Page 130 of My Wild Horse King

As if on cue, the massive stallion rocks back on his hind legs and rears straight up, screaming like the devil himself.

“Still. Thekill pen?” I sigh. “What a shame.”

“They say he can’t even be approached, much less ridden,” Oliver says.

He’s not even broke.

Ugh, what a waste.

“At least they could geld him first,” I say. “Maybe he’d calm down.”

If anything, that almost makes him scream louder. He rears back again, and this time when his hooves strike the ground, mud sprays in every direction. He immediately goes back to pacing, almost as if he can understand what we were saying.

“You shouldn’t be killed,” I whisper. “Someone should save you.”

He freezes, and he turns toward me, sniffing the air.

I reach my hand through the fence again, prepared to snatch it back quickly, but he trots over, looking like he’s hanging suspended in air between every hoof strike against the ground. It’s hard to look that regal when every step squelches, spraying wet earth in all directions, but somehow, he manages it.

He looks like a hundred thousand dollar horse.

Which is how the idea takes root.

A stupid idea.

Monumentally stupid.

I mean, stealing a horse is always a horrible idea. Really, really bad, but if they’re going to kill him anyway. . . Then I’m not really stealing him. Right?

“You can’t be that bad, right boy?”

He presses his nose against my hand.

I brace myself to be bitten, but he never bites. His nostrils flare, but he snorts, and then he settles a little, shifting and bumping my arm with his huge face.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

As if he can tell me.

He makes the dragon sound I love so much from horses, the snort that sounds supercharged and repeats in quick succession.

“How about Drago?” I ask. “You remind me of adragonamong horses, and I might be about to do something really crazy.”

He whinnies then, long and loud, but he still doesn’t snap at me.

“Let’s see,” I say. “I wonder if we might get along. Do you think I could break you and turn you into something worth a hundred thousand bucks?”

As if he’s answering me, he shuffles and bumps my arm again.

“It would be better than dying, at least,” I mutter. “I’ll leave this up to fate. If I can manage to halter him and lead him into the trailer without anyone finding out. . .”

I wait until Oliver’s gone.

Mom and Steve are probably eating breakfast. They could be out any time, though, and it takes me almost three minutes to find an unclaimed halter at the back of the tack room. I’m not even sure it’s big enough for his huge stallion head.

When I walk up to his enclosure, my hand’s trembling. Can I really do this, steal a horse that’s slated to be killed? Not tell anyone I’m even doing it?

I mean, Oliver could say I was here, but maybe he won’t think to.

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