Читать книгу Christmas Countdown - Jan Hambright - Страница 8

Mac jolted upright on the cot, unsure what had awakened him. He glanced at the illuminated hands on his watch: 4:35 a.m. Turning his focus to his surroundings, he searched for visual threats inside the barn and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The only noise he heard was the sluice of Navigator moving through the fresh straw bedding in his stall.

Heard. The hearing in his left eardrum had come back one decibel at a time after the shooting, but the healing seemed to have reached a plateau now. It would never be the same, at least that’s what the audiologist believed, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet.

He laid back and thrust his hands behind his head, staring up at the cavernous ceiling overhead ribbed with giant timbers.

Maybe he could attribute waking up to the sensation of being watched that seemed to follow him every time he entered the damn stable. Whatever it was, he’d made peace with it after clearing every stall twice last night, and poking around in the haylofts for half an hour only to come up empty.

An electric purr coming from the entrance of the barn, reignited the caution in his blood.

He sat up again.

Silhouetted in the doorway by the first hint of dawn was a man in an electric wheelchair. Thadeous Clareborn.

Mac cleared his throat as the chair advanced. He’d changed his last name, but would the old man recognize his face? He smoothed his hand over his hair, snatched the hat from next to the cot and slapped it on his head. Throwing back the sleeping bag, he stood up and prepared to go toe-to-toe with the man who’d, in his father’s opinion, destroyed everything Paul Calliway had going for him.

Thadeous stopped the motorized chair. “What’s your … name, son?” The question was slurred, each word formed with extreme exertion. A by-product of his stroke.

“Mac. Mac Titus.”

The old man grunted and rocked the lever forward, rolling up next to the stall gate. “Emma hire … you?”

“Yes.”

He raised his hand and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Good horse?” Angling his head, he stared up at Mac, his eyes narrowing in the shallow light streaming in the barn door.

“Damn straight, Mr. Clareborn.”

A crooked smile pulled up one side of his mouth. “Do I … know you?”

Mac’s nerves tensed as he shook his head back and forth. It wasn’t a lie. He’d been a distant witness to the transactions that had transpired between his father and Thadeous Clareborn. He didn’t know the man personally, had only seen him one time. The afternoon he and his father had delivered Smooth Sailing to Firehill Farm, after which Paul Calliway had descended into a bottle of Kentucky bourbon on Christmas Eve and never found his way out.

Glancing over the stall door, concern took hold of Mac’s senses. Something wasn’t right. Navigator was an animated colt who enjoyed haranguing anyone who ventured close enough to his stall gate for him to nudge, but he stood in the corner now, his head pitched below his withers, his breath coming in long low grunts.

Mac stepped around the wheelchair and opened the door latch. He stepped inside and moved up on the animal. Reaching out he brushed his hand down Navigator’s right shoulder, the one he’d slammed into the railing.

“His shoulder’s swollen. We better get the vet in.” Worry ground through him, bringing his thoughts to Emma, and the devastating reality an injury could cause her and Firehill Farm.

“I’ll … go.” Thadeous turned his wheelchair and rolled out of the barn.

“Hang in there,” Mac said, rubbing the horse’s neck.

DOC REMINGTON STOOD outside Navigator’s stall next to Emma. “Three weeks, a month. Keep him moving, so he doesn’t stiffen up. But no strenuous exercise on that shoulder muscle. It’s a deep bruise.”

From the pained look on Emma’s face, Mac knew the vet’s prescription for Navigator was going down like a poison pill. The Holiday Classic was three weeks away and Navigator’s fitness level would rapidly decline without regular workouts, thereby diminishing his chances of making the first open qualifier for the Kentucky Derby.

“What about a yarrow-and-mustard poultice?” he asked, recalling the technique his dad had used more times than he could count to speed healing.

A line creased between the vet’s eyebrows. “That’s an antiquated remedy, labor intensive, but you might get it to draw. It’s worth a try.”

His only consolation was the look of hope that flared in Emma’s dark eyes.

MAC SPOONED ANOTHER square of cheesecloth up from the kettle of boiling water and plopped it down on the piece of plywood they’d been using as a makeshift table since dawn.

Wearing rubber gloves, he spread out the hot cloth and dumped a cup of the yellow paste he’d concocted onto it. He smoothed it around, folded it over to form a pocket for the poultice and pulled off his gloves.

Emma smiled at him as she reached down, picked it up in her gloved hands and headed back into Navigator’s stall where she pressed the remedy against his shoulder.

He stepped into the cubicle and watched her over the bay’s back. “How are you holding up?”

“My shoulders hurt like crazy and I’ve got a cramp, but I’m not going to stop.”

He liked knowing she wasn’t a quitter. The physical strain would have already put an average woman under the table, but not Emma Clareborn. She wasn’t the spoiled Kentucky blue blood he’d expected to find living at Firehill Farm. She had grit and substance. Respect stirred in his bloodstream.

Moving around to her side of the horse, he smoothed his hand between her shoulder blades, feeling the knotted muscles. Working them with the palm of his hand, he felt the tension dissipate.

“Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.” A tiny shiver rocked her body.

Stepping back he realized he wasn’t immune to the effects of the contact either. He left the stall to heat another poultice, his body still buzzing.

“We should walk him out after this one, see if the swelling and stiffness have been alleviated.”

“Where’d you learn about this anyway?”

“My dad. When you can’t afford to call in a veterinarian every time something goes wrong, you learn to improvise.”

“Sounds like he was old-school.”

“Yeah.” Turning his back to her, he ripped another section off the bolt of cheesecloth and fed it into the kettle. With any luck the treatment would do the trick, but they wouldn’t know for sure until they worked him.

Mac looked up and watched Sheriff Wilkes stroll into the barn, remove his sunglasses and push his hat back.

“Afternoon.”

“Sheriff.” Mac reached out and shook his hand.

He nodded in Emma’s direction. “You were right. The drug in that syringe matched the one the vet found in McCluskie’s filly. It was a synthetic hallucinogen. Made the horse go plumb nuts in her stall. She’s too banged up to race and won’t make the Holiday Classic.”

Emma came out of the stall and flopped the cold poultice on the board. “That’s awful. I know Chester put a lot of hope in her. She has some great track times.”

Mac dragged up the piece of cloth from the kettle sitting on the gas camp stove and spooned it onto the board.

“What about prints?”

“None that my technician could find. I wish I had better news, but I don’t. My best advice is to stay vigilant. I’m going to send a patrol car by a couple times a night, starting tonight. Maybe they’ll get lucky and catch the culprit.”

Mac pulled on his rubber gloves and spread out the cloth with his hands.

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

“No problem.” He slipped on his shades and left the barn.

“Maybe we should get a truckload of motion-sensor lights. Blaze the place out like a Christmas tree if anyone comes near the barn.” She arched her eyebrows a couple of times and grinned.

“That’s not a bad idea.” Mac poured a cup of the poultice on the steaming cheesecloth and smeared it around. “One at the outside front entrance and one at the back would do the trick. I’d also like to put an electronic lock on the stall gate.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” He stared at her, hoping some of the concern he felt rubbed off on her. This was war, and it could get more intense as the key races got closer. “This person is going to get desperate. The more times we turn back their attacks, the more intense those attacks could become.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared, that’s what’s going to keep you and your horse safe.”

He folded the cloth over and she picked it up, moving back into the stall where she applied it to her horse.

“I’ll call the hardware store and have them send over the lights tomorrow. And a locksmith to install a lock on the stall door. You can put the lights up, can’t you?”

“Yeah.” Mac let out a breath and pulled off the gloves.

Any deterrent would help. In fact maybe they should consider rigging the whole damn stable.

“It’s cooled off. Let’s see if it worked.” Excitement stirred in Emma’s veins, encouraged by the fact that the swelling was completely gone from Navigator’s shoulder. Her racing dreams were alive, well and pinned on the next few moments.

Mac snagged the lead rope and held it out to her.

“You do it,” she said. “You’re the one keeping my hopes off of life support.”

His expression was serious as he clipped the shank on the halter ring and led Navigator out of his stall.

Emma stood next to the gate and held her breath, watching the Thoroughbred move around in a circle beside Mac. His stride was smooth, easy and uninhibited by pain or stiffness.

Relief washed over her. “He’s going to be okay! You did it.” She rushed Mac and threw her arms around his neck before she’d even thought out the target of her elation.

His chest was a collection of rock-hard muscles, his arms gentle as he encircled her, lifted her up off the floor and put her back down.

Their gazes locked and his slipped to her lips.

She wet them with her tongue and knew she was in trouble.

Navigator shuffled backward, his ears pitched forward.

Lowering his mouth to hers, Mac hesitated six inches from her lips.

Frustrated, Emma made up the distance and pushed up onto her tiptoes.

Contact. Searing, mind-blowing contact fused them together for an instant before Emma pushed back and struggled to catch her breath. She tried to make sense of her body’s overwhelming response to kissing Mac Titus, but she couldn’t.

Mac stepped away, pulling Navigator with him as he headed for the barn door. What the hell had just happened? More to the point, why had he let it happen? With every passing minute at Firehill he was being sucked in. And kissing Emma … well, that had been a mistake, he decided, realizing his entire body wanted in on the action and ached for more.

He led Navigator to the hot-walker and clipped him on, then went back to the gate post where he switched the contraption on and climbed up on the fence to watch—get his lust under control, was more like it. He wasn’t surprised when she leaned on the top rail of the fence next to him a moment later.

“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.