why?
He grabbed his sleeping bag and flopped it over the lip of the loft, covering the tiny pin camera at the other end of the cable.
“Lights out.”
Tension knotted his muscles as he rocked back on his feet and stood up.
The two men in black who’d used the Taser on him and left him all tied up had probably been there to service the cameras.
His gaze locked on the hayloft at the other end of the barn. Could there be another one?
That could explain the sawdust he’d seen on the rungs.
Hell, they were probably watching him right now.
Mac killed his flashlight and shoved it into his coat pocket. He walked to the ladder and climbed down. The images from the camera would give its viewer access to every aspect of Navigator’s routine. His training schedule, his feeding schedule. When and for how long any one person stayed in the barn.
Hanging close to the row of stalls, he worked his way along the wide corridor to the back of the barn and scaled the ladder.
He reached the loft and pulled out his flashlight, then turned it on. To his right a narrow slot opened behind the three tons of alfalfa hay in the loft. On his left, the stack was flush with the wall.
Mac angled sideways and pushed into the space, working his way to the end, where he stepped out onto an open area of the decking. Dropping to his knees, he brushed away the s
cattered hay and exposed a narrow crack running from the back of the loft to the front.
“Bingo.” The light hit on a shiny piece of black coax cable. “Camera two.” The thugs had had trouble with this one, and incapacitated him with the Tasered so they could fix it. He planned to give them more trouble right now. He killed the flashlight and dug his pocket knife out of his jeans pocket. He opened the longest blade and stuck the knife into the closest bale, where he bored a small hole in the densely packed alfalfa.
Relying on the light coming from the open tack room door, he found the cable again and worked the knife blade into the crack and under the cable. He dislodged it.
Prying it out, he snagged it with his fingers and ripped it loose, then stuffed the camera lens into the bale of alfalfa hay.
Next time the thugs in black showed up to fix their blank surveillance camera, he’d be ready.
EMMA EASED THE BACK DOOR of the house closed and stepped out into the first light of dawn as it broke on the horizon. She was anxious to assess Navigator’s progress on Mac’s remedy, and more than anxious to see him.
She fingered her braid at the nape of her neck and pulled it free of her coat before sliding the zipper up against the morning chill. Taking the walkway in the back, she noted the layer of frost on the grass. She would have to harrow the track this morning to break through the thin layer of frozen soil before she let Navigator take his exercise laps at eight o’clock under his new jockey, Grady Stevens.
Glancing up, she spotted Mac in the doorway of the barn, casually leaning against the jamb. He somehow looked right standing there. In fact, he looked at home anywhere on the farm, and if he wasn’t there in the capacity of a bodyguard for Navigator, he could certainly be there in the capacity of a horse trainer. He had the know-how and the skills to be great. A measure of comfort adhered to her nerves.
“Good morning.” She stopped in front of him, catching a glimpse of tiredness around his eyes along with bloodshot whites. “Rough night?”
“You have no idea.” He shoved the brim of his hat back and stepped away from the frame. “I made a discovery last night that could explain how and why someone has been able to get close to the colt.”
“Really?” She followed him into the barn and went to take a look at Navigator. “Tell me you caught them and you have them hog-tied out back.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Not quite. But I did find two surveillance cameras. One hidden in each loft. It’s hard to say how long they’ve been in operation.”
A chill jolted her body. She rubbed her hands together to generate heat and dissipate the feeling of violation scrubbing around her insides. “I hope you smashed them.”
“Not a chance. I covered one, and gave the other a permanent view of the inside of a hay bale. I figure whoever installed them will come back to fix them—”
“And you’ll be able to catch them?”
“If things go as planned.”
Concern fired through her and she leveled her gaze on him, unsure why the idea of Mac confronting the person or persons who could be responsible for trying to injure her horse, made her anxious. It was, after all, the reason she’d hired him in the first place.
“I think we should call the sheriff. Maybe his department can find evidence to link them back to someone.”
“Maybe. But I prefer a more direct approach.”
“That’s what scares me, Mac. Have you forgotten that someone tried to shoot us? What if they try again and they don’t miss next time, like the note threatened?”
“Relax, Emma.” He reached out and touched her arm, sending waves of heat up her skin. “I’ll be careful.”
“Let’s get him out on the hot-walker this morning to warm up while I harrow the track. His new jockey will be here at eight.”
She turned and headed for the door, frustration bubbling up inside of her at his nonchalant attitude toward bullets. She paused at the door long enough to glance over her shoulder at him.
He stood with his hands on his hips, right where she’d left him, a quirky grin on his mouth and his gaze firmly locked on her. She left the barn shaking her head. She would never understand the male bravado. Maybe that was what made it so sexy, and on Mac, so blasted irresistible.
Mac snagged the halter and lead rope off the hook next to the stall gate and pressed in the lock code, 315. The latch released. He pulled the door open and went into the cubicle.
“Hey, you ready to run today?” He rubbed his hand along the colt’s neck for a moment before haltering him and leading him out of the stall, through the barn and out to the hot-walker.
The morning air was icy, a fact that worried him. Cool conditions could lead to injuries if the colt wasn’t properly warmed up. Emma was correct to heat Navigator up on the walker before he took the track.
He clipped the walker chain to the halter, took off the lead rope and went back to the post where he flipped on the power switch setting the contraption into motion.
In the distance at the far right end of the track, he heard the John Deere’s diesel engine turn over and fire up with a couple of cranks. Mac headed for the rail to watch her make the six to ten laps around the oblong track with the harrow behind the tractor to break up the soil. A hard track surface could injure Navigator’s legs.
Mac heard the RPMs over-rev as she steered the tractor forward, heading for the inside rail, churning a trail of dust in her wake.
Reality took hold as he watched the tractor pick up speed and barrel past him. “Slow down, Emma,” he whispered under his breath. “You’re going too fast.”
The tractor went wide into the clubhouse turn and veered hard to the left.
Mac’s heart twisted in his chest.
Something was wrong.
He charged out onto the track. “Emma!”
The ancient John Deere plowed into the rail at the top of the turn.
Support boards splintered.
Stressed metal groaned as it stretched and snapped, sending a violent jolt through the entire top rail.
Mac broke into a run, watching in horror as the unleashed tractor vanished over the embankment and Emma’s scream pierced the cold morning air.
Chapter Eight
Panic pinned Emma in place as the nonresponsive steering wheel slipped in her hands.
She braced for impact into the railing and spotted the massive poplar tree in front of the runaway tractor.
Jump. She had to jump.
The tractor launched down the slope and smashed head-on into the tree.
Her teeth rattled in her head and she felt herself being propelled forward. Tossed like a sandbag by the impact.
Falling, she was falling, careening off the tractor seat.
She hit the ground, landing on her belly.
The air was forced out of her lungs. She saw stars for an instant.
Disoriented, she tried to judge her position next to the still-running piece of equipment with the diesel engine noise hammering in her eardrums somewhere over her left shoulder.
She tried turning to the left, but she was locked in place by her booted foot, which was wedged in the narrow gap between the front tire and the tractor’s frame.
Less than a foot above her head she could hear the relentless grind of the tractor’s massive rear tires.
The ground vibrated beneath her forehead and realization pushed a scream up her throat.
She grabbed for something, anything she could hang on to, to keep from being pulled into the spinning tire.
Mac. Where was Mac? She’d seen his face for an instant when the tractor had roared past his spot at the rail.
Pain burned across the back of her scalp, the intensity increasing with every passing second.
With her right hand she reached up and locked her fingers around the base of her braid trying to relieve some of the pressure, but it was hopeless. It was caught under the rotating tractor tire and she was being reeled in.
Her foot gave a little in her boot, threatening
to pull out and send her headfirst into the tire.
She tightened her grip on the tractor frame and hung on, praying Mac would get to her in time.
Mac crested the edge of the slope and lunged down the embankment, fighting the panic in his system as he assessed the situation.
Emma had been thrown from the tractor and was now wedged between the front and rear tires, but only the rear ones were spinning, digging deeper and deeper into the soil just above her head.
Kill switch.
He leaned into the tractor and hit the red button to cut the power to the engine, but it didn’t die. Like a scene from a horror movie, the giant tire continued to rotate, inching Emma in by her hair.
Mac dug into his pocket, yanked out his pocketknife and pulled a blade open. He dropped to his knees next to her.
Getting as close as possible to the bite of the tire, he sawed back and forth across the thick rope of hair.
It gave as he cut the last strands.
Emma’s head popped up. She pulled hard and dislodged her foot, leaving her boot stuck in the tractor, and rocked back onto her knees.
Mac stood up, pocketed his knife, locked his arms around her and dragged her away from the John Deere.
Together they collapsed on the slope and he pulled her against him, stroking the back of her head as he stared at the beast he’d been unable to shut down.
“Are you okay?”
Shudders racked her body and he held her, feeling his own heart rate return to normal.
“I think so.” She pulled back and looked up at him. She had dirt smudges on her face, tears in her eyes and a scrape on her forehead where the pressure on her hair had forced and held her to the ground. She had never looked more beautiful.
“Tell me what happened.”
“It just took on speed. I turned off the ignition key and hit the kill switch, but it wouldn’t stop. The steering wheel popped going into the clubhouse turn and I had no control.” She sucked in a deep breath, sobered and brushed her hand across her eyes, leaving a streak of mud behind.
Mac’s throat closed and he warred with the surge of emotion boiling up inside of him.
Christmas Countdown Page 8
