Sabotage. Kit Wilkinson

      Distracted, Derrick almost missed the two police cars heading for the barn.

      And the television news van that followed.

      Quickly, he dismounted the horse, handed the reins over to the evening stable hand and dashed to Emilie’s office. But already two policemen were escorting her through the front doors of the stable. One of the officers held up a hand, indicating for Derrick to stay back.

      Emilie lowered her head and looked away. “Call my lawyer. And my father.”

      “And tell them what?” Derrick’s voice cracked through the tense air.

      “Can’t you guess? I’m being arrested,” she said, trying to sound bravely unaffected.

      Derrick could see she was close to tears. “For what?”

      “For the murder of Camillo Garcia,” one of the officers answered.

      KIT WILKINSON

      is a former Ph.D. student who once wrote discussions on the medieval feminine voice. She now prefers weaving stories of romance and redemption. Her first inspirational manuscript won the prestigious RWA Golden Heart and was published in 2009 by Steeple Hill Books as Protector’s Honor. Besides writing, she loves hanging out with friends and family, cooking for lots of people and participating in almost any sport. She and her husband reside in Virginia with their two young children and one extremely energetic border collie mix named Bear.

      Sabotage

      Kit Wilkinson

      Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.

      —Psalms 20:7

      To the real Emilie Ann, may your life be filled with

       love and the blessing of the Lord

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      LETTER TO READER

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      PROLOGUE

      Burn it.

      Camillo Garcia tossed the logbook into a metal can and struck a match. Holding the tiny blaze in front of him, he watched the hungry flame eat its way up the stem.

      Confess your sins to each other. The words of scripture swept through his head like a whisper, gripped his lungs and constricted his airways. The little flame reached his fingertips and he dropped the match to the concrete floor and snuffed it out with his boot.

      He couldn’t destroy the evidence.

      But hide it?

      Maybe that would buy him the time he needed.

      Camillo spun around and faced the stall of the most valuable horse in the stable.

      Perfect.

      He stepped inside and gave the stallion a pat. Then, using a hoof pick, he pried a section of paneling from the front corner. The plank bent away just enough to drop the logbook inside the wall. Camillo took a letter from his pocket and placed it between the pages, then he slipped the logbook between the studs and allowed the sheet of paneling to snap back into position.

      Satisfied, he hurried back to his office at a nervous pace. Leaning over his desk, he composed another note. The pen trembled in his hand as he struggled for the right words. They didn’t come, so he wrote what he could. When he finished, he centered the paper on his desk and placed his keys next to it.

      With one last look around, he slung the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder and hurried through the facility—the state-of-the-art stable where he’d worked as groom and exerciser for four years. Regret and shame slowed his steps. Despite the cold, Camillo wiped heavy beads of sweat from his brow. He thought of his mother and younger brothers in Mexico, dependent on his income. He didn’t want to leave. He had to. And he had no one to blame for that but himself.

      A hoof clapped against a stall and echoed through the quiet stable. The sharp sound urged him on, helping to slough away his heavy emotions. Camillo exited the stable and set out down a dark path between the fields. Then, cutting through the woods, he reached the edge of the estate. From there, the station would be an hour’s walk. Then three days on a bus to California. He prayed he would make it.

      Bits of asphalt crunched under his feet as he walked along the highway stretched before him like an abyss. He walked on until a pair of headlights illuminated the ground around him. Panic prickled through him. His heart thumped against his chest. He stopped and turned into the bright lights. The car rolled to a stop beside him. Its fancy engine purred low. The passenger in the back waved a pistol at his chest. The driver ordered him to get in.

      He slid into the familiar car, knowing why they’d come. It was for the logbook. Camillo prayed for his mother as the cold metal of the gun pressed into his neck and the car accelerated into the night.

      ONE

      Emilie Gill struggled to concentrate, but keeping her mind on riding and off of Camillo had proven impossible. Even with a renowned trainer evaluating her performance, she couldn’t focus. And his disapproval might cost her a spot on the Olympic team. Still, it couldn’t be helped. Something had happened to her groom. Something bad. She could sense it in her bones.

      Emilie tried to shake away the distressing thoughts. Clenching the double reins, she sunk her weight into the heels of her tall black boots and coaxed the young mare onward to begin the course of fences.

      The approach. Her braid struck down between her shoulders, marking the number of strides to the fence. One…Two…Three…

      Takeoff. Together they soared over the four-foot spread of boxwoods and rails. Her hands and torso moved above the horse’s arched neck.

      Landing. Her weight shifted back to her seat and heels, and beneath, the bay-colored mare gripped the earth.

      Emilie turned to the next jump. Eyes up. Always up. Always ahead.

      Continuing through the course with the same precision, she and Chelsea completed ten jumps with no faults—but her performance was lackluster. No doubt Mr. Winslow had noticed as well. She shot a furtive glance at the world-renowned trainer sitting nearby in the open stands, his expression indifferent. Emilie swallowed