Page 19 of My High Horse Czar

Viktor nods, but his eyes are round as saucers from his safe place on the other side of the paddock. It’s not very reassuring.

“What happened to the guy who saddled him, exactly?”

Viktor swallows.

“Hey, I’m serious. He broke an arm or something, right?”

Viktor cringes.

I snap. “Just tell me.”

He rubs his hands along his jaw, the stubble there making a scritching sound. “His ankle got stuck in the stirrup. He broke his leg and his arm.”

I step back. “Why are you guys so desperate to break this horse? And why on such a short timeline?”

“I thought our timeline worked for you,” Viktor says. “You owe us money now, for room and board, and you want to get paid and leave. No?”

I clench my fist. “But why are you in such a hurry? Wouldn’t you rather I do this right?”

“Owner’s tired of winning second and third place. There are three really big races—name-making races—in St. Petersburg each year, and one of them is in eight days. If he misses this one, he’ll have to wait five months for the next. He’d like to start planning his breeding for next summer. He wants a new bloodline. He was looking at some pricey stallions, but then this guy just waltzed onto our property. He’s convinced it’s a sign from God.”

My blood runs cold.

On that very same day, I was asking God for help. But could all of this be any more unclear? I told God I’d do three good things in a row, but which is the good one? Do I break this horse for them so they can finally win? Or am I supposed to free the horse from them, because he was free before they found him, and he broke free on his own before helping me?

That’s what I hate about all this God stuff.

Churches want you to think everything in life’s black and white. Good or evil. But I must be some kind of black-white colorblind, because I swear that everything always looks grey. I need someone to tell me what the right choice is, but who could I possibly ask? What would I even say? Even my sister Mirdza, who sort of landed me in this mess to begin with, wouldn’t believe anything about my life since the day of her very own win in that showjumping competition.

I turn around, shove my uneasiness away, and lift the saddle pad into the air. It’s just big enough for a small saddle—a racing saddle. Quicksilver’s wearing a halter, but he’s ground tied, because if I were to tie him to the fence, he might freak out and bolt, damaging the halter and his own pretty head.

Green horses are the worst.

I swore I wasn’t ever breaking one again, but that was before I was brought to Russia with no shoes and electrocuted by my kidnappers. I suppose when I compare it to being melted by fireballs or zapped by electro-man, dealing with a nutty horse is a massive step up.

I’m still stuck talking to Quicksilver constantly, or he tenses up and acts like a fool. “This saddle isn’t the one I usually use at home, and it’s not the kind of saddle you’ll use if you race. The one I race in is called a Clarino, and it weighs a single pound. Can you believe that? I had to pay a few hundred dollars for a saddle that weighs one pound. That’s what I should be doing. Instead of risking my neck for chump change, I should’ve gone into saddle design.” I lean closer to him, swinging the brown exercise saddle they use here over his back. “Do you know why I didn’t? Because I hate math and science, and those saddle geeks spend more time measuring things and counting than they do on a horse. Maybe that’s why I should’ve made one instead—surely I’d do a better job, since I actually ride. But my grades weren’t good enough. I guess that means my head’s not worth much. Even so, I’d rather not break it today. I’m fond of it.”

I sigh.

“Please don’t freak out.”

Quicksilver’s head whips around, and I brace for a bite.

But instead, he blows air on my arm and then licks me.

The insane stallion everyone’s afraid of just licked my arm.

“This horse is whack,” I say. “Like, I think he might legitimately be imbalanced. Has anyone tried medicating him? Maybe we could level him out somehow.”

And now he bites me. It’s as if he was just looking for a good spot before, and he finally found it. The saddle wasn’t cinched on yet, so when I slap him and he bolts, it flies up in the air and the butt of it sails right into my nose. My stupid, brainless head’s protected by a helmet, but my nose was totally exposed. The saddle may be lightweight—all the racing exercise saddles are—but it still stings like, well, like a blow to the nose, when it hits the cartilage on the bridge of my nose.

“Oww.” My hand flies up to cover my nose. At least I remember to swear only in Latvian. I’ve been learning so many new Russian swear words that it’s a real challenge.

“Let’s give him the day and try again tomorrow.” Viktor and the other guys who were watching are laughing, and it makes me want to bite them.

“She looks just like him,” one of the men says in Russian.

I turn my head to look at Quicksilver, who is literally standing right by me, scowling at them too. For all the world, he looks like he knows they’re mocking us. I mean, I’ve had smart horses before, but this guy is practically creeper-vibes with how much he seems to understand about human behavior and emotions.

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