Page 129 of My Dark Horse Prince

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll call Aleksandr—” I snap my mouth shut when an official glares. It’s not super abnormal for someone to be talking to her horse at one of these things, but it is a little strange to do it so loudly and for so long. Certainly implying that your horse wants you to call someone. . .it’s borderline.

Of course, people would be more likely to believe I’m smuggling drugs in my saddle than the insane idea that my horse is actually a human male. I laugh it off and then surreptitiously pull out my phone and hit talk.

“Another sighting?” Aleksandr laughs.

“About two o’clock on the north side,” I say. “Two men in black.”

“I’ve been watching everyone who comes in,” Aleksandr says. “Does he mean the blond and the brunette?”

I glance back again, trying my best not to look like an infatuated teen. “Uh. Yeah. Brunette has long hair.”

“Nope. Not them for sure. One of them is Polish,” he says, as if that tells me something meaningful.

“Okay, well, thanks.”

“Can you tell him to relax? You’re going to be fine, and we’re expecting them this time, so if they show up, we’re ready for it.”

I’m not telling him that again. It’s getting a little embarrassing. I end the call and shake my head slowly. “I’m not calling him again.”

Charlemagne whuffles, blowing against my hand and bumping my shoulder with his big, furry face.

“No, sir.” I rub his nose. “That worked last time, but it’s not going to work again. You have got to stop freaking out about every single person in this show hall. I have a little story to tell you, actually. It’s about a little shepherd boy who kept insisting that there was a wolf when there wasn’t.”

Charlemagne takes the bit and pulls me along, tossing his head for good measure.

“Ah, so you’ve heard the story,” I say. “Because later, when there was a wolf, he’d claimed there was one when there wasn’t so many times that no one believed him.”

He looks away from me.

“Come on,” I say. “I’m trying to help you. I’m a bundle of nerves. The last thing we need is for both of us to—”

“Mirdza.” I hate that voice. It makes nails screeching their way down a chalkboard sound like a lullaby.

I grit my teeth and turn around, plastering a smile that probably looks more like a grimace on my face. “Brigita,” I say. “Such a pleasure to see. . .Blanka here.” My heart lurches a bit at the sight of my gorgeous mare, wearing a bright red bonnet that matches her saddle pad… standing next to the devil’s concubine. “Too bad you’re the one riding her.”

“I hope you haven’t gotten your hopes up too high,” she says. “Because I hear this course was designed by Olaf Peterson, Jr. It’s not like the ones your little friend set up for you at home.”

“By ‘my little friend,’ do you mean Kristiana Liepa, the winner of the Grand National?”

“I hear the cups on that twelfth jump are shallow,” Brigita says. “Good luck having a clean run on that nag.”

Charlemagne shifts and steps on Brigita in the process.

I yank him back, but Brigita’s mouth flies open and she collapses inward. I think it really hurt.

I feel a little bit bad, but mostly I focus on suppressing my laugh. “I may need to get my stallion here a red ribbon,” I say. “He has a terrible habit of stomping on prissy little whiners.”

“I was trying to help you,” she says.

“Oh?” I can’t help laughing. “You were trying to help me? Was that before or after you stole my horse while I was busy getting a surgery from an incident that happened at your stable?”

“Your leg wasn’t my fault,” she says.

“Pardon me if I don’t heed your warnings,” I say. “But if the cups are shallow on the twelfth, everyone will have the same difficulty in clearing them. Worry about yourself.”

It’s more likely that horses will struggle with that vertical because it follows a water jump, and a lot of the posh show jumpers aren’t adequately prepared for those. Luckily, my horse knows that a little water never hurt anyone.

But of course, if he touches it, it’s just like knocking a pole. Four penalties. We need a clear round to make it to the jump-off, and that means no time penalties, either. When I finally take a look at the order, I’m a little disappointed. I like to go first, before the jitters have set in, and before I have time to psych myself out.

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