Page 12 of My Queendom for a Horse

“But that’s Rickets’ horse,” Dad says.

“About that,” I say. “I’m going to need to call Gustav.”

Dad’s entire face drains of blood. “No. I forbid it.”

“I didn’t say I was calling Grandpa,” I say. “I said Gustav.” My brother left us years and years ago, ostensibly to study in the United States with my grandparents and a few cousins. He never came back, not even for a visit. We don’t talk much.

“Just call Sean,” he says. “He already said—”

“If you don’t want me to call Grandpa, then you understand why I can’t call Sean.” Pride’s a very strange thing. “Let me just see what he says.”

Before Dad can stop me, I toss the lead rope for Obsidian Devil to John and race away, whipping my phone out of my pocket. What are the odds my brother will even answer? I hit talk and wait.

It only occurs to me then that I should think about the time in the United States. I do the math quickly—I’m fine. Middle of the day. Phew.

“Hello?” Gustav’s deep voice doesn’t sound Latvian at all.

“Hey,” I say. “It’s Kristiana.”

Silence.

“Your sister.”

“I know who you are,” he says. “I’m just surprised. It’s not my birthday, and yet you’re calling. I take it you need something.”

Wow, it almost sounds like he’s as hurt as we are. “Actually.” I hate that he’s right. “Dad lost a big card game, and we’re about to lose the farm.”

“That’s great news,” he says.

His sense of humor is warped. “It’s very bad news,” I say. “I’m not asking for anything for free, but if you could get Grandpa to loan us the money, or if you could—”

“I’m not even going to ask how much,” he says. “I can guess that it’s not small, or you’d never have called me.”

“The thing is—”

“I don’t want you to think I don’t love you,” he says. “It’s actually because I do love you that I’m saying this. Let that stupid farm go. Move to America. Bring a horse or two if you want, whatever. Grandma and Grandpa like horses too. They’ll let you play with theirs as much as you’d like.”

“But Gust—”

“Dad’s a broken mess, and I don’t know whether it was Mom’s death that did it, or whether he was always like that. I can’t tell, but it doesn’t matter. If you walk away, you’ll finally be free. Don’t you see that?”

“So you won’t help us?”

“I am helping you,” he says. “Come to America, and you’ll see what I mean. I’m doing the very best thing a brother could ever do. I’m helping you to finally move on with your life—to live a much better way in a better place.”

I wonder if Grandpa would say the same thing. Probably.

“Thanks,” I say. And then I hang up.

When I walk back to the truck, Obsidian’s already loaded, his head hanging out of the stall, staring intently at me.

John’s expression is grim.

“Dad,” I say. “I’m going to need Sean’s phone number.”

He practically preens about that. It seems all is forgiven, no, it’s that he’s practically delighted about the new horse, since it means I’ll have to call Sean. But even though Dad has his number, I can’t bring myself to call him right away. I know I shouldn’t wait, but my fingers just won’t listen. After the ride home, I tell myself. As if it will be much easier with a few thousand miles between us.

My best friend Mirdza thinks I’m crazy to drive all the way to England and Ireland for races, but the races in Latvia are neither lucrative nor challenging. I attended university in London and grew to love England during that time. My British friends don’t understand why I moved back home.

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