Page 52 of Trickster King

After so many years of being the king, I appreciated a return to comfortable ground, where I got my ass handed to me by a trainer determined to force me to succeed. This time, I wouldn’t need to worry myself sick about if my horse would be sent to the meat market.

This time, we’d both be able to fly one way or another. I’d either land in the saddle or hit the sand, but I looked forward to the ride no matter the result.

I’d done a few show jumping circuits at the easier difficulty levels, but the jumps Jerrod set up were tall enough I harbored some serious doubts about Dynamite being able to cart me over them. The years had done me good, and I’d packed on a lot of muscle, which made carrying my weight a chore for the smaller horses.

“She’s strong,” Jerrod promised me, explaining how the course was supposed to be ridden before walking me through it and setting the jumps to a sane two and a half feet, the lowest his setup could go. “You’re not going to have any problems convincing her to go over, so you mostly need to focus on guiding her to the next set of jumps. I don’t even care if you go over them in order right now. I want to evaluate how well you ride. I’ve seen some videos of you working with your black, but he’s a different breed of horse.”

“Well, at least you didn’t say what most do about him,” I replied, allowing myself a laugh and a shake of my head. “He’s a good horse but only with me. He tolerates Jessica. He even likes some of the RPS agents, but he’s a one-man horse when it comes to being ridden.”

“And there’s a good reason for that, but most don’t like when their horse goes nuclear under them.”

I allowed myself a smug smile. “The video isn’t showing you how I’m telling him to go nuclear under me. He’s not a problem because I’ve trained him to do that. If he’s bucking while I’m in the saddle, it’s because I asked him to. I even have signals for what sort of bucking I want him to do. Jessica taught her horse how to do it, and she taught me how to do it with Baby. They like it, and it keeps them more inclined to listen to us servants when we are riding.”

Jerrod laughed, finished preparing the jumps, fetched my new mare, and handed over her reins. “Try her paces around the arena. Once you’re comfortable, pick your favorite jump and go for it. If you’re comfortable with that, do the whole lot of them.”

I took a few moments to assure the mare and pet her nose before swinging up into the saddle. She turned her head, regarding me with a dark eye. After patting her neck, I gave a squeeze with my legs and tested her reactions to light movements of the rein.

She skipped walking altogether and slid into a trot, angling towards the arena wall. Once I had her in position, I gave her free rein and a squeeze of my legs to encourage her to pick up the pace.

As Baby often did when he wasn’t ridden as much as he’d like, Dynamite launched into a gallop, working out a little of her energy before slowing to a rolling canter. Rather than pull on her mouth, I tested adjusting my seat to control her speed.

Someone had trained her well, as she eased back down to a trot. For a first time ride over the jumps, I’d work her at the trot and see how she handled my weight and the height Jerrod had set. Once satisfied I’d be able to work with her, I pointed her in the direction of the first jump, taking care to move with her over the jump, keeping my heels down, my gaze locked onto where I wanted her to go, and using minimal pressure on the reins to convey where I wanted her to jump and when.

She went over, and she ignored my weight and aimed for the next jump in the line. I applied the lightest pressure, and she transitioned to a canter, rolling over the next jump as though she’d been born a bird rather than a horse.

The third jump, I felt her gather herself, and I focused on keeping my seat, aware she prepared more than she had the previous jumps. Sure enough, she launched into the air, ignoring the bars to gain as much height as possible. She landed hard, recovered, and angled for the next jump, obeying my directions without hesitation.

I understood, then, what Jerrod had meant about the mare wanting to fly.

While she didn’t repeat her high jump throughout the rest of the jumps, the instant I reined her in, she flicked an ear, blew air, and stamped her frustration, which I interpreted as her desire to go back onto the course and jump some more. I swung off her back, praised her, and turned to Jerrod. “Dare I ask how high she went when she decided she wanted to fly?”

“You got a solid six feet out of her,” the man reported. “The qualifier is here, and since she’s already given you six feet in her warmup, I’m going to set up the jump for the attempt. The bar will be set for the current world record plus an inch. If you clear it, the record is yours—and hers. The attempt will be recorded, but it’s up to you if you announce that you’re the rider. It’s possible to just list the horse as the record holder, although your height and weight will be recorded so it’s clear what she was carrying when she did the jump.”

“Randy? Your thoughts?”

“It’s fine if you make the record public that you rode her. She’s legally your horse now,” my friend and RPS agent replied. “You can pitch it as you were sparing her from getting into the Grand Prix. Why would you try for the Grand Prix if you’re holding the world record for highest jump of a horse with a rider?”

I smirked at the thought of tricking my wife in such a way. “That would be the ideal way to trick her, wouldn’t it? I could breed Grand Prix jumpers and just tell her I want to train them to fly. But how will I hide that I’m competing in the qualifiers?”

“Leave that to me,” Randy replied. “There’s nothing more a Texan loves than feeling like they’re pulling a fast one on their queen. This would be the ultimate trick. If we play our cards right, she won’t have any idea you qualified or rode the circuit until the championship—a championship she’ll be watching from the stands, completely unaware that you’ll be riding and trying for the ribbon.”

“Think I could get away with that trick twice? Once for Dynamite?”

Randy chuckled. “You want to be the one to ride Alexander the Great.”

I nodded. “But if she makes this, with how she loves to jump? It would be cruel not to let her try, Randy.”

Jerrod thumped my shoulder and said, “And that’s why I wanted her in your hands. You get it, Your Majesty. I can’t take her there, but you can. And with your attitude? You will.”

The process of preparing for the recording of the jump fascinated me. The qualifier went over the jump with three different measuring tools, and he recorded the entire process. Then he confirmed that the markers on the jump were correct. Once everything was situated to his liking, I got a nod, and he went to where the video camera recorded, set up on a tripod a safe distance away from the jump.

Randy came to my side and whispered to me, “Same as before, Pat. Ride her around the arena, get her warmed up, and aim her for the jump. You’ve done Grand Prix jumps enough times to know it’s high. Just focus on your goal. As long as she clears and lands safely, it counts. If you fall during the recovery, it’s fine. Just don’t clutch her reins, keep your heels down, and check your helmet before you give this a try. You handled the first big jump just fine. Just be prepared for the landing. It will be hard. The better your position in the saddle, the less hard it’ll be on both of you. And for fuck’s sake, don’t twist in the saddle to stare at the jump in disbelief. You will fall.”

I grinned, as the first time I’d jumped a five footer, I’d done just that, landing on my ass when my horse went to go play with the jumps and I was gawking instead of riding. “I’m going to twist around to look, and I’ll deserve falling on my ass. You can record it for my wife’s enjoyment.”

“You’re going to end up at a clinic by the end of the day,” he warned.

“What do I get if I last a week?”

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