Page 11 of My Dark Horse Prince

Goosebumps explode all over my arm now that I’m not lying next to the long, warm body of the horse behind me. Apparently heaven can still be cold.

He whuffles then, the horse at my back, and scrambles to his feet. He has three gorgeous white socks, and one entirely black leg on his front. He’s beautifully proportioned—absolutely enormous, probably at least seventeen hands, and thick, like a Belgian Warmblood.

It should be terrifying, waking up next to a horse I don’t know, in a place that’s unfamiliar. The horse could be a wild maniac, and I have no idea how it will behave or why it’s here.

But somehow, I’m not scared at all.

Horses are huge, and they’re powerful, and they’re unpredictable.

Even so, they’re still one hundred and ten percent better than humans on almost all counts. Now, if I could only figure out how or why my knife wounds that should have killed me. . .disappeared, and how my broken clavicle healed, then I might know where I am and what I’m doing here.

Could I have dreamed all of it?

But I’m next to a train track—and if I did imagine it, where are all my things? Where are my crutches, my warm coat, my phone, my purse, and my bag?

How did I wind up here?

I look around slowly, taking in my surroundings. We were nearly to Novgorod when the men showed up in the train car last night. I shudder just thinking about it. I wrap my arms around myself and rub my hands up and down, trying to warm up a bit in the brisk, early morning air. The sun is low in the vast, wide blue sky, the clouds moving past above us quickly, forming a tapestry of motion that in other circumstances I would have enjoyed watching. There are no buildings anywhere that I can make out—not even dilapidated ones. The grass is mostly dead, but here and there, bushy patches of it are starting to grow in clumps, like the sprigs of bull grass that always sprout near Daugavpils in the spring rains.

The dark horse has inched closer, one slow step at a time, until his face nudges my arm. Sleeping next to me was already odd. Sure, it’s cold, but horses don’t huddle for warmth. They do lie down, but not next to people. They’re prey animals and would typically be in a herd. They don’t like to be prone around strangers. And sticking close, nuzzling my arm? It’s all very strange behavior for a horse. Where did he come from? Why’s he here?

And what drew him to me?

He might be wild, but those horses are typically afraid of people. There may not be a lot of them around, but they’d usually be in a herd. They’d also typically have had enough interactions in a populated place like this to be wary.

That makes me think he must have been broke, but if he’s trained, how did such a beautifully fed, clearly healthy horse escape and come to find me? Alone? In the middle of essentially nowhere? I scan him for signs of ownership.

His hooves look well-trimmed, but he’s barefoot—no shoes. That’s no help. He has no halter or bridle, obviously, and no signs of having worn a saddle, either. No tell-tale white fur spots where someone regularly cinched him too tightly, but then again, proper riding wouldn’t have resulted in those without advanced age, anyway.

I could try checking to see whether his teeth have been recently floated, but to do that, I’d have to stick my hand in his mouth. Probably a bad plan. All in all, I have no idea why he’s here.

Except for the heaven thing.

My last wish was to ride one last time. Could I be dead? Is this what happens when we die? Our last wishes are granted? I struggle to stand, and my leg screams in pain. I grunt and sink back to the ground. If it’s heaven, then this sucks. I was counting on my leg being healed at the very least, and it feels exactly the same as before.

Destroyed.

Surely if I’ve died and moved on to some kind of afterlife, I wouldn’t take my mortal aches and pains with me. Right? Part of me wants to look upward and shout and rail and scream. Maybe God will strike me, but at least I’ll get some answers.

“Who are you?” I ask.

The dark horse doesn’t spook or shy away at the grating sound of my demand, like I expect him to. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, and then he tosses his head in a small, controlled way.

It almost seems like he’s saying, “I hear what you’re asking, but I’m a horse so I can’t talk. Duh.”

“Right, so I know you can’t answer me,” I say. “But I can’t figure out how you found me or why you kept me warm. If you belong to someone, maybe they can help me.”

That makes me think. No matter where I go, people are going to have a lot of questions. How did I get here? Why don’t I have a coat?

I’m shivering now, and wishing I’d had it with me when I was, well, almost murdered. What was I thinking? I should never have let myself be thrown off a train to die without at least having a coat clutched in one hand.

The more I go over my story, the crazier it sounds, even to me. I clearly wasn’t stabbed in my shoulder or back—I’d be dead. But I recall it happening vividly. I can still hear the crack of my clavicle as it struck the hard ground. Still feel the raindrops as they slap against my crumpled body. The smell of the mud and the spring rain. The sharp, searing pulsing from both knife wounds.

I glance down then, finally thinking of examining the injury sites. My dark jacket—far too thin for this weather—is battered and filthy. Landing in the mud did it no favors. My khaki riding pants are torn above the knee and just as dirty as my jacket. My boots appear scuffed, but otherwise are fine.

Perhaps because of the rain, nothing seems to be too bloody—but there’s a small, flat slit in the right shoulder of my jacket where the knife tip protruded from the front of my body last night.

But if I was stabbed, I went out the window with a dagger still lodged in my shoulder. Where could it be? My head spins around too fast, dragging my body with it. A flash of silver a half dozen feet closer to the train track has me crawling around the inquisitive horse and toward the edge of the tracks.

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