Page 24 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

“How am I going to get that money now?” I wail.

But as I slide off his back, I have an idea. Now that we have fake papers we can use, if I pay for the expedited transfer on his paperwork, maybe I could race him myself and keep the prize money. I put him back in his paddock, and I lock the gate.

“I have some work to do,” I say. “We have some races to win, Catchup if you Can.”

He looks very, very confused as I walk away.

Which, he should. He is, after all, a horse. And his new—illegal—owner is a grade A moron. Let’s hope I can find some other way to get Tim out, or my parents won’t even be the first ones in line to kill me for this.

Chapter8

Izzy

Isabel Brooks’ Assets:

2018 Ford F-250

Quarter horse mare, Millie. Papered. 11 years.

Quarter horse gelding, Chromey. Papered. 19 years.

A lot of pretty saddle pads. (Too many, but I’ll never admit it.)

Three saddles; two western, one English.

Six bridles. Various conditions.

Kingsley riding boots.

Some jewelry from Mom.

Lucchese boots from Aunt Helen (2 pair).

Various used clothing.

A Tiffany’s necklace Mom and Dad gave me when I turned 12.

Used furniture: bed, nightstand, chest of drawers, table, four chairs, sofa, armchair, coffee table.

As I stare at my meager list of belongings, I’m not sure I could find a buyer for any of it, and even if I did, there’s no way I’ll get to anywhere near a hundred grand. Plus, I’d die before I’d sell Millie or Chromey. Does that mean I’m not devoted to Tim? Does not selling Drago mean that same thing? I mean, I barely know the new horse, so why was I so emotional about it? I still feel a little sick about sending Müller away, but I felt worse about selling him that beautiful, quirky, misunderstood stallion.

Why did the judge set Tim’s bailsohigh? It’s so unfair, especially since they froze all his assets.

I wonder whether I might be able to sell his trailer or truck and just tell the buyer we’ll sign the paperwork later. I doubt anyone who wasn’t shady would agree to something like that. Which reminds me of the men who came over looking for money. Could they be somehow related to his partners who are screwing him over? Maybe they lied and told the guysTimowed them money in their place.

The only way I can think to possibly earn a hundred thousand dollars in a quick timeframe is totally insane. I know there are a lot of horse races in California, which isn’tthatfar away. I’ve never even raced a horse—I’m no jockey. Aaaand, I’m five foot eleven and a hundred and forty-six pounds. Hardly jockey material.

Maybe I could find someone else to ride him.

Not that it solves my documentation problem. I have papers for another horse, a dead thoroughbred stallion, that maybe I can get an expedited transfer on so he’s in my name? But then I’m back to forging signatures from a woman whose horse reallyisdead. Plus, I’m going to have to do some digging to discover if there evenareany horseraces with big purses this weekend.

The night before, I sent an email from Tim through my phone to the Müller guy. I know his login for work so I can help with paperwork from time to time. But now, if I want to look all this stuff up, I need to do it on a computer. Pecking at the keys on my phone’s too slow. I try to login to Tim’s computer—what did he say about his password? It’s a date that’s important to him? I try the date we met—nope. The day of our first date. Again, no. Our anniversary. Nope. I try various configurations of those dates, with and without the year. Still no dice.

Finally, I try his birthday.

That works.

His password is. . .his birthday? Really? It’s so obvious. But at least I’m in. My fingers fly over the keys. Within two minutes, I discover the Breeder’s Cup is this weekend! It would be nuts, but. . .oh, snap. I can’t even enter. It’s invite only. The Breeder’s Cup Festival week has quite a few races Icouldenter.

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