Sabotage. Kit Wilkinson

had been months since he’d done so much riding in one day. At some point, his legs became as limp as cooked pasta. When he saw that Marco had thrown a shoe, he didn’t think about nailing it back on. Not only did his legs need a break, he wasn’t about to do anything to a horse worth a half-million dollars without permission.

      Taking a seat on a large tack trunk, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket. He got Peter Winslow’s number from his uncle and made the call he’d promised.

      “You have a minute, Peter?”

      “Certainly. I was just about to call the stable. I heard about Garcia,” the trainer said. “What’s the story?”

      “Not a good one. Maybe murder. And the investigation is going to tie Emilie up for a few days. She wants to reschedule, if possible.”

      “Absolutely. She’ll have to come to my place, though. I’ll call back with the exact time.”

      “Thank you, sir.” Derrick smiled. He didn’t know Emilie well, but he got a good feeling when he thought about her working with Peter.

      “So, you’re taking the job?” Peter asked.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Good, then,” Peter said. “See you soon.”

      After the call, Derrick made a trip to the supply store for sweet feed, dropped his things at his new apartment and returned to the stable. Emilie’s Jeep was still stationed at the front door, but the police vehicles had departed. In their place, a new-looking Ford pickup had parked. A wave of anxiety rolled over him as he pulled in next to the truck. Gabe had gone for the day, which meant he’d left Emilie alone. What was he thinking? For all he knew, the barn was not a safe place.

      Ignoring his aching legs, Derrick rushed into the stable again and raced across the foyer to Emilie’s office. He cracked the door, allowing the light to illuminate her long, blond hair, which fell over the side of the sofa. He stood there until he saw the rise and fall of the blanket as she took a slow breath. Then, he released a deep exhale of his own.

      “She’s asleep.” A sultry voice sounded from across the foyer. Derrick jerked his head and then frowned at the tall brunette dressed in tight jeans, work boots and a flannel top stepping from Marco’s corner stall. No one but Emilie or he should be poking around one of those Grand Prix horses.

      “You must be Camillo’s replacement.” She continued toward him with deliberate steps, her figure well exposed by the shirt she’d left unbuttoned too low.

      “Derrick Randall,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on her face.

      “Nice to meet you.” She held out a hand. “I just heard the news. So sad. I can’t believe Camillo’s gone. And now they’re saying murder? It’s unbelievable. Who would hurt Camillo? He was as gentle as a kitten. Emilie must be beside herself. And all those reporters outside the estate.”

      Derrick shook her hand, noting her enthusiastic expression didn’t match her empathetic words. “I didn’t see any reporters at the gate.”

      “Well, they’re there now. I had to call up to the housekeeper to get in,” she said.

      Derrick supposed the news stations could have arrived while he’d visited his apartment. He tried to relax. “So, you know the Gills?” he asked.

      Emilie stepped out of her office, clearing her throat. “Of course she knows us. She’s our vet.”

      The vet? Why didn’t she say so? Derrick lifted an eyebrow.

      “Oh, Emilie, did we wake you?” The strange woman turned to Emilie with more faux sympathy.

      “No. I woke up a while ago,” Emilie said.

      Derrick doubted that was true.

      “I’m so sorry about all this.” The vet rushed over to Emilie and gave her a hug.

      “Thanks.” Emilie stiffened but returned the hug then stood back. “So, Derrick, this is Cindy Saunders. Dr. Cindy, this is my new groom, Derrick Randall.”

      Saunders. The name clicked in Derrick’s head. “I’ve heard of you. You invented some kind of joint therapy, right? You’re famous.”

      “Not famous.” Cindy waved her palms back and forth in protest. “Emilie’s the famous one around here.”

      Emilie ignored the insincere-sounding compliment. “Derrick is in equine veterinary school.”

      “Really?” Cindy’s face lit with approval as she eyed him up and down. “Working and taking classes? Kind of a long commute.”

      He shook his head. “No, I’m on a little break from school. So was that what you were doing with Marco? Your therapy?”

      “Yes.” Cindy nodded, again moving close to him.

      Emilie tensed. “So, you said the media is here?”

      “Yes,” Cindy said with a dramatic sigh. She put her arm around Emilie and walked her toward the office. “Loads of television crews just outside the gate. It’s a real circus. They stopped me and asked all sorts of terrible questions. I could barely get in.”

      Emilie slid from Cindy’s embrace. “Great. I’d better go deal with that.” She looked to Derrick. “Did you get a chance to ride?”

      “I rode everyone but Marco. He threw a shoe.”

      “You’re afraid to tack on a shoe?” Emilie smirked.

      “Wasn’t sure how particular you were about who took care of things like that.”

      “Good thinking.” Emilie smiled as she stepped into her office. “Maybe Dr. Cindy would tack it on for you?”

      Cindy sashayed back to Marco’s stall. Her brown eyes grew wide, her gaze resting on Derrick’s figure. “Emilie’s letting you ride Marco on your first day?”

      “Apparently so.” Derrick felt the burn in his legs again.

      “Camillo was fabulous on him. Do you mind if I stay around and watch? If you can get him to perform a piaffe, I’ll take you to dinner.”

      Dinner? What was up with this lady? Flirting with him? Had she forgotten that someone had just died? “I’ll get that shoe.” He hurried off to the feed room.

      Within a few minutes, Cindy had replaced the shoe and given the gelding an injection. She looked at her watch. “Oh. I can’t stay after all. But here’s James’s number for you. He’s the farrier. Looks like Marco could use a new set of shoes. Rain check on our dinner?”

      Derrick took the card she handed him and made a noncommittal gesture. He tacked up the gelding then made his way to the schooling ring and started his warm-up with a small audience made up of after-school riders, the evening stable hands and adult boarders. They’d all gathered around to check him out and whisper about what had happened to Garcia.

      They were a distraction Derrick didn’t need. Marco was an explosion of power who needed precise queues from his rider. Lost in trying to control the difficult horse, Derrick almost missed the two police cars heading for the barn. And the television news van that followed.

      Quickly, he dismounted, handed Marco to an evening stable hand and dashed toward 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 him 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.