He hummed along as he picked up his etching tool and began to engrave, only to freeze as he heard his dogs.
Barking madly.
Growling.
Sounding angry.
A warning.
Apprehension crawled up his spine on spidery legs.
Had he been found out?
But how? He’d been so careful …
For a second, his throat went dry, and everything—the rumble of the tumbler, the music—was drowned out by the sound of the dogs and his accelerated heartbeat.
But it couldn’t be.
He waited.
His anxiety mounted, his fingers still grasping his etching tool in a death grip.
And then it was quiet.
The hounds had given up their baying.
Maybe it was nothing. Some creature had gotten over the fence and prowled too close to the kennels.
That was all.
And yet …
He couldn’t be too cautious.
Not now.
Not when his sacred work had just begun.
He slid the Glock from its holster lying on the table and carefully, quietly mounted the ladder-like stairs, waiting near the top rung before sliding open the trapdoor, hoisting himself into the shop, then moving swiftly and silently across the old hickory floorboards to the window. Through a slit in the blinds, he studied the gravel yard between the kennels and the stable.
The horses were restless.
Shuffling in their stalls.
But the dogs … quiet now.
Good.
Beneath the warm glow of the security lamps, he saw nothing more than a bat swooping from the surrounding pines, and … wait! What was that? A shadow darting past the old pump house. A man? Crouching low?
No—two small men.
Crouching low.
His fingers tightened over the gun’s grip.
How …
