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