knew the thoroughbred had been moved to the trailer. So why was she putting her life at risk for the other horses?
Was he wrong about her?
Grace had her halsduch cape unpinned and pulled over her head before she reached the open barn doors. Flames flickered outward, but she could see there was still room for her to slip inside. Knowing that the shooter was somewhere outside encouraged her to race forward to get out of the line of that fire, too. As she drew closer and closer, she expected to hear another shot go off, stopping her from rescuing her horses before the flames grew too fierce.
Heavy footsteps thudded behind her. Before she could turn her head, Jack Kaufman ran up beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Stay low!” he yelled, pulling her closer to shield her the rest of the way to the barn.
They reached the doors and, with faces turned away from the flames, ran inside.
“Grab the blanket on the hook,” she yelled, while she threw her heavy organdy cape over the flame closest to the first stall to stomp it out.
The FBI agent lifted the blanket and threw it over the strongest blaze. Together they beat at the fire until it was finally out.
Grace’s heart raced, and her breathing was fast and rasping. “The shooter must have struck a lantern and knocked it into the hay,” she said, feeling her adrenaline slowly start to ebb.
“That was my fault,” the agent said, taking his cap off and swiping at his forehead. “I lit the lantern and left it on when I went to your door.”
Grace took in the smoldering hay scattered across the dirt floor. A slow awareness of pain radiated up her legs. As she began to squirm, she said, “And I threw the hay down to try and catch my thief. It made for a fire hazard that didn’t have to...”
She couldn’t say another word as agony overcame her, emanating from her feet.
Her bare feet.
She hadn’t thought her actions through before racing to put the fire out.
Grace stumbled back, and as she raised her head she caught the lawman staring at her. She watched shock overtake his face and knew it had to match her own.
In an instant, he dropped his hat and stepped in front of her, then swept her up in his arms.
“Put me down!” she tried to yell, but her voice cracked with pain.
“You foolish woman,” he muttered. At this close range, and without the black cap, she could see his temple pulsing. He fixed his gaze on the house, and she knew there was nothing she could say to stop him, even if she could speak through the growing burn. With her in his arms, the lawman raced forward. “What were you thinking? And I don’t just mean about your bare feet and the fire. These people are not to be messed with. Why would you ever deal with them?”
As if on cue, a shot rang out from the trees. The lawman grunted, but kept running, now bending his head to cover her as much as possible. He reached the porch steps, taking two at a time, just as another shot sounded. The bullet pelted the floorboards at his feet, missing its mark.
The door swung wide, and he carried her through. Her father had opened it for them this time, but he shrank and cowered back when the lawman kicked it shut again.
He lowered her to the floor instantly. “Stay down,” he ordered, then looked up at her father. Grace expected him to bark orders at her daed as he had with her, but he surprised her with a quiet tone. “Benjamin, I’m going to sit you on the floor. It is safer there.” He handled the elderly man gently, his strong hands guiding him down beside her.
Grace watched the lawman crawl to a window, his gun back in his hand and at the ready to shoot. The sight stupefied her. How had such an event come to be? This farmhouse had been the only home she’d ever known and had always been filled with peace and laughter, even after her mamm died. Grace did her best to put aside her grief, making sure her daed received what he needed as his mind deteriorated further. Benjamin Miller was a wonderful father—even if most days now he didn’t remember he had a child.
“It’s been quiet since we got inside,” Grace said in a timid voice at last. “Do you think he’s gone?”
“If he is, it won’t be for long. He came for the horse. He can’t go back empty-handed.” The daunting Jack Kaufman glanced her way, his expression skeptical. “As I’m sure you know.”
Grace shook her head in denial, then gave up with a sigh. What else could she say? Nothing. “Think what you want about me. I know the truth.”
“And that would be what?” His right eyebrow arched. “Let’s hear it. And I only want the truth. Nothing else.”
Grace pressed her lips tight, not wanting to tell this bullish man anything. He’d done nothing but invade her life and home, treating her like a criminal ever since he’d showed up with his gun drawn on her.
But to say nothing in self-defense could land her in handcuffs.
With her mind made up, she laid out the facts. “I’m the horse trader’s daughter. I’ve been helping my father with the dealings for as long as I can remember. It’s all I know.” Grace frowned, glancing at her daed. “And now...it’s up to me to take over the business—”
“Your bishop will allow that?” Agent Kaufman interrupted.
The air whooshed from Grace’s lungs. How did he know what to say to trip her up?
He wanted the truth, but to tell him Bishop Bontrager would be receptive to her taking the reins from her father would be a lie. The elder had already made it clear he had someone in mind to take over the business when Benjamin was no longer up to the task.
Grace reached for her father’s weakened hand. Squeezing it, she searched his eyes to see if he recognized her. His smile calmed her enough to continue. Her daed was beside her, giving her all she needed to impart the rest of the details to the agent.
“I will lose my job,” she admitted, looking around the room. “And all you see here. The horse trader is supposed to be a man. It’s not right for a woman to be dealing with such things.”
“You say that like you’ve memorized the rules, but don’t actually believe them.”
Grace searched his face. Again, the man saw too much. “It’s been three months since I started going alone to the racetrack in my father’s place,” she admitted, instead of replying to his comment. “I’ve handled it competently. I meant for Bishop Bontrager to see my father taught me well.”
“Did your father teach you to steal?”
“No. Of course not. He taught me what to look for in a good buggy horse. He taught me how to place a bid on the horses that the track rejected for racing. Just because they aren’t fast enough for harness racing doesn’t mean they should be put to pasture. The Amish live a slow life. We don’t need fast horses.”
“I know all about the slow life.”
