Page 14 of Savage Reins
"Better," she says. "Practice that a few more times and you'll have it."
I tie the knot again, then again, each repetition building muscle memory and confidence. Mira watches without comment, but I can feel her attention on me as she watches. She's close enough to touch, close enough that the warmth from her body reaches across the small space between us.
This woman, who should represent nothing more than a job to be completed, has somehow managed to penetrate defenses I didn't even realize I'd lowered. Her nearness does something sharp and unwanted to my chest, something that feels dangerous.
I swallow the sensation and force my attention back to the leather work. Sentiment is weakness in my business. Attachment gets people killed. I can't afford to see Mira as anything other than a means to an end.
But when she steps back to give me working room, the loss of her presence feels like cold air rushing into a warm space.
"We should prepare Rusalka for light work," she says, apparently unaware of the effect she's having on me.
I nod and follow her to where the mare stands cross-tied in the barn aisle. Rusalka's ears prick forward as we approach, and she nickers softly in greeting. The sound is innocent, trusting, completely at odds with the violence that will follow if she fails to perform when the time comes.
Mira begins the preparation process. She doesn't waste motion or time, and she doesn't second-guess her decisions. I watch her work, noting the way she reads Rusalka's body language and adjusts her approach accordingly. When the mare shows tension around her injured hoof, Mira shifts her position to avoid putting pressure on the sensitive area. When Rusalka tries to move away from the grooming brush, Mira redirects her attention with gentle but firm correction.
"Hand me the bridle," she says without looking up from her work.
I lift the headstall from its hook and approach Rusalka's head. The mare eyes me warily, unsure about letting someone new handle her most vulnerable area. I move slowly, letting her smell my hands and adjust to my presence before attempting to slip the bit into her mouth.
"She's head-shy with strangers," Mira observes. "Most horses are. They know their head is where their brain lives."
"Smart survival instinct."
"Smart horses live longer. Stupid ones become dog food."
The harsh reality behind her words cuts through the morning air. In this business, as in mine, failure has permanent consequences. There are no second chances, no appeals, no mercy for those who can't perform when performance is required.
I work with the bridle, adjusting the straps and checking the bit position. Rusalka accepts my touch gradually, her initial wariness fading as she realizes I'm not going to hurt her. By the time I finish, she's standing relaxed, her ears forward and her breathing steady.
"Good," Mira says, and I feel an absurd surge of pride at her approval.
We work together to complete the preparation, falling into a natural rhythm. Mira gives short, confident commands, and I follow them without question or argument, though taking orders feels out of place for the man who normally gives them. She handles the technical aspects while I provide the physical assistance she needs.
There's something oddly satisfying about the collaboration. In my usual work, I operate alone or with men who follow orders without thinking. But this feels different—more like partnership than hierarchy. Mira doesn't treat me as muscle to be directed. She treats me as someone capable of learning and contributing.
The realization unsettles me a little. I've spent years defining myself through violence and intimidation, building an identity around the fear I can inspire in others. But here, in this crumbling barn with this stubborn woman and her injured horse, I'm discovering pieces of myself I thought were dead.
As we finish preparing Rusalka for her light training session, I catch myself studying Mira's profile in the morning light filtering through the barn windows. Her features are sharp with exhaustion, but there's something unbreakable in the set of her jaw and the focus in her gray-blue eyes.
She's better than most trainers I've worked with, and she's doing it under pressure that would break lesser people. The knowledge should be purely professional—useful information for evaluating our chances of success. Instead, it feels personal, like recognition of something valuable that deserves protection rather than destruction.
This feels inevitable, as if I've been walking toward this moment without realizing it. As if everything that came before was just preparation for standing in this barn, in this light, watching this woman refuse to surrender to forces that should have crushed her weeks ago.
Twenty-three days remain until the race that will determine whether Mira lives or dies, and I find myself hoping she wins.
6
MIRA
The feed shed holds twenty years of memories soaked into its wooden walls. I hoist another fifty-pound bag onto my shoulder, feeling the familiar burn in my muscles that comes with this daily ritual.Batyaworks beside me, his movements slower than they used to be but still steady, still proud. We move in the rhythm we've perfected over the years—him stacking, me loading, both of us lost in the comfort of routine.
Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance, and I glance through the open doorway at the darkening sky. Storm clouds gather on the horizon, purple-black and heavy with rain. The air carries that electric charge that makes my skin prickle and sends the horses into restless pacing.
"Weather's turning,"Batyasays, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"We'll finish before it hits." I've been reading these skies my whole life. We have maybe an hour before the real downpour starts.
Outside in the south paddock, Renat works with his crew to replace the rotted fence posts that have been leaning atdangerous angles for months. I find myself watching him more than I should, drawn to the way he moves—controlled and economical, every motion serving a purpose. His thick frame bends and straightens as he works the post-hole digger, tribal ink shifting across his forearms with each movement.
