Page 106 of My Queendom for a Horse

“Why would Sean send me a certified letter?”

He shrugs. “I can’t even afford to hire a lawyer, but even if I could, I’ve been good. I swear.”

“Will you open it for me?”

Dad meets my eye. “Are you sure you want me to? What if it is from Sean? It could be personal.”

“Like his bank suing me for selling Obsidian Devil?” It’s honestly the only thing I can think of that might come to me from there. I looked it up—they can come after me personally for losses on assets pledged as collateral. I just didn’t think they could do it now that we’ve paid off the note.

But who knows?

My English is decent, but it’s much harder when I’m reading it instead of speaking. Plus, when half the words are bizarre legal ones based in Latin roots? The laws are confusing enough to make me nervous.

My hands shake as I open the letter.

But it’s not from Sean.

It’s from Aleksandr.

Or, his lawyer, anyway.

“Dear Ms. Liepa,” I read. “Enclosed please find the documents required to deed the nineteen hundred and eleven acre tract of land and large horse barn adjacent to your homestead back into your name.” I almost drop the letter.

“What?” Dad stands up, dragging half his blankets off the bed in the process.

“My client, one Aleksandr Volkonsky, has purchased the land on your behalf. It took some time to process the deed, given that he’s a Russian citizen, but he wished us to transfer it back into your name at the earliest possible date. Should you have questions or concerns, you may contact me, or you may reach out to my client directly at your convenience.”

I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

For all those weeks, I suspected that Sean might have bought my land, and that there may be some kind of giant surprise waiting for me. He certainly offered to do it often enough.

But Aleksandr knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t accept money—and he just bullheadedly, brashly, rudely bought it in secret.

And then gifted it back to me.

I can’t accept a gift like this, of course. Now, more than any other time in my life, I have a burning desire to win the Grand National so that I can repay him.

I’d need to do that in person, obviously, which means I’d need to travel to Russia and see him, face-to-face.

I buckle down over the weeks that remain, working harder than ever. I’ve never been more determined to win a race in my life, even if it is the one race that scares me more than any other.

My mother was determined to be the first woman to win the Grand National, many years ago. We all went to cheer her on. And we all saw when she lost her balance, fell, and struck the support beam on the Canal Turn.

She died in the hospital, two days later.

And I’ve never been able to make myself actually race in the Grand National. A woman did win a few years back, but I still think Mom would be proud of me for conquering her demons and mine. At least, I’m proud when I call up and register and when I put my check in the mail, with a shaking hand, to run the hardest course in the Grade One steeplechase circuit.

My desire to win that prize and take it to Aleksandr carries me all the way to Liverpool, but looking at the track, all the fear comes back. I have three days to get used to being here, to breeze the course, and to shore up my confidence before I’m due to race.

I spend the first night drinking far, far too much.

Which makes me think about the last time I was drunk. Aleksandr got me back to the hotel room. It makes perfect sense for me to call him, now. But how can I? I don’t have his phone number. Does he even have a phone number?

Something in the recesses of my brain surfaces.

That lawyer’s letter. It said if I had questions, I could reach his client directly. At the time, I wondered if it was some kind of message. Was Aleksandr asking me to call him?

Of course he was.

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