Page 5 of Savage Reins
Renat processes this without comment. I can't read his expression, which makes me nervous.
"Training schedule?" he asks.
"You know nothing of training a race horse, so just let me worry about that." My eyes flick up to his face but he's staring at the mare. He's a handsome man, but stern. But good looks don't equate to mercy or good business sense, either. I will really have to sell this if I want to save my father's ranch.
When he moves, I follow. We head back toward the barn as darkness settles over the ranch. The main building looks smaller in twilight, its weathered siding and patched roof obvious even from the distance. I know Renat sees the decay, the financial desperation marking every corner of our property.
"One more question," he says at the barn door.
"What?"
"Why should I believe you can pull this off? Your family's struggled for years. Your facilities are outdated. You're asking me to bet against direct orders from my superior."
His question is the one I've dreaded. Because truthfully, I'm not sure I can do this. Training a racehorse in thirty days is borderline impossible under ideal circumstances. Doing it with limited resources and a gun to my head makes it nearly suicidal.
But the alternative is watching everything I love burn.
"Because I don't have a choice," I say. "And people without choices find ways to do impossible things."
He stares at me in the fading light like he's examining me, scrutinizing my ability, testing my resolve, then he says, "Thirty days. I'll stay here to monitor progress. If the horse isn't ready or if you try to run, the deal's off."
"Understood."
"We start tomorrow at dawn."
He walks away without another word as footsteps fade into darkness. I watch until I can't see him, then turn toward the barn whereBatyastill stands in the same spot Vadim left him.
Batyalooks older than his sixty-three years. Shoulders hunched, face drawn with exhaustion and fear. When I approach, he doesn't look up.
"Batya?"
His head rises slowly. I see tears on his cheeks. In all my years, I've never seen my father cry. Not whenMamochkadied. Not when the bank threatened foreclosure. Not when we sold half the breeding stock to pay feed bills.
But tonight, in this barn that's been his life's work, Yuri Petrov weeps.
"We should go," he says quietly. "Pack what we can carry. Take the truck and trailer. Leave tonight." He clasps my hands, and his eyes plead with me to heed him.
"No."
"Mira, these people don't honor deals. They take what they want and kill anyone who interferes."
"Maybe. But running won't save us. They'll find us eventually. Then we'll have nothing."
I cross to him and wrap my arms around his chest. His body is thin now, worn by years of stress and poor eating. But his arms still rise to hold me, still carry the strength that taught me to ride and work and fight.
"This is our home," I whisper against his shirt. "Mamochka'swedding China is still in the kitchen. Her garden tools hang in the shed. My first blue ribbon is pinned above your desk."
"Those are things, little bird."
"No. They're proof we existed here. That we built something worth keeping." I step back and look into his brown eyes and I see defeat there, resignation, but I also see despair. This is hurting him. He doesn't want to give up either, and I know I can convince him to let me try.
"I can do this,Batya. I can train Rusalka to win."
He searches my face, then sighs deeply.
"The mare needs new shoes," he says finally. "And that saddle's cinch is coming apart. We'll need to replace it before you start riding her."
Relief floods through me so suddenly, my knees almost buckle. He's not giving up yet.
