Christmas Countdown

by Jan Hambright

  He reached the main drive.

  Mac went down onto his belly in the grass, catching sight of the black-clad figure as the man reached the main driveway leading out of the farm and onto the highway.

  The sound of a vehicle drew his attention and he could just make out the shape of a dark-colored van without its headlights on. It stopped on the road.

  He heard the unmistakable grind of the van’s side door sliding open on its track, and sliding shut a second later. The van accelerated away and the mysterious intruder was gone.

  Mac came to his feet, turned and headed for the barn. If his suspicion proved correct, he should be able to find what he was looking for in a matter of minutes.

  Hanging close to the bushes, he made his way back to the break in the hedge, jogged across the open space and ducked into the barn door. He slowed and scanned the corridor for any of the grooms. The stable was empty.

  The stud barn was half the size of the main barn and only had one hayloft.

  Mac stopped at Navigator’s stall and glanced in at him through the iron-bar partition. The colt was sacked out on his straw and didn’t bother to raise his head.

  Focused on the ladder up into the loft, Mac took even strides for it, reached it and climbed up, coming face to face with a stack of hay he couldn’t see over.

  He pressed against the wall, squeezing through on the right-hand side. Working his way to the end of the stack, he stepped out into a small area next to it, ducking his head to keep from banging it on the low-hanging rafters.

  From this vantage point he could see the entire stable and down into each individual stall where the horses slept—where Victor Dago had been attacked.

  Mac went to his knees, brushing away the hay on the floorboards as he crawled closer to the edge of the loft. A third of the way across the front he uncovered what he was looking for: a thin piece of black coaxial cable stretched out in the narrow joint. He didn’t have to follow it to know where it was going to lead.

  The Dago barn, aka Rahul barn now, was under surveillance.

  A knot lodged in the pit of his stomach. Whoever was at the other end of the camera must have witnessed Victor’s murder, but why in the hell were they spying on Firehill Farm in the first place? What did they want?

  “Hey!”

  Mac’s head jerked up and he found himself staring down into the angry face of one of the grooms he’d seen arguing with another only minutes ago.

  “Down!” He motioned wildly.

  Mac came to his feet and shook his head, then patted a bale of hay with his hand. “I need to borrow a bale.” He pointed down into Navigator’s stall and watched the request register with the upset man.

  He nodded his approval and stepped back.

  Mac knocked a bale down with his booted foot and kicked hay back over the cable he’d just exposed.

  The groom snagged the twine ropes and hefted the hay bale down the corridor, where he dropped it next to Navigator’s stall door.

  Tension knotted Mac’s muscles as he squeezed back through the narrow opening and climbed down the ladder.

  The man stood across the breezeway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching Mac with an intense stare he could feel dissecting him as he pulled out his pocketknife and cut the strings on the bale.

  Measuring off a flake of hay, he unlatched Navigator’s door, slid it open and tossed it into his feeder.

  The groom didn’t budge.

  Mac pulled the stall door closed and tested the latch before turning to face the man. “Hey, thanks.” He motioned to the open hay bale.

  A nod was all he got from the groom, who remained, arms crossed, against the opposite wall like a sentry guarding some unknown secret.

  Mac headed out of the barn, feeling the man’s scrutiny on his back with an intensity that set his nerves on edge. Something was going on. Something big.

  Something his gut told him could harm Emma if he didn’t rout it out.

  EMMA PULLED THE PLUG on the Christmas tree lights and walked down the hallway to the den, thinking about Mac.

  The sound of the TV told her that she’d find her dad asleep in his wheelchair with the set still on. It had become a nightly routine to wake him, turn off the tube and lock up.

  “Dad,” she said as she entered the room and headed over to close the curtains. “It’s 10:30.”

  “Emma. Come here…I want to…show you something.”

  She pulled the cord, closed the drapes and stepped over to where he sat in his wheelchair holding a framed picture in his hand.

  “I wasn’t certain…but tonight confirmed…my suspicions.”

  Concern jumbled her nerves as she knelt next to her dad. “Suspicions? About what?”

  “About who.” He angled the photo toward her and she clutched the other side of the frame to steady it. “Look…at this.” He tapped his finger on the glass covering a shot of a horse she recognized standing in the winner’s circle.

  “It’s Smooth Sailing at the Clark Handicap in Louisville.”

  Her dad nodded and tapped the glass again with more vigor than before. “Him… Look.”

  Emma took the frame from his hand, moved to the lamp on the end table and stared down at the picture. “Who is he?” she asked.

  “Paul…Calliway.”

  “No way. The infamous Paul Calliway trained Smooth Sailing?”

  “Owned…him. Won the race… I claimed him…from. He swore…he would destroy Firehill someday.”

  She studied the photo staring at the tall man. He held Smooth Sailing’s reins close to the bit, and wore a tweed jacket and a familiar-looking fedora. The same fedora she’d seen hanging on a nail in the tack room from the time she was a little girl. The dusty old felt hat that Mac had taken to wearing until his haircut.

  Mac.

  Reality clawed into her senses as she picked out the familiar features on the little boy standing next to Paul Calliway, wearing a mile-wide grin on his face.

  She looked up at her father, feeling her throat squeeze shut and her eyes begin to water. “Mac Titus is Paul Calliway’s son?”

  “And Firehill’s…enemy.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Emma rolled over in bed for the umpteenth time and finally sat up. She reached over, turned on the lamp and picked up the 8x10 framed photo from off the bedside table.

  How could he? How could Mac lie to her? The details of her dad’s long, drawn-out story of perceived betrayal and Paul Calliway’s promise of vengeance someday had kept her from falling asleep at all.

  Was it possible that Mac could also be here at his father’s bidding? And what about his last name being different? Did that prove intentional deception so he wouldn’t be discovered?

  She rubbed her finger across the image of the little boy’s sweet face, staring at his happy smile. There was only one person who could tell her what was going on inside his head that day, and now.

  Sliding the picture onto the table, she threw back the covers, climbed out of bed and pulled on her robe.

  It was two in the morning, but she didn’t give a damn. He’d shattered her trust. She wanted the truth.

  Emma picked up the framed evidence and headed for the bunkhouse.

  THREE LOUD KNOCKS ERODED Mac’s sleep and dragged him into semi-awareness.

  He rolled over when he heard three more and sat up, staring at the bedside digital clock: 2:11 a.m.

  A jolt of concern fired through him as he turned on the lamp. Maybe there was trouble in the barn? Worried, he threw back the covers, stood up and pulled the extra blanket off the foot of the bed.

  “Coming,” he hollered, wrapping it around his naked lower half. He went to the door and pulled it open.

  Emma stood on the step in her robe, muck boots and no coat.

  “Emma? What are you doing here? Is the colt okay?”

  She stared at him long and hard, too long, too hard, before she slipped past him into the room. “The horse is fine, but we need to talk, Mac.”
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  He closed the door and turned around, watching her move to the small café table in the corner, place a picture frame down on it and rub her hands together to warm them.

  “It’s cold tonight,” she whispered, drawing his attention to the firm round protrusion of her nipples pressed against the silky fabric of her robe.

  He tried not to stare, but his mouth went desert-dry and he scanned the room for his jeans, spotting them hanging over the back of one of the stools at the table.

  “I’ll get dressed and you can tell me what’s on your mind, Em.”

  “Please don’t call me that.” Her eyes were watery in the light coming from the lamp. He stepped toward her, watching a shiver rock her body.

  “Have I done something to upset you?” He stopped an arm’s length away, catching his first glance of the photo inside the frame she’d placed on the table.

  His chest tightened. The jig was up. He reached for his jeans, pulled them off the back of the chair and headed for the bathroom door.

  Emma watched him walk away and stared at the hard, lean line of muscles tapering down his back and ending below the level of the blanket. She sucked in a deep breath. He better take a shirt, too, or she’d think of nothing else but wanting to smooth her hands over him.

  Arming herself for battle, she picked up the frame and held it like a shield until he exited the bathroom and moved into the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thanks. This won’t take long.”

  He pulled a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge, set it on the counter and turned to face her.

  Emma swallowed, trying not to gape at his ripped abs and the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his jeans below his belly button. “My dad showed me this tonight, after he saw you at dinner.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and pulled her shoulders back. “Why, Mac? I trusted you. Why didn’t you tell me you were Paul Calliway’s son?”

  Mac’s heart squeezed inside his chest. “Because I knew something like this would happen. Nothing but trouble ever followed him around.”

  “You know he swore he’d take vengeance on Firehill?”

  “Hell, yes, I listened to every plan he ever hatched to get back at Thadeous for claiming Smooth Sailing at that race.” He gestured to the frame in her hand and stepped closer, close enough to take it from her and study the picture.

  “This horse was my dad’s one true shot, Emma. After he lost him, he was never the same, not that he was much good before that. Christmas Eve of that year he drank himself to death. I couldn’t get him to leave the tavern that night. He died of alcohol poisoning outside in his pickup.”

  Mac put the picture down on the table and looked into Emma’s eyes. They glistened with tears she was working to blink back, but she was failing miserably.

  “I carried his poison around for a long time before I realized he was a bitter man, and I had to let it go. It didn’t belong to me, Em.” His throat constricted, tingling with emotion. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt you, or this farm. Hell, it feels more like a home than any place I’ve ever been.”

  A tear escaped and slid down her cheek.

  He reached out and smoothed it away, determined to end her mistrust and empty his soul so he could give voice to the emotions stirring inside of him now.

  “Say something Emma. Ask me to leave, ask me to stay, but say something.”

  “You changed your name?”

  “My mom remarried five years after my dad died. I took my stepfather’s name to avoid the stigma of being Paul Calliway’s kid, but it looks like there’s no escaping it anymore.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” Emma said, stepping toward him, grateful when he put his arms around her and pulled her against his bare chest.

  She let go of all her doubts and breathed him in, feeling the heat level come up in her body along with a desire she was helpless to resist. She arched against him and heard a sharp intake of breath whistle through his teeth.

  “You should go now,” he whispered against her ear.

  She closed her eyes and stroked her hand across his back, across the firm bulge of muscle under taut skin.

  She’d used that line on every man who’d ever tried to coax her into bed, right before she sent them down the road. But she didn’t want to go tonight. She wanted to stay. She wanted him.

  Emma leaned back and stared up at Mac, watching his nostrils flare as his breathing ticked up. Pushing up onto her tiptoes, she brushed his lips with hers, satisfied when he responded by clasping her head in his hands and forcing his fingers into her hair.

  Mac deepened the heated kiss, parting her lips with his tongue. Touching. Tasting. He broke the kiss and stared down into her upturned face. Instinctually he knew the time to stop was long gone. They’d taken each other to the edge.

  Her cheeks were heated, her nipples fully aroused and puckering the fabric of her robe. He wanted to step on the gas, he wanted to hit the brakes. He wanted to pleasure her until she screamed.

  “Don’t stop, Mac.” She brushed her hand across his chest, working her way down his belly, where she stopped at the button on his jeans.

  “You don’t understand. There’s no going back if we start this dance, Emma.”

  “I don’t want to go back, I want you to make love to me before I keel over on the spot.” She licked her lips, driving his libido off a cliff.

  Inching her fingers lower, over his crotch, her eyes widened when she came in contact with the bulge underneath. He watched her swallow hard and a slow seductive smile blossomed on her sexy mouth.

  His need increased to the point of pain. He reached for the tie on her robe and pulled the bow loose. “Are you sure, Em? Say the word and I’ll stop.”

  “Go.” She tilted her head to the side, exposing the slender column of her neck to him. Desire burned through him. He worked to slow his movements as he smoothed the robe off of her shoulders, down her arms and onto the floor.

  He brushed his hands from her narrow waist down over her bottom, and caught the hem of her short nightgown, pulling it up and over her head.

  Emma fidgeted under his hot blue stare, her body super-heating to white-hot.

  “You’re beautiful, Em.” He reached out and brushed his hand along her cheek.

  She turned into his palm and pressed a kiss into it.

  “Are you certain?”

  She nodded, listening to the whisper of his jeans as he shed them and took her by the hand. Two steps and he was lowering her onto the cool sheets.

  Closing her eyes, she mentally followed the tantalizing sweep of his hand as he explored her body. Touching where no man had touched. She tensed, then relented as he pulled one of her nipples into his mouth and teased it with his tongue.

  She arched against him, reached up and cupped the back of his head, driving him hard against her as she fought to control the need rocking every nerve ending in her body.

  Mac toyed with her nipples, enjoying the sweet rumble of frustration in her throat akin to a growl. Smoothing his hand down her flat stomach, he worked his finger inside of her.

  She gasped, a sweet, sharp intake of breath that jacked his need into high gear.

  The time for titillation was over, she was ready and so was he. He raised up and stared down into her face as he parted her legs with his knee.

  A flash of terror zipped across her features and vanished a second later into a tentative smile.

  “What is it?” he asked, concern cooling the tension in his body for an instant.

  “I’ve never been with anyone, Mac. I want you to be the first.”

  The air locked in his lungs as he gazed down into her face. Leaning down, he trailed a path of kisses along her shoulder. “We’ll go slow, then,” he whispered.

  Emma closed her eyes, put her trust in the man she’d fallen for and gave herself to him.

  “WHAT THE HELL?” Agent Conner said, staring at the only monitor in the surveillance van streaming a live feed.r />
  Agent Donahue swiveled the captain’s chair at the front of the van and stood up. He’d just relieved Agent Walker and wasn’t up to speed yet.

  He climbed into the back and studied the monitor, watching the situation shape up in front of him. “This can’t be good.”

  Three men congregated in the stud barn corridor and began what looked like a search of some sort.

  “Did Agent Ryan happen to get a listen tonight?”

  “Yeah. He heard an argument between Karif and Javas. His translation is on the notepad lying on the seat in back.”

  Donahue spotted it and eased past Agent Ryan’s chair in the narrow confines of the aisle. Plopping down on the bench seat, he picked up the legal pad and studied the conversation, looking for information that would get them one step closer to finding out what the terrorist cell was planning.

  Sheik Abadar is scheduled to arrive at Keeneland racecourse the afternoon of the 24th, just prior to the race. Dragon’s Soul will run.

  Curse words here. They’re missing a horse. Without nine horses they can’t win?

  Karif is angry because Victor didn’t file the proper paperwork to get the horse shipped from Dubai to Front Royal. He may be stuck in the port in New Orleans. It’s a long trip.

  Karif warns Javas to keep an eye on Miss Clareborn and her groom. He doesn’t trust them, and he’ll kill them if necessary.

  What the hell were they planning, Renn wondered? All the satellite phone chatter rumbling out of Firehill had dried up in the last week. They weren’t using computers or regular phone lines.

  There had to be more than just a discussion about a horse race on Christmas Eve—that didn’t present an actionable threat. And what about Mac Titus and Emma Clareborn? He’d always been suspicious of Mac’s role at Firehill because of his Secret Service connection to Abadar, but that suspicious link had evaporated the night Victor was murdered. Mac Titus was in the clear and quite possibly their best hope.

  Renn gritted his teeth and pulled in a deep breath.

  “You better have a look at this, Renn,” Agent Conner said over his shoulder, as he adjusted the camera lens. “They’re onto us.”