Page 78 of My Wild Horse King

It apparently means that we’ll go see Amanda. He loads up in his car and waits, a bit impatiently, spitting out the window twice while he waits for all of us to climb into our clown-car of an SUV, and then takes off the same direction we just drove to get here.

We literally drive down the road eight miles or so, and then pull up a drive we blew right past. There’s a big, old, rusting truck at the front of the driveway, which is why I remember it, and the bed of the truck’s full of profusely blooming mums. This woman turned an old vehicle into a planter? What kind of person does that?

As we round a corner and stop in front of the farmhouse, I scan the area, trying to get a feel for what we’re driving into. The long white house is pretty welcoming, with a circular gravel drive, a large open porch with a swing, and big potted mums on either side of the navy blue front door.

The sheriff pulls up and cuts the engine, swinging out and gesturing for us to exit the car, too. He waits until we’re all out before walking toward the front porch. Before he can even knock, the door springs open.

The woman’s voice precedes her. “Archer, what on earth are you doing and who are all those people following you like you’re their mama duck?” The woman’s small, and her white hair’s knotted into a bun on top of her head, wisps escaping on all sides. Her eyes are scanning us with an intense and almost aggressive intelligence I rarely see in women her age.

Her whole face burns like a lighthouse.

“I’m Kristiana?—”

The sheriff cuts my sister off. “They were at the True Value downtown, trying to browbeat everyone in town into giving them your address.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what they want, but I’m here to help see them off if you’re not interested in buying it.”

Amanda’s eyes shift to Kristiana. “Alright, girl. Out with it. Why’d you come?”

“My name’s Kristiana Liepa,” she says.

Amanda’s laugh reminds me of the braying of a donkey. “Oh my, you came a long way just to ask me for money, didn’t you? Latvia, isn’t it? It must be a great deal of money you need this time.”

“Excuse me?” Kristiana’s eyes are round as coasters.

“Your daddy or someone called me a few years back, begging me to buy a share in his farm, as if I’d have any interest in some horse farm in Europe.” She sighs. “Let’s hear it, then? What are you offering me, and how much do you want for it?”

“We aren’t offering you anything,” Kristiana says. “We’re actually only here because?—”

“You missed your long-lost family that much?” Amanda’s frowning. “You think I’ll believe that?”

“No,” Kristiana says. “Well, I mean, sure, we’re happy to finally meet you, but the thing is?—”

“Your daddy called me so many times after I turned him down that I had to change my number. So, the thing is, you heard that I’m loaded, and you want to be friends now that you hear I’m childless.” She shakes her head. “You’re wasting your time. I may not have popped children out myself, but I’ve got family that I love more than any other granny I know. We clear?” She turns to the sheriff. “I’m done here, Archer. Please see them off.”

Aleksandr looks ready to bury the old sheriff under a ton of dirt, but I wave them back. “Let’s not do anything that might make the local news,” I hiss. “We’ll just grab some food and a hotel room, and?—”

But before I can illuminate our plans in a nonthreatening way, Amanda slams the door with a bang.

“At least we know where she lives now,” Kristiana says.

That earns us a pointed scowl from the old Archer guy.

Before anyone can say something that ends with the FBI being called as backup, I wave them back into the SUV. “Food,” I shout. “I’m starving.”

We wind up at some place called Brownings, which also boasts a hotel apparently, and we argue for a bit about our next move. We haven’t really made any decisions when Katerina leans in close and whispers, “The people at the table next to us are talking about some kind of rodeo that’s happening tomorrow, and they said the whole town’s going.”

“So what?” I ask. “Do you like rodeos?”

Katerina glares. “Of course not, but it’s sponsored by Saddler Industries, and I feel like that’s not a coincidence. Maybe we could approach her in a less hostile environment.”

It takes us almost two hours to sort out the details, but by the end of the night, we’ve confirmed that Amanda Saddler’s development company and resort are major sponsors of the rodeo, and she’s likely to be there. As the only US citizen among us, I sign up to do one of the only open events on the roster—something I never in a million years thought I’d ever do.

A barrel race.

“You have a horse?” The woman signing us up eyes me strangely, possibly because I’m wearing six hundred dollar slacks, two thousand dollar shoes, and a button-down french-cuffed dress shirt.

“Of course he does.” Katerina’s beaming. “The prettiest palomino you’ve ever seen.”

“Not a stallion, right?” The woman glares. “They’re not allowed.”

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