Page 92 of My Wild Horse King

The feel of his hand on my neck isn’t very reassuring, however. It reminds me about how he kissed me not long ago, and I thought it was because he liked me, but really it was to cover for some people walking by. It makes me angry. And confused. I prance around just a little, to get my irritation out.

But then the grey’s shooting back down the narrow passage, and we’re up. Gustav kicks me sharply, and I pin my ears.Unnecessary, I want to tell him.I know what we’re doing, idiot.

He seems to have realized that he isn’t entirely a driver, and he eases up, letting me choose our speed going into the first barrel. He chose to go right first, which is fine, and I nearly stop once I’m even with the barrel, churning up dirt as I pivot and round the barrel, bee-lining for the second one.

Once we clear that one, it feels like it takes longer to reach the third, and then we dead sprint back out toward the alley that apparently riles up the other horses. I thought it was a respectable showing, all in all, but when I glance up at our time—nineteen and a half seconds is not great.

It’s a full three seconds longer than the grey ahead of us got.

Emery and Whitney, however, are not laughing.

“That looked surprisingly great,” Whitney says. “I think I took twenty-two seconds my first time around, and that was at a race.”

“Mine was twenty-five.” Emery moans.

We wait with them for the racing to begin, and luckily, we don’t have to wait very long. But once it starts, and my heart is pounding, I realize that we have a lot of horses to wait through.

At least we know two of them, now.

The others are all in the stands, and I can tell they sat about as close as they possibly could to Amanda Saddler, who’s perched near the officials at the top, in the back of the bleachers.

I crane my neck as Whitney does her run, the hooves of her tall, leggy sorrel nearly impossible to track as they whirl and spin their way through the pattern. She hunches over the pommel at the end and they fly down the path and out, her hand flung straight out in front of her, and her ponytail straight back, just like her gelding’s tail.

“Fifteen point eight six seconds,” the announcer blares. “A new record here, at the Daggett County Fairgrounds, set by Whitney Brooks.”

I forget for a moment that I’m in my horse form, and I scream my approval. Two horses behind us whinny in response.

Gustav frowns.

But Emery does her run about four horses later, and I can’t help it. She’s just so nice, and her horse is just so tiny, I lean forward, my nostrils flaring and my sides heaving as I crane my neck to watch.

“Hey,” Gustav hisses. “You look really strange. None of the other horses are watching.”

I don’t care. It’s not like someone’s going to suspect me of really being a human. I pin my ears and keep right on watching.

“Mares, am I right?” Whitney laughs.

Gustav does, too, but it’s forced.

When Emery breezes through, and they announce her time—sixteen point one three seconds—she looks disappointed. I feel like if they graded her tiny mare on a curve for her leg length, she’d have won.

“She looked amazing,” Gustav says.

I can’t help thinking that we got nineteen seconds on our practice run, and I thought it went pretty well. These little girls are smoking us. But then it’s our turn, and we’re lining up.

“Grandma’s sitting up in the judging stand,” Whitney hisses. “Maybe throw her a smile if you can.”

As if I hadn’t already noticed her.

Hopefully Gustav will listen to their advice. If I smile at someone, it’ll only serve to freak everyone out.

At least he doesn’t kick me as we trot into the alley. I start to canter on our way in, and then as we burst through the opening into the arena, I put on a little more speed. I aim for the space beside the barrel, and I don’t fully stop to pivot and turn this time, still moving just a little as I spin.

As we reach the second barrel, I try to turn a little earlier. My butt kind of clips the side of the barrel, but I turn and look back as I race away—it’s still standing upright. By the time I swing around the third barrel and start racing home, I feel pretty good about my run.

When the announcer blasts our time, “eighteen point two four seconds,” I’m a little depressed. I’m not going to lie. I really thought we’d have improved more than that.

“You cut a whole second off your time!” Emery’s practically bouncing up and down in her saddle. “That wasamazing!”

---