Page 16 of My Dark Horse Prince

Right alongside Kris, she taught me and my sister Adriana everything she knew about horses. Amelia Liepa, with her softly accented Latvian, would teach the three of us a lesson every single day. Once we progressed enough that we could ride competently, she’d use us to work her horses. And eventually, she had us help her train the new ones.

Shortly after I transitioned into a somewhat helpful role. . .she died.

That’s when my lessons stopped, too.

For a while.

But her daughter was just as kind, and Kristiana welcomed me and Adriana to join her in training with John, their long-time horse trainer. I was able to gain a life skill and pursue my passion, thanks to the largesse and generosity of some very wealthy, very gifted friends. Most people of the same social strata as Kristiana would’ve refused to rub shoulders with the children of the housekeeper, but her American mother had different notions. She felt that we were all the same—our jobs differed, but our value didn’t.

They were radical ideas, but they stuck with me as much as the equine knowledge I gained. All of it shaped me into the person I am today.

Sometimes I wonder whether I’d have been happier if I had grown up on the same steady diet of misogyny and elitism that the rest of my friends and colleagues were fed. But for better or worse, Kris and her mother made Adriana and me into feminist egalitarians.

My poor sister Adriana, ninety-nine percent spitfire, always resented both of them, probably because of their teachings. She was born with nothing in a world that always seems to take. It filled her with an almost bottomless rage and desire for more. She has the energy and resolve to change her fate, and has done everything she can to do it.

Not me.

I’ve never had anything but gratitude and love in my heart for my best friend. That’s why, when I find myself broken and alone, riding a dangerous and unknown horse in the middle of an unfriendly and freezing environment, my only hope was to find someone who would let me borrow their phone so I could reach out to dear Kristiana Liepa and beg for her help just one more time.

My shock when she drives up in a sportscar driven by ‘his lordship’ and climbs out after the very same—penniless—horse trainer I met in Dauvavpils at Liepašeta is utterly and completely unfeigned. I have absolutely no idea what to say or how to react.

“What are you doing here?” I almost forget I’m on horseback for a moment, until the stupid stallion beneath me stamps and paws the ground.

“I should be asking you that,” Kris says.

“Wait.” Aleksandr turns. “Mirdza?”

“Who’s Grigoriy?” I ask. “Is he that rude butler guy? He’s really angry that I came in here, and he said you’d kick me out.”

“Why did you come?” Kris asks. “I mean, to Russia, but also, why are you here?”

My stallion’s clearly not liking being ignored. He screams in frustration, and my anxiety at being mounted—especially without a bridle, saddle, or anything approaching a medical clearance—escalates.

“Can you help me off?” I’m shaking, I realize. “This horse—I kind of just found him. Or, maybe he found me. I’m not really sure. He’s the one who insisted we come here, and even when I kept saying no and tugging on his mane, he vaulted over a low spot in the fence. It’s a miracle I haven’t fallen to my death.”

“Wait, here, as in, the horse insisted you come to this house?” Aleks has walked closer, and he’s studying my horse.

I forgot, for a brief moment, that he’s an actual horse trainer. People all say he’s crazy, but he did tame the big black stallion Kris bought last year. Maybe he knows this horse? Could Charlemagne be Grigoriy?

“Yes. He wouldn’t stop elsewhere, no matter what I did. He came straight here.” I shudder.

“Hey there.” Kris steps closer, her hands upraised. “I can help you down.”

Of course, she’s about five foot one, a hundred pounds. Since this stallion’s at least seventeen hands, dismounting toward her would be a bit like leaping to my death.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aleksandr towers over Kris. He rolls his eyes and smiles at her fondly as he steps past her and offers me his hands.

Unfortunately, my idiot horse freaks out, shying sideways, nostrils flaring, and snaps at Aleks.

“Stop that.” I pat his side with one hand and grip his thick mane as tightly as I can with the other. “I need help getting down, you idiot. I have a bad leg, remember?”

Aleks glares at the horse as if that will have any impact. Then he mutters, “Knock it off, moron,” in Russian. “I’m helping.” But when he approaches again, the stallion shies away just the same.

This time, his ears are pinned as he screams.

“Look.” I point at Kris. “This is my best friend. She’s the person I was trying to call. She’s the whole reason I came here to Russia to begin with. I’ll be fine, now. You got me to safety.”

The dark bay paws at the ground again, this time with his one dark front leg.

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