Page 21 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

When he lifts his head, I swear he’s glaring at me.

“What? You think I should have cleaned your bucket before dumping your grain?” I lean closer and set the grain scoops on the ground. “News flash. No matter how pretty you are, you’re still a horse. This isn’t the Taj Mahal.”

Though if we sell him for a hundred grand today, maybe he should be headed there. And as I look around, I can’t help noticing the massive piles of poop all over—I should try and clean this up a little if people are coming to look at a horse worth a hundred grand.

“You’re pretty fancy for a horse.” I lean against the fence and fold my arms. “Today, I really need you to look your best. I can’t have you ruining this chance for me. It’s the whole reason I saved you.”

I spend the next thirty minutes with a muck tub, gathering up all the poop in the pasture I can easily reach, and then hauling it out of the field. By then, Chromey and Millie are screaming for their hay, and I’m not sure what time the buyers are coming to look at him. I decide to drop the muck tub in the back of Tim’s truck and deal with it later.

Drago watches the whole thing, seemingly a little confused. Maybe they had a poop spreader at his last barn. While I’m heaving the muck tub into the back of Tim’s truck, he snorts, spins around, and races to the corner of the paddock—the low spot—the only place that isn’t pristine.

And then he rolls.

When he walks back, a blob of mud dangling from his forelock, I swear, he’s smirking at me.

“I hate you,” I say. “You just had to do that, right as I finished cleaning all the poop—you decide to look like manure yourself. Is that it?” I glance back at my horses in the farther pasture. “Do you see Chromey over there?” I scowl at Drago again, as if he might actually care. “I’m going to give him more hay and more scratches because he keeps himself clean.”

He whuffles. . .just like a human might laugh.

“I do need to sell you,” I mutter. “But even if I didn’t, I’d want to do it.You’re turning me into a crazy person, thinking you can understand what I’m saying.”

He tosses his head, his nose moving up and down rapidly, mudslidingslowly down his face.

“Yep. I’m crazy. You’re right about that.”

One glance at his bucket shows me he never ate his breakfast. It’s been twenty or thirty minutes already. I worry that he’s not eating because of a tummy ache. Combined with the rolling I thought he was doing to be irritating, it could be a really bad sign. Skipping food and rolling for horses usually means colic. After I stare at him for a long moment, he finally drops his head into the bucket and starts eating the feed. He’s messy, and it spills all over the ground, but I gave him enough that he can waste a little.

“Good boy,” I say. “I’ll bring some hay out in a bit.”

Thanks to the time I spent on pasture cleanup, Millie and Chromey are already pacing, waiting for theirs. I always feed alfalfa in the morning along with the orchard grass, so it takes me a while to get it all distributed, but I finally finish with theirs. When I reach the stallion paddock with my arms full of Drago’s hay, he’s waiting by the gate.

For a brief moment, I worry he’s going to try and push past me, bolt, and disappear. He doesn’t, thankfully. He’s as polite as he has been the last few times I’ve gone in, following me slowly to the far end where there’s a metal hay bin. “If you’re not messy, you won’t have any dirt mixed with your hay. Be a smart boy, alright?”

He’s glaring at me when I walk toward the house, I just know it.

I’m not sure why, though.

I gave him all the things horses love, but he was definitely still irritated about something. He’s barely circled back to the hay bin to munch on his hay when a large, red truck pulls up, dragging a very nice, very shiny Logan Coach trailer. I should’ve guessed—they’re based out of Utah. It’s pretty much the king of trailers around here. Their trailer makes the one I borrowed from Steve, a very nice Lakota, look like a bargain basement hauler.

When they stop, Drago lifts his head from his hay and starts to prance back and forth along the fence line, his tail flying out behind him. I didn’t even have time to clean him up, so he’s still covered in mud, and he looks agitated at best. At least he’s moving with beauty and grace, even if he looks pretty homeless.

Unsurprisingly, Müller’s not alone. A tall man with a strong jaw climbs out of the driver’s seat.

“Isabel.” Müller waves. “This is my trainer, Josh Averett. He’s as excited as I am.” Müller’s so excited that he’s practically bouncing. He reminds me a little of the shaky, wiry little dogs that wet on the floor when their owner comes home.

Averett doesnotlook excited. He looks wary. He tosses his head at me in acknowledgement, but says nothing.

“Look at him.” Müller’s already moving toward the stallion pen. “Isn’t he spectacular?”

Averett scowls, and I wonder whether he’s the one who will be doing the negotiating. A quick google search taught me that the first rule to successfully negotiating a good price is not to act too excited. Good luck doing that, Averett. Your boss is peeing all over the linoleum already.

“It’s a small setup,” I say. “So yes, you’ve already identified Drago.” I cross toward the gate. “He’s not done with breakfast, but you can see that he moves quite well.”

“What’s his deal?” Averett narrows his eyes. “Why did Tim decide to buy him? And why does he think he’ll do well on the track?”

I’m not sure what to say. Mr. Müller hadn’t asked about any of that, and I stupidly didn’t even come up with a story. To my knowledge, Tim’s never bought a horse. I cast about for any possible reason Tim might have bought him, and I can’t really think of anything.

“I’m assuming he bought him from a client who couldn’t handle him,” Müller says. “Or maybe he saw him while treating another horse and fell in love?”

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