Page 20 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

Izzy drops her phone.

I think about stepping on it, but I’m not sure that will solve our problem. Mr. Müller sounds pretty determined, and if he shows up tomorrow with a fistful of cash and Izzy hands me over, I’m going to pass out before I can kill her criminal boyfriend or anyone else.

I might even die.

This is very, very bad.

Chapter7

Izzy

All I’ve wanted for days now is to come up with the money Tim needs. I’ve called friends, I’ve gone to the bank. I called credit cards to see how much I could get as a cash advance. It turns out, when your job as a vet tech barely pays above minimum wage, and you’ve just graduated from college, you aren’t worth much. In fact, I’ve never felt more worthless in my entire life. Yesterday, it prompted me to do something very, very stupid.

I stole a horse.

A horse I knew nothing about.

It got worse when I pulled papers from adeadhorse to pass off as the stolen horse’s from my boyfriend’s files, and then I emailed the German businessman about him from Tim’s account. I mean, Tim basically told me to do all that, but I’m the one who did it. I’m lucky the stallion didn’t kill me when I unloaded him in a strange place, when I climbed up on his back without a saddle, and when I asked him to really move.

But what’s really lucky is that the German guy—Müller—happened to see us and wants to buy him. Actually, he wants to do more thanbuyhim. He wants to pay a hundred grand for him, which is just insane to me.

I know a lot of the horses Tim treats are worth far more than that. I’ve helped him with quarter-of-a-million-dollar, and even half-million-dollar horses. He’s regularly called in to consult on horses with insurance policies that get close to a million. It’s the reason he can charge what he charges for his services. People with five-thousand-dollar horses don’t pay twenty or forty thousand dollars for surgeries. Not the sane ones.

So of course he’d know people like Anselm Müller.

People just like him probably make up most of his book of business.

I vaguely recall meeting this particular man at some point, about five or six months ago. He’s short, he has bushy eyebrows, and he’s in banking. But the thing I remember most was that his brother, who has even more money than him, got into horses years before he did. Anselm’s desperate to beat him and beating him with a stallion that could sire a whole winning line would be even better.

I’m sure that’s why Tim suggested him.

I shouldn’t feel guilty about selling this horse to Müller. He probably takes great care of his horses, and clearly Drago’s both sound and can really run. He’s also such a common color—chestnut—that even with his shocking height and sleek, muscular build, I doubt anyone could ever come back on me. I even scanned him for a chip, just to make sure they can’t prove he isn’t who I’m saying he is. Blessedly, he didn’t have one. Thankfully, neither did the dead horse.

I do worry that he won’t be quite as amicable with a new owner as he has been with me, but that’s probably my own ego talking.

The papers Harriet Parsons left for the horse that Tim medically eliminated list the horse as an eight-year-old chestnut stallion with a blaze. The markings are almost perfect—right down to no socks of any kind, but there are probably lots of chestnut stallions with blazes. The concerning part’s going to be the age. Not many thoroughbreds start their racing career at eight. In fact, I haven’t ever heard of any. But every horse born the yearafterthis dead one was born had to be chipped or they couldn’t be registered.

At least the papered name’s pretty cute. Catchup if you Can. Thoroughbred names are often kind of goofy, thanks to all their rules and the fact that you can’t have living horses with the same name, but that one. . .for some reason it makes me think of french fries, but then it’s spelled wrong for the delicious kind of ketchup. In any case, when I finally walk out to feed Drago breakfast, I feel uneasy.

It’s probably because of all my criminal activity in the last two days.

Or I could be nervous that Drago will act like a lunatic.

I keep hoping Tim will call—I have so much to talk to him about and so much to ask him. It’s not like I can talk about the shady guys who came by looking for him on a recorded line, but I could beat around the bush about my concerns with selling the stallion. I could also maybe get some guidance about negotiating with Müller. That’s not illegal—selling a horse. In the email I sent pretending to be Tim, I said we wanted a hundred grand, but I didn’t elaborate.

Müller didn’tsayhe was going to haggle.

But don’t most people do it when they show up?

And what if, when we try to trailer Drago, the idiot horse bolts again?

All these things are running through my head as I dump grain for Chromey and Millie and walk toward the stallion pen to feed Drago. “Morning.” I yawn. “Looks like you’re already awake. I hope you got your beauty sleep, though. You need to look pretty for today.”

He tosses his head, his mane flowing like a bronze waterfall. He probably doesn’t even need beauty sleep. He’s so fabulous he could stay up all night and still look great.

When I dump the grain in his bucket, he drops his nose into it and sniffs around, the air puffs from his nostrils blowing a tiny cloud of dust and detritus up and into my face.

“Whoa, there,” I say. “You’re making a mess.”

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