Page 4 of Savage Reins
"Small horses win races. Faster off the mark, harder to box in during turns."
"Small horses break down easier."
"Not this one. Look at her bone structure—strong cannon bones, good feet, deep chest. She's built for distance, not just sprints."
I climb the fence and approach Rusalka slowly. She doesn't shy. Instead, she steps forward and nuzzles my shoulder, searching for treats. I run my hand along her neck, feeling muscle beneath her winter coat.
"How long to get her race-ready?" Renat asks.
"Thirty days if everything goes perfectly. Longer if it doesn't."
"Not encouraging."
"But honest. Training racehorses isn't factory work. Every animal is different. Some take to the track immediately. Others need weeks."
"And this one?"
I study Rusalka again. Nearly perfect proportions—long legs, compact body, powerful hindquarters. But physical ability is only half the equation. The other half lives between her ears.
"I think she'll love it. But I won't know until I get her on the track."
Renat climbs over the fence and approaches the mare. She watches him carefully but doesn't retreat. When he extends his hand, she sniffs his fingers, then allows him to stroke her nose.
"Friendly," he notes.
"Confident. There's a difference."
"Explain."
"Friendly horses seek approval. They want to please everyone and avoid conflict. Confident horses assess situations and make decisions. They'll work with you if they trust you, but they won't be bullied."
"Which type wins races?"
"Confident ones. Every time."
We stand watching Rusalka graze for a moment as the sun drops toward the horizon, and an evening chill creeps into the air. Renat is quiet, like he's thinking, and I hear traffic rumbling on the road that separates our land from the Vetrov racetrack.
"Tell me about facilities," Renat says.
"What about them?"
"Training track, starting gate, timing equipment. What do you have to work with?"
My stomach clenches. This is where my pitch gets weaker.
"Half-mile dirt track behind the main barn. No timing system, but I can clock runs with a stopwatch. The starting gate is old but functional—we'll need to repair padding and replace springs."
"Jockey?"
"I'll ride her myself."
His eyebrows rise. "You're qualified?"
"I've ridden since I was six. I know Rusalka better than any outside jockey would. And we can't afford to hire someone."
"Professional races require licensed jockeys."
"Then you pick. But I'm not putting Leonid Vasiliev on my horse again." I'm testing him, and so far, he isn’t pushing back too hard. I'm not sure if it's my charm or if he's just really wanting to impress his boss, but it seems like he might go for it.
