Page 64 of Savage Reins
Maybe it isn't. Maybe I'm being cruel, punishing Renat for sins that started long before he arrived at our ranch. But every time I close my eyes, I see that man's face—the surprise, then the pain, then nothing at all. I see the casual way Renat shouldered his weapon afterward, as if taking a life meant no more than swatting a fly.
"Fair doesn't keep us alive,Batya." I dismount and check the water level in the trough, noting how the metal rim has started to rust. Another repair we can't afford. "But winning this race might."
My father's hand finds my shoulder, his touch gentle despite the calluses that map decades of hard labor. "Then trust him. Trust the plan."
The plan. As if there's any plan beyond hoping Rusalka runs fast enough to save our lives. As if hope has ever been enough to pay debts or stop bullets or prevent barns from burning.
I nod anyway, because what else can I do?Batyaneeds to believe we have control over this, that our choices still count for something. But as I watch Renat pace along the fence line, his frustration obvious in every movement, I strengthen my resolve. We'll win, but not because Rusalka can run fast. I'm going to make sure of it.
That night, afterBatyahas gone to bed and the ranch settles into darkness, I make my way to the small office tucked behind the main barn. The computer's ancient, held together with electrical tape and probably a few ofBatya's prayers, but it still connects to the race registry database. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I consider what I'm about to do.
Fraud. Forgery. Criminal conspiracy.
The words should terrify me, but I have no choice. Another horse is favored to win this race and I can't let Rusalka be seen as a loser. I can't let Renat's family burn my home and slaughter me and my father in cold blood for something that isn't our fault. I know they will, too—I watched Renat do it without even feeling bad.
I pull up the registration information for Thunder's Shadow, the race favorite. Every detail is there: bloodline, training records, medical history. Most importantly, the unique identification sequence that will be verified before the race begins. Numbers that determine whether a horse lives or dies, whether a family survives or burns.
The printer wheezes to life as I begin copying documents, each page adding to the weight of what I'm planning. Thunder'sShadow's registration tags, official weight certificates, medical clearances—everything needed to transform one horse into another.
"What are you doing?"
I freeze, my hand still reaching for the printed pages.Batyastands in the doorway, his hair disheveled from sleep, suspicion written across his features.
"What needs to be done." I turn to face him fully, letting him see the determination in my eyes.
I gather the papers, organizing them with shaking hands. "Thunder's Shadow runs in the fourth position. Rusalka will run in the sixth. All we have to do is switch the identification tags before the race begins."
Batyasinks into the chair across from me, his face pale in the computer's blue glow. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, slowly, he reaches for the printer controls. "I didn't think you were really serious about this…"
Our conversation the other night comes back to my mind, talking aboutBatya's father and his illegal activities. I thought we ended that on a serious note. I thought he understood that this is probably the only way. A mare in her first race running against a legend like Thunder's Shadow just doesn't have a chance.
"Batya…" I start, but he waves me off.
"Show me what you need," he says in a resigned tone, and I let my shoulders sag.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by shame. I'm dragging my father into this darkness with me, making him complicit in a crime that could destroy whatever remains of his reputation. But survival has its own morality, and we crossed that line the moment we accepted Renat's deal.
We work in silence for the next hour, printing duplicate registration forms and laminating false identification tags. Theweight specifications have to be exact—too light or too heavy and the deception will be obvious. The medical clearances require careful alteration, changing dates and signatures with the precision of master forgers. When we label Thunder's Shadow as a light-weight mare, and Rusalka takes his place, we'll be committing fraud that's punishable by prison time. I just can't see another way.
"This scanner quality is terrible,"Batyamutters, adjusting the contrast on Thunder's Shadow's official photograph. "It barely looks real."
"It doesn't have to fool experts." I hold up the finished product—a perfect replica of the favorite's racing credentials. "It just has to fool whoever's checking tags in the pre-race inspection and the jockey."
"And after? When Rusalka wins under Thunder's Shadow's registration?"
If that happens and she really does win under his registration, we're totally fucked. I don't answer immediately. The truth is too dark, too final to speak aloud. That's why I'm banking on the favorite.
"She's not going to win,Batya."
"And if Thunder's Shadow wins using her number?" His eyes probe me, and I wilt.
After we win, if we win, there will be questions. Investigations. Eventually, someone will discover what we've done. But by then, we'll have bought ourselves time—days, maybe weeks before the consequences catch up with us.
"We'll figure that out when we get there," I lie.
Batyanods, but I can see the doubt in his eyes. He knows, as I do, that this plan will likely destroy us even if it succeeds. But destruction tomorrow is preferable to destruction today, and sometimes that's the only choice available to people who have already lost everything.
We seal the counterfeit documentation in waterproof pouches, identical to the ones used by race officials. The real Thunder's Shadow tags will need to be replaced before morning inspection, which means sneaking into the stable area before dawn. Another risk, another crime to add to our growing list.
