Page 13 of My Dark Horse Prince

“Believe me, I agree with you. I hate it, too.”

He tosses his head, then. And then he turns his long, graceful neck and tosses his head again. Then he straightens and looks at me almost expectantly.

I have no idea what’s going through his bizarre equine brain, so I ignore him and keep shuffling on, one tortuously painful step at a time. At this rate, I should reach civilization in approximately twelve years, three months, and seven days. If I’m lucky, and if my leg doesn’t just give out first.

Charlemagne shrieks his disapproval, and then he circles me at a big, showy trot, his dark tail streaming behind him. He tosses his head, his shining mane fluttering in the wind.

“What do you want?” I ask, annoyed now. “I can’t go faster. If you have any idea what I’m saying you must understand that. This is my top speed, you big show-off.”

But that only makes him angrier. He prances faster and faster, circling me alarmingly close. Finally, I reach out and slap his perfectly shaped rear haunch, praying that he won’t kick out at me.

“Knock it off, you big bully. Nothing you do will make me go faster. You can’t herd an injured animal.”

He blows out air loudly and paws at the ground, and then he drops to a knee in the front, one leg bent, the other stretched out. Charlemagne’s head is bowed, and he tilts his nose toward me and tosses it.

Almost like he’s telling me to climb on his back.

Which would be entirely insane.

No wild horse would sleep by me, wake up and follow me, and then demand that I get on his back. No broke horse would do that, either.

None of it makes sense.

But then again, neither do stab wounds healing, or people surviving being tossed off moving trains.

“Let’s say that you really are telling me to get on your back right now,” I say.

His head pops up, his eye wide. He tosses it up and down.

“You are.”

He tosses it again and whinnies.

“You want me to climb up onto your back?” I point.

He neighs again and tosses his head.

“Do I really think I’m talking to a horse, and he’s responding to me?” I sigh. “Is this really the most insane thing that’s happened to me since waking up?” Sadly, it’s not. “But here’s the thing. Even if you’re telling me to do that, I can’t listen. I haven’t been on a horse in a decade. It’s not safe for me. If I fall, my leg will just. . .well, it’s like the insides will explode.”

He tosses his head again, and then he curls his lips back. Horse people often call it a smile, but it’s more like a dramatic lip curl.

“I can’t get on you,” I say, shouting now. “If you can understand me, which is totally nuts, then you should get this part too. I cannot ride a horse.”

Unless it was an inexplicably magical horse, one that didn’t spook, or buck, or bolt. A horse that didn’t behave like a horse at all. . .

“You’re not magical,” I say. “And I don’t have a saddle or a bridle, which would make me getting on your back even more insane.”

Charlemagne finally stands up, but only to take a few steps closer and bow down again. When his head whips toward me, the only reason I don’t move away is that I don’t have time. His mouth closes over my sleeve and he chomps down, luckily just on fabric, and then he tugs.

A horse is literally pulling me toward his back.

“If I reach up here and climb on you, you won’t shy away or freak out and run?”

I’ve lost my mind to even be considering this.

“I haven’t been on a horse in ten years,” I say. “I’m not sure I even remember how to ride.”

He whuffles this time, and lips the sleeve of my jacket. Then he rubs his head against my arm. For all the world, it seems like he’s trying to reassure me.

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