Page 87 of My Wild Horse King

We spend the next few moments running through saddle options, and while she has quite a few saddles, most of them are fitted for a woman her size, which I most definitely am not. The two saddles she has that will accommodate someone my size are both heavy trail saddles. Shockingly, the super-annoying Russians and their Latvian lovers stay near the SUV, letting Katerina and me handle this alone.

They’re probably just avoiding an awkward situation, but it’s helpful.

“I’m not sure whether you’d be better off squeezing into a barrel saddle with an uncomfortably small seat,” Venetia says, “or a heavy trail saddle that actually fits.”

“To be perfectly honest,” I say, “I’m not sure it really matters.” I can’t help my smile. “We’re going to get dead last either way.”

“You never know,” Venetia says. “But I do wonder how you’re going to find clothing in time when you have to report to the fairground in less than an hour.”

“The races aren’t until one o’clock,” I say.

“Right.” She pauses. “But there’s check-in, and then there’s the warm-up, so you only have about an hour or so before all that starts.”

Katerina bumps the trail saddle with her nose and tosses her head toward the exit.

“Is your horse. . .” Venetia blinks and then shakes her head. “Never mind.”

I kick Katerina. “I think the trail saddle will be best.”

“You could probably borrow some of my husband’s clothing.” Venetia cringes. “It won’t fit you perfectly, but it would be better than. . .”

She doesn’t insult my clothes, but she doesn’t need to. It’s obvious. “Um, that would be amazing.”

I almost take it back when she comes out with jeans that are at least two sizes too big and the ugliest western shirt I’ve ever seen. It has different fabric on the cuff, like I’m auditioning for some kind of line-dancing team. “Oh.”

“Trust me,” she says. “You want to look very western when you compete.”

I don’t want to trust her, not on this, but I don’t have much choice. Luckily, her husband Doug and I wear the same size shoe, and the shiny, dark brown boots she brings out look way better than the ridiculous navy and bright green shirt with shiny metal snaps. Katerina stands tied nicely while I change—I can see her through the window of the bathroom—but when I emerge, she starts craning her neck for a peek, which is about the least horse-like behavior I can imagine.

Reaching for some grass? Sure. Trying to catch a glimpse of her rider in his newly borrowed western wear?

Ha.

“You look much better.” At least Venetia hasn’t noticed Katerina’s odd behavior. Or if she has, she hasn’t commented on it. A moment later, I’m riding off on Katerina’s back. The western saddle feels strange—I always rode English back home—but it’s a far cry easier to ride in than bareback was, and I probably overdo it with my waving and professions of gratitude as we leave.

Katerina picks up the pace, trotting toward the team, as we draw closer. The pile of my clothes and shoes that have been clutched on my lap with my elbow since we left Venetia’s barn finally breaks free of my hold just as we reach them, tilting forward and billowing out into the dirt.

One of my shoes spins and rolls, stopping in front of Grigoriy. He looks from the shoe, upward, his eyes stopping on the cuffs of my shirt.

As if his laughter is the impetus for the others, pretty soon they’re all howling. I’ve barely started to swing off her back when Katerina changes—wearing totally different clothing than she had before—and starts to yell.

“Three actual horses in this bunch, and three much more proficient riders. You should be ashamed of yourselves, laughing at him. He’s sacrificed more than any of you. His company’s IPO, his grandfather’s long-sought favor, and now his pride, just to try and help you find the journals you want so that he can keep your ungrateful hides safe. He doesn’t live in Russia, and he doesn’t care about Leonid. Or, you know, he didn’t, before you lot showed up and wrecked his life, and now you’re laughing at him.”

It appears they’ve struck a nerve.

“I’m sorry,” Grigoriy says. But his lip is twitching and he doesn’t really look very sorry.

“Me too,” Kris says. Only, she actually looks penitent. “The shirt was. . .unexpected, but?—”

“We have to get to the fairground in the next hour,” Katerina says. “That’s why he borrowed clothes from that nice woman’s husband, who’s clearly much larger, and who also has no sense of style.”

“Hey,” I say. “The boots aren’t bad.” I lean over and pick up my poor clothing, now soiled beyond recognition. “Either way, we ought to go. Once we’re there, Katerina and I will do our best to get her attention, but you need to find a time to talk to that Saddler woman, or this was a total waste of time.”

“At least it was entertaining.” Adriana holds up her phone and snaps a photo.

“Everyone still has their devices on airplane mode, right?” Aleksandr asks. “No signals whatsoever?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexei says. “We heard you the first twenty times.”

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