Page 76 of My Wild Horse King

“That’s the Flaming Gorge,” Kristiana says. “Isn’t it beautiful? It’s the landmark this entire area’s known for.”

I don’t really want to agree with her, and I don’t want to think about why, so I just grunt.

“It’s absolutely stunning,” Katerina says with a sigh. She’s sitting directly behind me, and something about the way she says it, as if she’s barely ever seen beauty in her life, has me smiling but ducking my head so no one else notices.

“Your assistant called about a hundred times.” Kris chucks my phone at my head.

I barely throw my hand up in time to keep from being clocked in the nose. “Why didn’t you wake me up, then?”

“We did try,” Kris says. “But I think you were operating on a pretty big sleep deficit.”

I finally call Jean back. She answers before the phone has even rung a single time. “The SEC put the IPO on hold.”

“I’m sorry,what?” I can barely formulate words. “They can’t do that. They already approved the filing.”

“They have, though,” Jean says. “Something about chatter that a bunch of Russian nationals and the Russian government are all planning to purchase the shares at a higher than market rate. They said it’s a national security issue.”

Aleks, Grigoriy, Alexei, and apparently, possibly Leonid.

Before they showed up, I would have said that nothing could stop me—my company would go public, and Grandfather would choose me. There’s no way I don’t beat Prescott, right?

Then the harbingers of doom arrived.

They’ve embarrassed me, caused me legal trouble, ruined meetings, and now, it seems they’ve completely torched my IPO, and consequently my shot with taking over Grandfather’s company. I should be full-on livid. I should be calling the SEC. I should be frothing at the mouth. I should be strangling Aleksandr.

The whole situation, or rather, my reaction to it, reminds me of something. When I was a kid, I watched my mother sail over jumps every day. I rode daily as well, but I didn’t jump. Mother was very severe about our form before she ever let us turn the horse toward any kind of poles.

She didn’t even let me ride the kind of horse that had the capacity to jump over more than a few boring crossrails. I mostly rode retired horses, the ones who were a little slower, a little more patient, and a little more arthritic. Big jumps were out of the question. But once, she was busy talking to the trainer, and her horse was all tacked up and ready to go. Instead of waiting on the groom to check my tack, I went and slid the halter off her massive jumper. He dropped his head so I could reach to bridle him.

I took it as a sign.

Two minutes later, I had the stirrups moved to the shortest setting, and I scrambled on top of Kettegast’s shiny black saddle. He threw his head a few times and danced sideways, but I shortened my reins as Mother had taught, and I yanked until he knew I was the boss, and then I urged him forward, and we were off.

At first, everything seemed great.

He was fast—just like I wanted. He was eager, practically diving toward the jumps that were set up in the arena. And he could jump—I knew that. I’d seen him sail over four and a half feet in height just the day before. So I aimed him at the large wooden rail like Mom always did, and I clicked to encourage him, and when we drew near, I leaned forward too.

I knew that when he started to jump, I was supposed to lean forward. I knew that was called “jump position.” I wasn’t quite sure what to do with my hands, so I pulled them back, bringing them close to the saddle so I could grab it as necessary.

Unfortunately, Kettegast didn’t appreciate me popping him in the mouth, and he stopped abruptly just before the jump. That sent me sailing over his shoulders.

There was a split second between his halt and my impact when I realized what was happening and panicked, but then in that next split second, I justlet go. There was nothing I could do. I had already done the moronic thing, and now I just had to face the consequences.

That’s how I feel in this moment.

My life was set on this path many years before when I was born to Mom and Dad. I didn’t make them who they were, and I didn’t make Grandfather who he was, either. I can’t control who I am, and I can’t change what the people outside of me are doing. I see the catastrophic crash into the large wooden jump standard coming, but I can’t stop it.

No amount of frothing or screaming or ranting will change the inevitable—I should have worn a helmet, but here we are.

“Daniel?” Jean says. “Where are you? Why aren’t you here? We’ve spent more than six years on this, and it’s falling apart.”

“I’m working on it,” I say. “Believe me, I am, and it’s work I can’t do in New York. Hold tight, keep running Trifecta, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Or, you know, I’ll be dead.

I don’t mention that part.

“But your grandfather’s calling about every five minutes, and he said if you can’t?—”

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