Page 51 of Savage Reins
I pause in the doorway, looking back at him.
"Whatever happens," he says, "remember that you're stronger than you know. Stronger than any of them realize."
The words follow me out into the cooling night, mixing with the sound of crickets and the distant whinny of horses settling in for sleep. I make my way across the yard toward the pasture, guided by moonlight and the warm glow spilling from the bunkhouse windows.
I find Renat already in the pasture, leaning against a fence post with his jacket slung over one shoulder. It's like he read my mind earlier, like he's been waiting for me. And he's chosen a spot with a clear view of the sky, away from the yard lights that would interfere with stargazing. When he hears my footsteps in the grass, he turns toward me with a smile that transforms his entire face.
"Beat me to it," I say, spreading the blanket on a relatively flat patch of ground.
"Couldn't sleep." He helps me smooth out the corners, his hands brushing mine in the process. "Figured I'd come out here and think for a while."
"Dangerous habit, thinking." I settle onto the blanket and pat the space beside me. "What were you thinking about?"
He joins me on the wool surface, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body in the cooling air. For a moment he doesn't answer, just stares up at the star-scattered sky above us. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a thoughtfulness I've rarely heard from him.
"Today. The ride. How different it felt."
I uncork the wine and pocket the cork before having a long drink. The liquid catches the moonlight, appearing almost black in the darkness. "Different how?"
"Control." He accepts the bottle, taking a small sip. "Not fighting for it, not forcing it. Just… having it. Does that make sense?"
"Perfect sense." I settle back against the blanket, using my elbow to prop myself up. "That's what real horsemanship looks like. When you stop trying to dominate the horse and start working with them instead."
"Rusalka's getting stronger," he says, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Faster too. Her times have improved by almost two seconds over the past week."
I nod, taking the bottle back to sip the wine. The alcohol burns slightly going down, but it's good—rich and full-bodied with hints of cherry and oak. "She's responding to the training. Building muscle, improving her cardiovascular fitness. The work is paying off."
"Will it be enough?"
The question I've been dreading, delivered in a tone of casual curiosity that doesn't fool me for a second. Renat is asking what I've been asking myself every day—whether our progresswill be sufficient to win the race that will determine everything. Whether the gamble we're making will pay off or whether it will destroy us all.
I consider lying. Consider offering false reassurance, empty platitudes about believing in ourselves and trusting the process. But he deserves better than that. He deserves honesty, even if I can't give him the whole truth.
"I don't know," I admit. "She's improved, but so have the other horses we'll be racing against. The competition will be fierce—established bloodlines, professional trainers, owners with money to spend on the best equipment and care."
Renat goes quiet beside me, processing this admission. Above us, the stars wheel in their ancient patterns, indifferent to our human concerns. A barn owl calls from somewhere in the darkness, its voice lonely and haunting.
"There's Thunder's Shadow," I continue, pointing to a cluster of stars near the horizon. "The horse I mentioned before. He's the current favorite to win. Strong bloodline, experienced jockey, track record of success in similar races."
What I don't tell him is that Thunder's Shadow looks almost identical to Rusalka from a distance—same height, same build, same dark bay coloring. What I don't mention is that I've been studying the entry procedures, learning how the numbering system works, figuring out what would be required to make a switch. What I don't admit is that I'm already planning the deception that might save us all.
The thought sits heavily in my chest, a secret that grows more burdensome with each passing day. But I can't tell him. Not yet. He has enough pressure already without knowing about the desperate backup plan forming in my mind.
"We'll do our best," I say instead. "Whatever happens, we'll know we gave it everything we had."
"And if our best isn't enough?"
I take another sip of wine, using the motion to buy time while I consider my answer.
"Then we deal with the consequences." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Together."
The word surprises me as it leaves my lips. When did "I" become "we"? When did this stop being my fight alone and start being something shared? The shift has happened gradually, so subtly that I'm only now recognizing it. But it's there, undeniable and frightening and oddly comforting all at once.
Renat turns to look at me, something unreadable in his expression. "Together."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "Together."
We lie on our backs, sharing the wine and watching the stars emerge more fully as the last traces of daylight fade from the western horizon. The alcohol warms my blood, loosening the tension I carry in my shoulders and neck. For the first time in weeks, I allow myself to simply exist in this moment—not worrying about tomorrow's training or next week's race or the deception I'm already planning.
