Page 22 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

I shake my head. “That’s sort of true,” I say, improvising badly. “He did buy him from a client, and he was actually slated to be put down. I fell in love with him the moment I saw him, and I thought I could handle him even when the older woman he bought him from couldn’t.” I cringe a little. “I know that sounds terrible, but it’s true.”

“Why are you selling him, then?” Averett narrows his eyes. “Why not keep him?”

“I need money for vet school,” I say. “And he turned out to be a nicer horse than we expected. It seemed silly for me to use him on skijoring.” I shrug.

“On what?” Averett’s frowning.

“You’ve never heard of skijoring?” I ask. “It’s racing horses, but pulling a skier behind you. We go over jumps, through obstacles, and?—”

“Oh, no,” Müller says. “You can’t waste a magnificent creature like this on that.”

“We do mostly use quarter horses,” I say.

“Plenty of horses are put down that shouldn’t be, so that doesn’t upset me,” Averett says. “The terrible part is asking a hundred grand for one of those damaged but still salvageable horses.” He’s glaring, now.

“It’s not that we’re questioning the value, mind you,” Müller says. “It’s just that?—”

“My job’s to make sure my client’s enthusiasm and optimism don’t overwhelm his pocketbook.” Averett points. “I’m assuming you’ll breeze him for us?”

“If you don’t want him, Tim will email others who might. And if no one does for that price, I’ll just keep him for myself.” Number two rule of negotiating, according to Google, is never to act like youneedthem. Always have something else on the back burner. “As to breezing him, I don’t exactly have a track handy, but?—”

“Right here’s fine.” Averett points at the long strip that runs the length of the property, from the edge of the driveway to the road that abuts the end of the paddock area. “I’m sure we can get a good feel for how he moves and how much speed he can handle.”

“Uh, sure,” I say. “I don’t have a racing saddle, but I could?—”

Averett’s looking pretty smug when he cuts me off. “Anselm tells me you were on him bareback yesterday. Sadly, the feed’s a livestream, so I couldn’t verify how he looked myself.”

“Sure,” I say. “Of course. Just let me grab the bridle.” And a curry comb and a brush or ten.

This time, I also lug a mounting block out to the ground outside the paddock. I can’t count on Drago to align himself with a water trough every time I want to get on. Most of the mud has at least dried, and thankfully, he allows me to halter him, curry, and brush him off so he’s not nearly as ragamuffin-looking. My heart rate slows to a less terrifying pace when he lets me bridle him. Once I’m on his back, it’ll be harder for him to race off—at least I should be able to turn him.

Unless he chucks me off.

When I lead him out of the gate, he throws his head up, ears swiveling, and my heart takes off at a dead sprint again. I keep seeing the image of him bolting away. Two different directions, even. “Okay, boy,” I whisper. “Please,please, don’t kill me, and don’t run off and make me look terrible.”

He lets me lead him to the mounting block, and he stands stock still while I hop up and swing my leg over his back, shimmying my way into place.

“Tim needs a taller mounting block for horses like you,” I mutter. “You have to be almost eighteen hands.”

“What’s that?” Averett asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing, but I better warm him up a little.” Why didn’t I think to use that for an excuse to do all this inside the paddock? Idiot.

Miraculously, he walks for me just fine, and even when we get close to the edge of the property, he makes no attempt to run. As we circle back around near the men, I ask him to trot, and he does. It’s as springy and hard to sit as it was yesterday, so I don’t keep him trotting for more than three laps before I ask him to canter.

It’s not very good to cut his warm-up short, probably, but he’s been out all night, at least. I doubt his muscles were entirely stiff with all the pacing he was doing earlier. When I ask him to canter, he seems to remember what we worked on yesterday—namely, not bolting.

“He looks like a show pony,” Averett says. “What did you say he was used for?”

“Nothing wrong with racehorses having manners,” I say. “Not enough of them do.”

“Yes, but he’s already eight years old,” Averett says. “I don’t want to depress you, Anselm, but I think he’s too old. He looks stiff to me.”

“I told you I mostly wanted him for breeding. I want to shake things up—try something new. A bloodline that hasn’t been overbred but shows promise. That’s what Gunther did. Besides, he didn’t look stiff yesterday,” Müller says. “Have her gallop him, and then decide.” He’s smiling at me broadly.

I swing him around, and I bring him to the edge of the property, near where I pulled the trailer in yesterday. When I ask Drago to go, he picks up some speed, but not much. Compared to yesterday, he’s practically crawling.

“That’s it?” Averett sounds disgusted.

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