Page 43 of Savage Reins
I turn to see Mira approaching the arena fence. Her hands are still bandaged from last night, but she strides with purpose, her gray-blue eyes already assessing Rusalka's form.
"She needs the speed," I call back, not breaking rhythm with the horse.
"Speed without control is chaos." She climbs through the fence rails with practiced ease. "Bring her down to a walk."
I want to argue, but the horse is already breathing hard, sweat darkening her neck. Mira's right—I've been driving her too fast, expecting immediate results.
I slow Rusalka to a walk, then bring her to the center of the arena where Mira waits. The mare's sides heave, but her eyes are alert, focused on Mira rather than me.
"Watch," Mira says, taking the lunge line from my hands. "It's not about the speed of your feet or the strength of your arms. It's about reading her body, matching her energy."
She steps back and sends Rusalka into a slow circle around us. But where I used force, Mira uses intention. Her posture shifts subtly—shoulders square, chin lifted—and the horse responds immediately. Rusalka's stride lengthens, becomes fluid.
"See how she's carrying herself now?" Mira's voice stays calm, conversational, even as she guides the horse through figure-eights around the arena. "She's using her hindquarters to push rather than her front legs to pull. That's where the real power comes from."
Rusalka moves into a trot without being asked, her hooves drumming a steady rhythm against the packed earth. This time, her movements flow together, each stride building on the last.
"How do you do that?" I watch Mira's hands on the line, but they barely move. The communication happens through her stance, the angle of her body.
"Years of practice. And understanding that horses are prey animals—they respond to confidence, not aggression." She brings Rusalka back to a walk, then hands me the line. "Your turn."
I take the rope, feeling clumsy compared to her natural grace. "What if she doesn't listen?"
"She will. You just have to speak her language."
Mira steps behind me, close enough that I can smell the faint scents of hay and soap that always cling to her skin. "Square your shoulders. Good. Now think about where you want her to go before you ask her to move."
I focus on the far corner of the arena, picturing Rusalka moving smoothly through the turn. When I send her forward, she responds differently from before—less resistance, more cooperation.
"Better," Mira murmurs. "Now ask her to trot, but don't pull. Think of it as an invitation, not a command."
I shift my weight forward slightly, the way I watched her do, and click my tongue. Rusalka transitions into a trot that feels more balanced than anything I managed alone.
"She's listening to you now," Mira says, pride evident in her voice. "Keep that energy steady."
We work for the next hour, with Mira coaching me through every adjustment. When to give Rusalka more line, when to bring her in closer. How to read the tension in her neck, the rhythm of her breathing. Gradually, I begin to understand the conversation happening between human and horse—subtle, constant, built on trust rather than force.
When Rusalka finally settles into a smooth canter around the arena, responding to my cues without hesitation, Mira breaks into a smile that transforms her entire face.
"That's it," she says. "That's what we need."
I bring the mare back to the center and reward her with a pat on her neck. She's breathing hard but not labored, her ears forward and alert. For the first time since I arrived at this ranch, I feel hope beginning to take root.
Mira produces apple slices and carrot chunks from her pockets, feeding them to Rusalka while murmuring praise. Thehorse crunches the treats contentedly, nudging Mira's shoulder for more.
I lean against the arena rail, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm. The morning sun has climbed higher, warming the air and burning off the last of the dew.
"She's got good bloodlines," I say, watching Rusalka demolish another apple slice.
"Her grandfather won the Russian Derby twice." Mira's voice carries a note of pride. "Before everything fell apart here, we bred champions."
"What happened?"
She shrugs, but I catch the tightness around her eyes. "Life. Bad decisions. The economy. Take your pick."
I want to ask more, but she's already moving on, offering Rusalka another piece of carrot. The mare takes it delicately, then immediately sneezes, spraying orange pulp across my shirt.
Mira laughs—a real laugh, unguarded and bright. "She likes you."
