Page 11 of Savage Reins
"Problem with the mare?" he asks.
"Minor hitch in her stride. Nothing serious."
"Show me."
I walk Rusalka in a small circle, watching Renat's eyes track her movement. He studies her gait carefully, and I cantell he understands horses. He leans forward, noting the subtle favoring of her left foreleg that Papa and I both spotted.
"Slight lameness," he observes. "Could be a stone bruise or early tendon strain."
"Or it could be nothing. Horses hitch for dozens of reasons."
"True. But you can't afford to ignore warning signs."
His words carry an undertone that makes my skin crawl. This man has probably killed people for less than the debt my family owes. If he decides Rusalka is damaged goods, our thirty-day reprieve could end today.
"She'll be fine," I say with more confidence than I feel.
"For your sake, I hope so."
He steps aside to let us pass, but I can feel his gaze following us into the barn. The weight of his attention is physical, oppressive, a constant reminder that our lives hang on the performance of a three-year-old mare who's never faced the pressure of competitive racing.
But his paying attention to me, no matter how unnerving it is when his eyes linger across my body, means he's not thinking about how to punish my father for the failure of his own jockey. And believe me, I've noticed his eyes lingering a little too long over my curves at times.
I spend an hour grooming Rusalka and checking her legs for signs of injury. Everything feels normal—no heat, no swelling, no sensitivity to pressure. Papa's assessment was correct. The hitch was probably nothing more than a misstep on uneven footing.
But probably isn't good enough when death is the alternative to success.
After lunch, I saddle Rusalka again and return to the training track. Papa takes his position by the rail, stopwatch ready. This time, Renat joins him, his arms crossed as he leans against the fence. The sight of him standing next to my father creates asurreal image—the man who might kill us watching the man who raised me.
"Same routine as this morning," Papa calls out. "Warm-up, then controlled speed work."
I guide Rusalka through the initial phases without incident. Her stride feels solid, confident, no sign of the earlier hesitation. As we move into canter and then gallop, I allow myself a moment of cautious optimism. Maybe the morning's issue was nothing more than bad footing.
That's when everything goes wrong.
We're rounding the far turn at three-quarter speed when Rusalka suddenly throws her head up and corkscrews sideways. The movement catches me completely off guard, throwing my balance and sending me sliding toward her neck. I try to regain my seat, but she bucks hard, her hindquarters launching skyward with explosive force.
The world tilts, spins, then goes black for a heartbeat as I hit the ground. Pain shoots through my left shoulder and ribs, and dust fills my mouth and nose. I try to push myself up, but my vision swims and my arms won't support my weight.
Heavy footsteps pound across the arena, and I expect to see Papa reaching for me. Instead, Renat's scarred hands close around my upper arms and haul me to my feet. His grip is solid, grounding, preventing me from collapsing as the world continues to spin around me.
"Easy," he says, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Don't try to move too fast."
I blink hard, trying to clear the fog from my head. Renat's face comes into focus inches from mine, his dark green eyes scanning me for signs of serious injury. There's something in his expression I haven't seen before—not pity, but genuine concern. As if my wellbeing matters to him for reasons beyond the success of our agreement.
His hands move methodically, checking my arms and shoulders for breaks or dislocated joints. When he brushes dirt from my jacket, his touch is careful, almost tender. The gentleness seems at odds with everything I know about him, but it's undeniably real.
"Anything broken?" he asks.
"I don't think so. Just shaken up."
"Concussion?"
"My vision's clear. No nausea."
He nods and steps back slightly, though his hands remain on my arms to steady me. "What happened with the horse?"
I look around and see Papa leading Rusalka toward the barn. The mare appears calm now, but her ears are still pinned back and her tail swishes with agitation. Whatever spooked her was serious enough to trigger a genuine bucking fit.
