Christmas Countdown - Jan Hambright

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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.

      “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?”

      Конец

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