Page 86 of My Wild Horse King

My hands are no longer accustomed to holding the—well, in this case, Kristiana’s in the process of wrapping the end of the rope around to the other side of Katerina’s mouth to form a sort of rope-halter-bridle. But I haven’t held reins in so long I’ve nearly forgotten how to thread the rope through my pinkie and ring finger and then up between my thumb and index finger.

The extra rope at the top slides to the right side as my mother taught, and the second Kris finishes, I squeeze my legs at the thigh to urge my mare forward. Katerina walks off immediately, pushing past Adriana and Grigoriy as if she’s as eager as I am to put them all behind us. And if her tail swishes and smacks Adriana in the face, well, I’m sure it was an accident.

A moment later, without any urging from me, Katerina takes off at a very brisk canter, jogging through the woods in a bounding, ground-eating pace that I’m hard-pressed to keep my seat through. “Whoa,” I say. “Why are you running?”

Katerina just neighs and ducks her head, picking up even more speed.

The wind whips through her mane and my hair alike.

My thighs grip her more tightly. I crouch low over her neck, remembering the feeling better than I expected. And something inside my heart cracks wide open.

I had forgotten how much I liked to ride.

Buried under bad memories, suppressed by a mountain of resentment and anger, I had almost erased my joy at being near a horse. They may have ruined my life, and they may be responsible for the death of my mother, but there’s still something freeing, something energizing about moving in tandem with such a large, magnificent creature. The world falls away. The dangers chasing us feel a little less terrifying, and my heart forgets all its terror as we move.

It almost feels like my small heart syncs with the horse’s large one.

Or, Katerina’s, in this case.

Movement like this is good for the soul. Or at least, I think it is.

Movement in general isn’t valued like it should be. It clears your mind, it cleanses your soul, I’m sure of it. By the time Katerina finally swings back around and heads for the car we abandoned, which is now so far back I can barely see it, I feel more grounded. I feel less panicky.

And my inner thighs areshaking.

I’m so painfully out of shape.

Just as we draw up alongside the SUV again, I see a blue truck turn down the drive up ahead. “We’ll head for the house,” I say loudly.

Katerina doesn’t slow down as we approach, and in fact, as we pass Alexei, she bolts, spraying loamy soil all over Alexei’s blue shirt and pristine slacks. That time, it definitely wasn’t an accident.

I don’t have the bandwidth to turn around and see how he takes it. I’m barely clinging on as it is. When we draw near the house and turn to head down the drive, Katerina slows to a trot, and other than having my teeth rattled out and smashing my man-parts once, I’m surprised at how well I handle it all.

“You—well.” Venetia climbs out of her truck, leaning on the door frame. “You do have a horse.” Her brow furrows. “But please tell me you don’t plan on wearing that.”

I snort. “It’s the best I have right now, but believe me. Once we get the saddle worked out, that’s our next stop.”

“And do you have a place to leave your horse while you go shopping?” She tilts her head. “Because I didn’t even see a trailer.”

“We’re borrowing one,” I say. “And our friend just dropped her off, but she’ll be back by to pick her up in a minute, after running an errand.” I’m proud of myself for making that up on the fly.

Venetia frowns, but she doesn’t argue. “Well, follow me to the barn, then. We’ll take a look at what we have. You should really borrow a bridle, too, though. That mare’s just pulling you around with that rope.”

“Right,” I say. “That would be amazing, if I could.”

Katerina’s head whips around, and her eye flashes. I’m pretty sure she likes dragging me around. I can’t say I blame her. I wouldn’t be keen to arm a lousy rider with a bar of iron with which to yank on her face, but I’m going to look crazy enough without trying to compete with a halter as a bridle.

When we trot past Venetia’s pasture, at least a dozen horses race toward the fence, tails streaming behind them, nostrils flared, several of them calling out.

Venetia watches my mare carefully. “She’s not spooky, and she’s not reactive. You’re either a much better rider than I thought, or she’s a much better horse.”

“A little from column a,” I say. “A little from column b.”

Her grin is like a piece of buttered toast—warm, comforting, and a little salty. “Amanda should really talk to you folks.” She nods. “I can’t figure out what you might want with her, and I have no idea where you found this horse, but in a small town, stuff like this has a way of coming out.”

I really doubt that. But if Venetia likes us now. . . “You could give her a call and?—”

“Miss out on watching you try to do the barrel pattern?” She chuckles. “Not a chance.”

---