Page 10 of Savage Reins
"Understood."
Vadim adjusts his cufflinks. "You have the rest of your thirty days. After that, this place burns whether the horse wins or not. The Karpins want closure, and we're going to give it to them."
He walks back to his car without another word. I watch him drive away, dust plumes marking his route back to the main road.
Twenty-seven days remain on our timeline. The clock is ticking, and the stakes just got higher. But as I look toward the training paddock where Mira will soon return to work with Rusalka, I feel something I haven't experienced in years.
Hope.
4
MIRA
The morning air cuts through my jacket as I lead Rusalka toward the training arena. Frost covers the ground, and my breath forms white clouds that dissipate in the wind. Twenty-six days remain until the race that will determine whether Papa and I live or die.
Rusalka moves beside me with eager energy, her hooves striking the hardpacked dirt in a steady rhythm. She's been in intensive training for a week now, accepting the increased workload without complaint. Today we move to the next phase—speed work that will test her temperament under the kind of pressure she'll face during an actual race.
Papa waits by the arena gate, his weathered hands gripping a stopwatch. He's lost weight since the Vetrovs arrived, and his face carries the hollow look of a man who sleeps poorly and eats less. Every morning, I watch him try to hide the tremor in his fingers, but the stress is eating him alive from the inside.
"Track conditions?" I ask as I adjust Rusalka's bridle.
"Firm but not hard. Good footing for speed work." His voice cracks slightly on the last words.
I mount Rusalka and feel her coiled energy beneath me. She's ready to run, has been since the moment I swung onto her back. But readiness and ability are different things entirely. Today will tell us which one we're dealing with.
"Start with a warm-up lap at working trot," Papa calls out. "Then we'll ask for controlled speed."
I guide Rusalka through the arena gate and onto the training track. The half-mile oval stretches before us, its surface marked with the hoofprints of generations of horses who trained here before the money ran out and the dreams started dying.
Rusalka settles into a rhythmic trot and her stride eats up ground. I can feel her wanting to break into a canter, but I hold her steady. Speed without control is useless in racing. The horses that win are the ones who can channel their power when their riders ask for it, not before.
Movement catches my eye near the barn. Renat emerges from the shadows, his dark green eyes fixed on our progress around the track. He's been appearing every few hours for the past week, always watching, always evaluating. His presence should make me nervous, but instead I find it oddly reassuring. At least I know where the threat is coming from.
"Transition to canter," Papa shouts from the rail.
I squeeze my legs against Rusalka's sides and feel her surge forward into the three-beat gait. Her movement is fluid, balanced, each stride covering more ground than the last. This is what she was born for—the sensation of speed building beneath her, the rhythmic thunder of hooves against earth.
We complete two laps at canter before I ask for more. Rusalka responds immediately, her stride lengthening as she moves into a controlled gallop. The wind whips past my face, and I lean forward in the saddle to reduce drag. For a moment, the fear and desperation fall away, replaced by the pure joy of a horse doing what nature designed her to do.
But the moment doesn't last. As we round the far turn, I feel Rusalka's stride falter slightly. Not enough to unseat me, but enough to signal that something is wrong. I ease the pressure and bring her back to a trot, scanning her movement for signs of injury or discomfort.
"What happened?" Papa asks as I pull up near the rail.
"She hitched on the turn. Might be the footing, might be fatigue."
"Well, get down here and let me check her legs."
I swing down from the saddle and hold Rusalka while Papa runs his hands along her cannon bones and fetlocks. His touch is gentle but thorough, the same examination he's performed on thousands of horses over the decades.
"No heat, no swelling," he reports. "Probably just a misstep on uneven ground."
"Or she's not ready for sustained speed work."
The possibility of her physical body not matching the heart she's displaying is a looming fear. If Rusalka can't handle the physical demands of racing, our thirty-day deadline becomes meaningless. The Vetrovs will burn the ranch whether we have a horse or not.
"We'll try again after lunch," Papa says. "Give her time to rest and see if the issue persists."
I nod and lead Rusalka toward the barn for cooling and grooming. As we approach the main building, Renat steps into our path. His massive frame blocks the entrance, and for a moment I wonder if he's heard something that's changed the terms of our agreement.
