Christmas Countdown. Jan Hambright

      I have it on good authority that there are horses in heaven. So to all of the equine I’ve had the humble pleasure of saddling up to ride, and brush, and love, this one’s for each of you: Smokey, Peggy, Whiskey, Moccasin, Brownie, Mid-Bar Dandy, Honey, Starr, Ophelia Mine, and Texas.

Chapter One

      Mac Titus raced for the horse barn with the echo of a woman’s scream still reverberating inside his head. He was two hours late, thanks to an accident on the freeway from Louisville.

      Was it Emma Clareborn, the woman he’d been hired as a bodyguard to protect? If it was, he’d already blown his assignment.

      He ran through the massive doorway into the stable and slid to a stop, prepared for a fight.

      The familiar smell of fresh shavings raked his senses, but didn’t dull the blade of caution sawing back and forth across his nerves.

      All these years he’d wanted to see Firehill Farm again, but not like this. Not with the grip of caution squeezing deep in his chest.

      The cavernous stable was dark, the only light emanating from the open door of the tack room in the right-hand corner.

      Was she there?

      He started to turn for it, but saw a flash of movement to his left.

      Pivoting, he saw a man sprint out of the shadows and head for the exit. He was wearing a bandanna to disguise his face and a stocking cap pulled low on his forehead.

      Mac bolted and tackled him three feet from the door.

      The thug fought hard, rolled over and chucked a handful of sawdust into Mac’s face.

      Blinded for an instant, Mac snagged the thug around the ankles on the way down and pulled him to the floor.

      His captive kicked like a mule, wrenching a single booted foot free from his grasp, and slammed it into Mac’s face.

      A gash opened. Hot liquid streamed across his cheekbone.

      He let go, hoping for another chance to apprehend the thug from a standing position.

      Scrambling to his feet, he made another lunge for the bandanna-wearing perpetrator, but the other man beat him by a second, dodged left and ran out the barn door into the night.

      Mac shook off the mental annoyance at being a step behind. That’s why he was here. That’s why he’d been relegated to this detail. To refine his skills again.

      Wiping a hand across his face, he cleaned some of the debris out of his eyes and turned back into the barn.

      “Miss Clareborn!” He stepped forward, trying to make form out of the shadows. “Emma Clareborn!”

      The excited shuffle of horse hooves drew his attention to the first stall where a nervous Thoroughbred paced around inside the twenty-by-twenty-foot square.

      He reached his hand through the upper railing to touch the horse’s muzzle.

      “Get away from him!”

      Jerking back he flattened against the wall of the stall, prepared to take on another attack, but the decisive ting of metal boring into wood locked him in place.

      “Who are you?” A woman stood in front of him, her eyes wide, her breath coming in gasps that accentuated her state of agitation.

      He was glued to the wall where the pitchfork she’d knifed at him had skewered the folds of his shirt, barely missing the concealed weapon holstered to his belt. He didn’t like feeling pinned like a moth to an insect board in science class.

      Determination