Page 1 of My Wild Horse King

1

GUSTAV

When I was in grade school, Latvia experienced the worst recession it had ever known. In fact, the country lost a quarter of its gross domestic product in under two years.

Things were pretty dire for most everyone.

People don’t handle stuff like losing their job with no hope of a new one very well, and many,manyof my friends had already lousy fathers who only got worse thanks to the turn in the economy. Alcoholics. Abusive jerks. Depressed souls who stopped even trying to support their families. I think that’s why it took me so long to notice. In fact, it wasn’t until I walked in on my little sister Kristiana watchingThe Lion Kingthat it hit me.

That fatherdiedfor his child. My dad was nothing like that.

My dad sucks.

Dads are supposed to protect you—it’s the central part of the gig.

They’re supposed to teach you and shelter you while you grow.

Mine never did that.

He was too busy gambling, and while he may have won sometimes too, I never really saw a difference when he did. Whereas, I do vividly recall nearly every time he lost.

But even more than me, it always wrecked my mom’s life.

My very earliest memory is of my mother, the phone pressed against her ear as tears rolled down her face, begging her parents to send her money so that we wouldn’t lose Liepašeta, Dad’s family farm.

That wasn’t the only time she begged, though. In fact, I remember countless instances where my mom was forced to bail Dad out. But the last time. . . It was long after Grandfather and Grandmother had refused to send another dime, long after Mom had been turned down for any additional loans by every bank in Latvia, and long after Mom had exhausted the contents of her own trust fund and personal savings. That last time, Mom set out to repair the damage done by Dad’s gambling debts herself, by riding in the Grand National and betting on her own horse to win. I still recall her telling me, her eyes shining, that she meant to be the first woman to win the Grand National, and that when she did, she was going to insist that Dad put the farm in her name—so he couldn’t ever put it at risk again.

She did make the history books.

Just, not in the way she hoped. She became the first woman to die as a result of that wretched race. That was the day I started to hate horses, gambling, and my father—in that order—but it took me three more years to get away from it all.

Leaving Latvia was a bonus.

In the end, when I finally escaped, I had even less money than Dad before that last fateful race. I barely scraped together enough for a plane ticket, which is how I found myself on the front porch of my estranged American grandfather’s mansion, knowing they barely knew me and guessing that they didn’t like me. Dad had seen to that, with all the times he’d forced Mom to call and beg for money.

To my grandparents, I was part and parcel of exactly what had killed my mother—my grandfather’s beloved only daughter. I couldn’t even blame him for cutting us off. I was Latvian, through and through, and Latvia had burned Mom right down to the ground.

But this was my only play.

Because I didn’t want tobeLatvian. It had come to stand for failure, for loss, and for the promise that I would never amount to any more than my own father had. More than anything, I wanted a new start in a new place where no one knew me. I wanted to leave racing, horses, gambling, and my pitiful little country behind forever. Mom had gifted me a comprehension and fluency in her native tongue, and I meant to put it to good use. I’d secured admittance to an American school, but the only way I’d be able to stay without any funds of my own to pay for my schooling was with the support of my very wealthy and very judgmental grandfather.

After banging on the door and doing my best to schmooze a very disgruntled butler, I was starting to worry I wouldn’t even be allowed to see him. But when the door opens abruptly, I straighten.

“It is you.” Only the slight widening of Grandfather’s nostrils betrays his feelings about seeing me here, on his porch, without an invite. Ironically, it’s Dad’s cursed poker training that makes me capable of recognizing these types of tiny tells. Now I just need to convince him to bankroll me for the next four years. According to Mom, Grandfather’s absolutely famous for only making solid investments, no matter how ill-fated they may at first seem.

I just have to convince him that I am one.

“I know it’s late,” I say. “My flight was delayed, and by the time I navigated the public transportation system, well. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“It’s ten thirty,” Grandfather says. “And I’m sixty-one, not ninety-five.”

I frown. “I’m not sure whether you saw the letters I sent, but I was accepted to New York University, and I’m starting there next week.” I force a smile. “Now that I’ll be in New York City, I was hoping that?—”

“No,” he says. “I won’t pay for your education.”

Well, that’s unfortunate. I wonder how long they’ll let me attend before booting me for nonpayment. Maybe I could find a part-time job. Or, there has to be some kind of loan system, even for foreign nationals, right?

“I’m sure your father sent you here to?—”

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