Page 63 of My Queendom for a Horse

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. I knew what I wanted, and her warnings wouldn’t change it. I never did get the mountainous pile of refined sugar I wanted, and I complained about it pretty often. But now that I’m looking back, I wonder what would have happened if I had gotten it.

Because in college, if you asked me to tell you what my utmost dreams of the future were, I’d have described just what I have right now. An attentive man who’s not embarrassed of me. Someone who supports me but never tells me what to do. Someone who’s present and communicates about his schedule to make sure he’s around when I need him, but who also takes care of his work and personal matters in a reliable way. He even has a title and social clout.

It’s a pile of very refined sugar. Very, very refined, indeed.

Obsidian must have noticed the car, because he comes racing toward us so fast that his tail lifts straight up in the back, like the top arch of a rainbow, or the spray of water that shoots out of the hose when you first turn it on.

Unlike Sean, Aleks gives me no space. He doesn’t respect the things I say. He shoves himself into every situation he feels might be dangerous, alarming, or even somewhat interesting. Whether he’s a horse or a human, he’s overbearing, interfering, and irritating.

And whenever he’s not nearby, it feels like something’s missing.

I hate that it’s true, so the second the thought pops into my brain, I tear it to shreds, stomp on it, and light it on fire.

Obsidian’s a half dozen feet away when Sean shrieks and hops to the side. I don’t bother moving. I know he’ll stop before running me over.

And he does. A few inches away, he slides in a dirt-spray-inducing stop, just in time. His head slams into my shoulder, but not hard enough to sting.

“Graceful, your royal highness,” I say. “What in the world is going through that beefy brain of yours?”

“How does he keep getting out?” Sean asks. “You need better fences.”

I shrug. “We stopped locking him into stalls or pastures last week. It’s a waste of time and energy.”

“So he just roams around like a stray dog?” Sean looks both alarmed and confused. “A quarter of a million dollar horse just. . .free ranges?”

“It seemed better than having him pull a ligament or snap a tendon trying to leap the seven-foot stallion fence again.”

“Buying him was the worst mistake of your life,” Sean says.

“Really?” I lift my eyebrows. “For a decade, I’ve thought it was dating you.”

Obsidian starts to whuffle and cough, and I swear it sounds like the closest thing I’ve ever heard to a horse laughing.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sean’s a master of avoidance. I swear, he could change the subject while talking to the king himself. Instead of addressing my old hurt feelings, he’d rather talk about the elephant—er—black, human-like stallion in the room.

“Don’t get me started.” I glare at Obsidian and point, for all the world, just like I would with a dog. “You need to go back to your pasture. Now, please. I’m not going to tell you again.”

He just tosses his gorgeous black head, his mane shining like a waterfall in full sun.

“That worked well,” Sean says. “But at least he doesn’t seem to be a threat to you, though God knows why not. He scares everyone else half to death.”

“We did have a groom quit last week,” I say. “He couldn’t handle our free range stallion.” I don’t mention that it made my life easier. I’ll have to figure out how to let three more go when we sell the land.

“I’m surprised he’s not bothering the mares,” Sean says.

Obsidian makes a choking sound, like he inhaled a carrot without chewing it well enough first.

“It’s winter,” I say. “None of them are in heat.”

“Duh, sorry.” For someone who’s spent his life around horses off and on, Sean sure says dumb things sometimes.

It’s not like I can really explain that Obsidian wouldn’t have much interest in mares. That would sound even crazier than telling John I think the stallion understands me when I ask him questions.

I start to walk toward the pasture, hoping that once we reach it, Obsidian will stay put and not try to trail us on another date. “Where did you want to go for dinner?”

“Do you have time to get away? I know the King George hunt is. . .what?” He starts to count on his fingers, ticking off the days. “Less than ten days, right?”

“I think Five Times Fast and Obsidian Devil are both ready to run. I’m just bummed we’ll have to drive on Christmas Eve and arrive on Christmas Day just to run on the 26th. Even if we leave a day early, I’ll still be stuck spending Christmas in a hotel.”

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