thugs like that.”
Her shoulders drooped for a second and she let out a sigh, but the leery stare still haunted her dark eyes. “You have ID?”
“In my wallet.”
She didn’t move. “Toss it here.”
Mac dug into the back pocket of his jeans with his left hand, pulled out his wallet and lobbed it on the ground next to her.
Reaching down, she scooped it up without taking her eyes off of him. Flipping it open, she did a quick comparison. “You look better without blood on your face.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She closed his wallet and dropped it on the ground. Stepping up, she grasped the handle of the pitchfork in both hands and worked it out of the wall, freeing him.
“It’s the second time this week someone has tried to get to my horse. That bandanna-wearing bastard woke me up when he tried to jimmy the latch on the stall door.”
Almost on cue the horse in the stable behind him thrust his head over the gate and bobbed his head up and down several times.
“But I’m not your assignment Mr. Titus. Navigator is.” She pointed at the horse.
Mac sputtered, dragging the residual particles of sawdust up onto his tongue where he wiped them off with the back of his hand.
“I’m in the business of protecting people, not horses.”
“Solberg assured me you could handle this assignment. He claimed you have lots of experience with racehorses.”
Navigator bobbed his head again as if he were in some sort of conspiratorial agreement.
Another protest churned inside of him, but he held it in, taking in the subtle shade of sleep deprivation tinting the skin under her expressive eyes, and the cot made up next to the stall gate with a thick sleeping bag to keep out the chill in the December air.
“You’ve been sleeping out here?”
“Yeah. Every night since I received an anonymous threat over the telephone the day after Navigator won the Clark Handicap at Churchill Downs two weeks ago.”
“That’s impressive, Miss Clareborn. But he’s just a horse, and I usually protect those standing on two legs.”
Her eyes went wide, her body stiffened; he’d insulted her.
“He’s not just any horse. He’s going to win the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes. The Triple Crown, Mr. Titus.”
Navigator bobbed his head.
Amusement glided over Mac’s nerves. It wouldn’t serve to insult her again, and from the set of her jaw to the surety in her sexy dark eyes, he knew she was certain. He’d seen the obsession before, experienced its destructive power firsthand. People with that much belief in something they couldn’t control belonged in Gamblers Anonymous.
“Do you have any idea who’s behind the threats against your Thoroughbred?”
“I didn’t recognize the voice on the phone and my caller ID registered it as an unknown number. It could be from half the farms in Fayette County, anyone with a Derby prospect. They’ve been slinking around my practice track, clicking their stopwatches from behind the bushes since early this fall. They’ve seen the speed he has and they don’t want to compete against him.”
She stepped to the horse and stroked her hand along the wide white blaze zigzagging down the big bay’s forehead.
His head drooped slightly, his eyes blinked shut.
Even a novice could see the woman loved her animal and believed in him, but he knew the inherent error in her thinking.
“I’ve got a first-aid kit in the tack room. I’ll clean you up.” She headed for the open door. “Besides I’d like to see what sort of man my money gets me.”
Mac scooped up his wallet and fell in behind her as she headed for the tack room in the corner of the barn, watching the sway of her curvy hips clad in tight jeans. The view put an unexpected hustle in his step.
Emma Clareborn was all grown up. A far cry from the girl he remembered seeing once twenty-five years ago. She’d gone from a freckle-faced kid with long, dark braids to a curvaceous woman who at the moment turned up the heat in his blood.
“How long have you been running Firehill Farm?”
“Since my father had a stroke about the time Navigator was foaled.”
Mac’s footsteps faltered. His dad’s old nemesis, Thadeous Clareborn, was still alive?
“It put him in a wheelchair and he never mustered the courage or the physical ability to get out of it.” Emma stepped through the tack room door with every nerve in her system attuned to the man behind her. Even bloody and covered with grit he caused an instant attraction just under the surface of her skin.
Dark hair dragged his collar. His five o’clock shadow had advanced well past seven. He was physically just what she’d ordered, but aside from that one question mattered—could he protect her horse?
Mac stepped into the tack room right behind her.
“Sit.” She gestured to a stool pushed under the edge of a workbench against the side wall.
Mac pulled it out and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest.
She turned around to reach into an overhead cupboard and grab the first-aid kit. He was unprepared for the sweet smile on her generous lips when she turned back around, or the fact that it was directed at him.
“Solberg did a great job referring you. You’re just what I needed—someone who looks the part and fits in with my work crew. No suit-and-tie stuffed shirt, aviator shades … you know, that movie-star-bodyguard type.”
“I aim to please.” And he planned to give Winslow Solberg a good understanding of the less-than-ideal employment situation he found himself in right now. Bodyguarding a horse. He uncrossed his arms and watched her smile fade.
She cleared her throat and put the kit down on the work counter next to him. “For what it’s worth, Mac—I can call you that, can’t I?”
Engrossed in the pleasant vibe jolting his body, he almost fell off the stool when she reached out, grasped his chin and forcibly tipped his face up toward the overhead light.
“You can call me anything you like, Miss Clareborn. You’re paying the bills.”
A slight furrow formed between her eyebrows and smoothed a second later. “Call me Emma, please. Ooh, he kicked you good.”
It took every ounce of restraint he had to ignore the heat pulsing from her hand and spreading on his skin. Her grasp was firm, but tender. She let go and opened the kit.
“It’s a clean cut. I’ll glue it shut.”
“Glue?”
“A trick I leaned from my dad. Superglue works wonders on a clean cut. Barely leaves a scar.”
Annoyance pitted his thoughts and dragged a reply up his throat, but he clamped down on it. Soon enough she’d discover that scarring was the least of his worries.
Refocusing, he studied her delicate hands as she manipulated a piece of gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
Curiosity opened up inside of him. He reached out and grabbed her right hand the instant she set the bottle down. Turning it over he stared at the bridge of hardened calluses spanning her palm. “Work crew, huh.”
A tinge of color spread on her cheeks. She swallowed hard and pulled her hand back.
“Someone has to make sure Navigator gets his run for the roses.”
Irritation flooded his brain, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her the odds weren’t