Page 9 of My Queendom for a Horse

There’s a lot of snorting and shuffling behind me. The men are pulling and pushing Obsidian Devil toward the trailer and the tall man with the tranquilizer gun is sidling around the other side of his big, shiny body. If he thinks Obsidian Devil isn’t watching him, he’s mad.

I don’t wait for Mr. Rickets to approve my actions or call his men off. I dart past him and rush toward Obsidian Devil. He’s currently kicking and snapping at the men as they yank, but who can blame him for that?

“He’s a stallion who just raced.” I’m pleading with the men now, not their boss. “Of course he’s upset. He needs to be properly cooled down and given a warm blanket. What are you thinking, yanking him over here and shoving him into a trailer? Do you want him to injure himself?”

I place myself between Obsidian Devil and the man with the tranq gun. “Here. Let me try to load him.”

“You think you can handle the horse we can’t?” The man in the blue jacket waves his free hand in the air. “Fine. Let’s see you try.”

The second I reach for his lead line, Obsidian calms down. He tosses his head toward me, but not aggressively. “There, boy. I’ve got you.”

The man who was shouting before offers me the lead for his halter.

“Drop the other ropes,” I say.

No one listens to me, of course.

“Drop them,” I shout. “Now.”

Alfie Rickets raises his voice. “We always have to tranq him several times, Miss Liepa. He’s the picture of that saying, ‘healthy as a horse,’ so move aside, and let my men do their job.”

The second the men start to pull on the ropes again, Obsidian Devil’s nostrils flare, his ears pin against his head, and he screams. I hate the sound of a horse’s screams.

The man who just handed him to me snatches his lead rope right back.

Adrenaline floods my body. “Mistreatment of animals is illegal. I’ll report you.”

Alfie’s eyebrows shoot upward. “To whom would you report me, you little miscreant? I have the entire board of the British Horseracing Authority on speed dial. Not to mention, the entire panel for the Grand National just came to a fundraiser I hosted. I hear you’ve put in an application for Five Times Fast. Would you like me to weigh in on his suitability?”

‘Weigh in’ is almost certainly double entendre. The Grand National’s a handicapped chase, and Five’s weight will depend on his handicap. Alfie might not be able to get Five excluded, but he could almost certainly bump up his BHA rating, dramatically increasing the weight he would have to carry and eliminating our chances of winning. My stomach drops at the very real threat.

But then I’m filled with a shaky rage.

Bullies never stop—if no one ever stands up to him, then they just get worse and worse. “You can’t mistreat your horses if you want to keep racing, and you can’t threaten me, either. I’m a veterinarian, Mr. Rickets, and I took an oath—”

“Let’s all take a step back, gentlemen,” a deep baritone voice says. The men immediately respond, loosening their hold on Obsidian. “No one wants to injure themselves, or the Devil either. Miss Liepa, always a pleasure.”

I turn to face Mr. Ricket’s trainer, Forrest Smithers. He’s six and a half feet tall, built like a brick wall and wearing a tweed suit. He has a forcefulness to his face that makes you believe he can handle anything. Combined with over twenty-five years of consistently producing the best chase horses in the UK, he’s hard to ignore. I can’t help wondering how Rickets convinced him to train Obsidian to begin with if he dislikes him as much as Finn seemed to think.

Mr. Rickets’ lips compress into a line. His eyes narrow. “Miss Liepa was just leaving.”

“It appears she disapproves of your treatment of the beast.” Smithers smiles at me. “As it turns out, I also disapprove, of nearly everything surrounding that demon. Ever since you won him in that card game—”

“It doesn’t matter how I came to own him.” Rickets pops his hat back on his head. I really hope mud drips down into his collar. “He’s mine, and he’s going to win the next race for sure.”

Smithers shakes his head. “No, he isn’t. If Finn can’t ride him, no one can. Every jockey on our roster has now refused. He’s a waste of space, feed, and resources, and like Miss Liepa here, I happen to believe he’s being mistreated by our staff on a regular basis, because we don’t have another way to handle him.”

“He should’ve won today. Everyone with eyes in their head saw it. Finn threw the race to his friend here. He’s the one we should be reporting.”

I gasp. “He did no such thing.”

“Poppycock,” Smithers says.

Mr. Rickets takes a menacing step toward me. I’m not a fearful person, but I am tiny. I weigh around a hundred pounds, which is small even for a jockey. I’m used to standing at my full height and still counting nose hairs all day long. A new round of shouting behind me would have drawn my attention if Mr. Rickets didn’t look like he was about to strike me with his long, brown cane.

I throw one arm up, but as I do, something enormous looms on my right. Obsidian has broken free from the men holding him and is standing beside me, his nostrils large and puffing, and he’s staring at Mr. Rickets. I may be small, but Obsidian’s staggeringly large. Mr. Rickets backs away slowly. I reach over and place my gloved hand on Obsidian’s nose, rubbing it gently. He leans into my hand again and sighs, and I reach over and gather up his lead rope. He seems to like me, but still.

Better to be in control than to be sorry.

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