Sabotage. Kit Wilkinson

      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 hard then scanned the arena for Camillo. A four-year-old habit was hard to break. She slumped in the saddle and sighed. When would she get it into her thick skull that her once faithful groom, also her best friend, had left? Without any warning. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Camillo had acted a bit strangely over the last few weeks. But when Emilie had asked him what was on his mind, he had said he was just tired. So, she had let it go. And now he’d left with no explanation. Gone.

      A light rain began to trickle down. Cold November air whipped through the hilltop space, chafing her exposed cheeks. She steered the mare across the wide arena, hurrying toward the stable.

      “Miss Gill, where are you off to?” The severe British accent echoed over the grassy arena. “You cannot retire on that performance. It’s simply unacceptable.”

      Emilie pulled on the reins, trying to erase her frown. Chelsea turned toward the covered portion of the stands where Mr. Winslow had relocated to avoid the drizzle. The older gentleman sat down, lips pursed, with his Burberry raincoat buttoned to the neck and his iPhone pressed to one ear. As she approached, he lowered the phone to his lap and leaned over the edge of the railing.

      “Miss Gill, despite your size, your equitation skills are utterly lacking in finesse. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I’m not a man to mince words. I’d like to see you take this lovely mare ’round again. But with big releases and less cattle driving between the fences. Mr. Randall is lowering the rails for you.” He turned away, putting the phone back to his ear.

      Emilie lifted her head high and stared at nothing for a long moment, blinking her eyelids against the increasing rainfall. Mr. Randall?

      A deep frown gripped her mouth. Searching the grass ring, her eyes narrowed on a man’s figure in full rain gear, lowering jumps in the far corner of the arena. Camillo’s replacement. A friend of her sister’s who she’d hired over the phone the day before. He’d been scheduled to start that morning. But hadn’t bothered to show. Emilie had all but given up on him.

      “Did you hear me, Miss Gill? Big releases,” the trainer repeated.

      She turned back to Mr. Winslow. “Uh. Yes, sir. I was just concerned about pacing.”

      “Your speed is adequate.”

      Emilie slumped further into the saddle. His sharp tone crushed her hopes of his ever intending to work with her. Why had he even bothered asking her to ride the course again? What was the point? If only Camillo had been there, he would have known what to say to make her feel right again. Instead, everything was wrong. Everything seemed hopeless.

      Emilie pressed her lips together and gathered her wits before heading toward the new hire. And before she did something embarrassing, like cry, in front of Mr. Winslow.

      Derrick Randall rushed from one jump to the next, keeping his hood low to fight the cold drizzle. The rider trotted toward him.

      “Mr. Randall?” She slowed the horse and walked a tight circle around the fence he was lowering. Mr. Randall? Derrick lifted an eyebrow as he placed the last rail in the cups.

      “It’s just Derrick.” He stepped toward her and lifted a hand. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic accident.”

      “You had an accident?” She halted the mare, but made no eye contact, nor did she take his hand. Her pale face was tight. Her jaw clenched. But even angry or anxious or whatever her foul mood, Derrick choked on his breath as he looked at her.

      Emilie Gill was one beautiful woman—stunning, actually. She had luminous green eyes, creamy white skin and hair that fell in a long, golden braid. Undone, it might have reached her waist. Her lips were soft and peach-colored under a small, perky nose. Everything arranged for the complete benefit of the viewer.

      “I—uh—I wasn’t in an accident. Just stuck behind one.” Derrick took a deep breath and disregarded her unfriendly greeting. He could hardly blame her for being miffed about his tardiness. His outstretched hand moved to the neck of the gorgeous mare. Her wet coat felt warm against his palm. “She’s beautiful. A Warmblood, right? You can always tell breeds by the head and feet.”

      Emilie’s face softened. Finally, she looked down at him. “Yes. She’s my latest acquisition. Just arrived from Ireland. They call her Chelsea’s Danger.”

      “Very powerful and yet elegant.” Derrick smiled. “And Peter, he’s the best. I didn’t know you trained with him.”

      “You know Mr. Winslow?” Astonishment filled her voice.

      “Just my whole life.” He laughed. “He and my uncle are close friends.”

      She glanced at Peter in the stands and then looked back, like she couldn’t believe the old man had a friend. “Well, he’s not my trainer. Not yet, that is.”

      She turned away in a whirl. Derrick liked the color her strange frustration had added to those creamy cheeks. He hoped she’d get over her anger or anxiety and decide to keep him on. He needed the money if he ever hoped to finish veterinary school. And he wouldn’t mind seeing what Miss Emilie Gill looked like when she wasn’t scowling.

      He made his way back to Peter, looking up at the cloudy sky.

      Lord, this is all in Your hands…

      Guilt nipped at Emilie for not shaking the man’s hand. But that gesture would have meant she’d accepted him as her employee and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that. Not even if he was a friend of Mr. Winslow and of her sister. He didn’t look anything like a groom. For one, he was huge—more like a football player than a horseman.

      And it just seemed wrong, giving Camillo’s job to a stranger.

      Camillo. Where are you?

      Again, this nagging idea that he was in trouble and needed her help overwhelmed her. Only something terribly important would have made him leave without talking to her first. Or something just plain terrible… Why did she have the feeling it was the latter?

      Taking a deep breath, she expelled the anxious thoughts and filled her mind with fences and rhythm. She gave Chelsea a quick tap with her heel. Over the course, she executed the big rein releases Mr. Winslow had suggested. They felt awkward. And little by little, doubtful thoughts clouded her focus again. Over the final two jumps, old habits took over. She tightened her stance and Chelsea knocked rails on both fences. Emilie grimaced as the wooden bars thudded to the earth.

      Ready to face her criticism and dismissal, she slowed Chelsea and turned toward the covered stand. Mr. Winslow, however, appeared engrossed in conversation with the new hire. Had the trainer not even been watching?

      At that moment, Emilie realized she didn’t care. Until she heard from Camillo and knew he was safe, she might as well face the fact that she wouldn’t be able to concentrate or compete.

      As she approached the stands, Mr. Randall jumped to his feet. He took the reins over Chelsea’s head with one hand and with the other helped her down from the saddle. Before she could protest, her feet hit the ground and he’d tossed his jacket over the saddle, protecting it from the rain.

      “Nice to see you, Peter,” Derrick called over his shoulder as he jogged Chelsea back to the barn.

      Emilie stepped under the covering. “You were right. Bigger releases. Thank you for coming.” Expecting Mr. Winslow to leave, she held out her hand.