Page 8 of Savage Reins
"And I've seen experienced handlers get crushed because they got careless about positioning."
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue further. Instead, she demonstrates the next exercise, positioning herself slightly farther from Rusalka's shoulder. The adjustment is subtle, but it gives her better leverage on the lead rope and a clearer escape route.
"Better," I say.
"Thanks for the input," she says, but I notice her sardonic tone.
I wonder if I've pushed too hard, if she'll buckle under my criticism, but she continues the exercise with the improved positioning, which tells me she values results over pride. This is another good sign for her potential.
We work through the morning, with me observing and occasionally offering suggestions. Mira accepts most of my feedback without argument, though I can see her evaluating each recommendation before implementing it. She's not trying to please me. She's trying to do what's best for the horse.
In my world, people usually do what's best for themselves, consequences be damned. But Mira's entire focus is on Rusalka's development and well-being. Even knowing her life depends on the mare's performance, she's not rushing the training or cutting corners.
Around noon, she leads Rusalka back to the barn for water and rest. I follow, noting the easy rhythm between horse and handler. Trust runs both ways—Mira trusts the mare not to bolt or strike, and Rusalka trusts Mira not to ask for more than she can give.
"Lunch break," Mira announces, securing Rusalka in a stall with fresh hay.
"Good. I need to check the saddle you plan to use."
She leads me to the tack room, a small space lined with hooks and shelves. Most of the equipment shows its age—cracked leather, faded fabrics, metal worn smooth from years of use. But everything is clean and well-maintained.
Mira lifts a racing saddle from its hook and sets it on a cleaning stand. The leather is supple despite its age, and the stirrups hang evenly. I run my hands over the tree, checking for cracks or weak spots.
"This won't work," I say.
"What's wrong with it?"
"Tree's too narrow. It'll pinch her withers and restrict shoulder movement."
"That saddle's been used on a dozen horses. It fits fine."
"It fits adequately. There's a difference."
Mira crosses her arms and stares at me. "Do you have a better suggestion, or are you just here to criticize my equipment?"
"I'm here to make sure the horse performs. A poorly fitted saddle will cost us speed and potentially cause injury."
"And a new saddle will cost money we don't have."
"The Vetrov stables have extra tack. I can bring something over this afternoon."
"No."
The word comes out sharp and final. I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her explanation, because I'm sure it's going to come. No one backtalks me without being prepared to stand their ground.
"I don't want Vetrov equipment on my horse," she says. "If Rusalka's going to win, she'll do it with our gear."
"That's pride talking."
"That's principle. Your family wants to destroy everything we've built here. I'm not about to dress my horse in your colors while she saves our lives."
I study her face, looking for cracks in the resolve. Her gray-blue eyes are steady, her jaw set. This isn't negotiable for her, even if it hurts her chances.
"Fine," I say. "But if the saddle causes problems, we adjust it. No arguments."
"Agreed."
She hangs the saddle back on its hook, and I notice the careful way she handles it. This isn't just equipment to her—it's part of the family legacy she's fighting to preserve.
