My Trojan Horse Majesty (The Russian Witch’s Curse #5)

7. Izzy

Chapter 7

Izzy

A ll I’ve wanted for days now is to come up with the money Tim needs. I’ve called friends, I’ve gone to the bank. I called credit cards to see how much I could get as a cash advance. It turns out, when your job as a vet tech barely pays above minimum wage, and you’ve just graduated from college, you aren’t worth much. In fact, I’ve never felt more worthless in my entire life. Yesterday, it prompted me to do something very, very stupid.

I stole a horse.

A horse I knew nothing about.

It got worse when I pulled papers from a dead horse to pass off as the stolen horse’s from my boyfriend’s files, and then I emailed the German businessman about him from Tim’s account. I mean, Tim basically told me to do all that, but I’m the one who did it. I’m lucky the stallion didn’t kill me when I unloaded him in a strange place, when I climbed up on his back without a saddle, and when I asked him to really move.

But what’s really lucky is that the German guy—Müller—happened to see us and wants to buy him. Actually, he wants to do more than buy him. He wants to pay a hundred grand for him, which is just insane to me.

I know a lot of the horses Tim treats are worth far more than that. I’ve helped him with quarter-of-a-million-dollar, and even half-million-dollar horses. He’s regularly called in to consult on horses with insurance policies that get close to a million. It’s the reason he can charge what he charges for his services. People with five-thousand-dollar horses don’t pay twenty or forty thousand dollars for surgeries. Not the sane ones.

So of course he’d know people like Anselm Müller.

People just like him probably make up most of his book of business.

I vaguely recall meeting this particular man at some point, about five or six months ago. He’s short, he has bushy eyebrows, and he’s in banking. But the thing I remember most was that his brother, who has even more money than him, got into horses years before he did. Anselm’s desperate to beat him and beating him with a stallion that could sire a whole winning line would be even better.

I’m sure that’s why Tim suggested him.

I shouldn’t feel guilty about selling this horse to Müller. He probably takes great care of his horses, and clearly Drago’s both sound and can really run. He’s also such a common color—chestnut—that even with his shocking height and sleek, muscular build, I doubt anyone could ever come back on me. I even scanned him for a chip, just to make sure they can’t prove he isn’t who I’m saying he is. Blessedly, he didn’t have one. Thankfully, neither did the dead horse.

I do worry that he won’t be quite as amicable with a new owner as he has been with me, but that’s probably my own ego talking.

The papers Harriet Parsons left for the horse that Tim medically eliminated list the horse as an eight-year-old chestnut stallion with a blaze. The markings are almost perfect—right down to no socks of any kind, but there are probably lots of chestnut stallions with blazes. The concerning part’s going to be the age. Not many thoroughbreds start their racing career at eight. In fact, I haven’t ever heard of any. But every horse born the year after this dead one was born had to be chipped or they couldn’t be registered.

At least the papered name’s pretty cute. Catchup if you Can. Thoroughbred names are often kind of goofy, thanks to all their rules and the fact that you can’t have living horses with the same name, but that one. . .for some reason it makes me think of french fries, but then it’s spelled wrong for the delicious kind of ketchup. In any case, when I finally walk out to feed Drago breakfast, I feel uneasy.

It’s probably because of all my criminal activity in the last two days.

Or I could be nervous that Drago will act like a lunatic.

I keep hoping Tim will call—I have so much to talk to him about and so much to ask him. It’s not like I can talk about the shady guys who came by looking for him on a recorded line, but I could beat around the bush about my concerns with selling the stallion. I could also maybe get some guidance about negotiating with Müller. That’s not illegal—selling a horse. In the email I sent pretending to be Tim, I said we wanted a hundred grand, but I didn’t elaborate.

Müller didn’t say he was going to haggle.

But don’t most people do it when they show up?

And what if, when we try to trailer Drago, the idiot horse bolts again?

All these things are running through my head as I dump grain for Chromey and Millie and walk toward the stallion pen to feed Drago. “Morning.” I yawn. “Looks like you’re already awake. I hope you got your beauty sleep, though. You need to look pretty for today.”

He tosses his head, his mane flowing like a bronze waterfall. He probably doesn’t even need beauty sleep. He’s so fabulous he could stay up all night and still look great.

When I dump the grain in his bucket, he drops his nose into it and sniffs around, the air puffs from his nostrils blowing a tiny cloud of dust and detritus up and into my face.

“Whoa, there,” I say. “You’re making a mess.”

When he lifts his head, I swear he’s glaring at me.

“What? You think I should have cleaned your bucket before dumping your grain?” I lean closer and set the grain scoops on the ground. “News flash. No matter how pretty you are, you’re still a horse. This isn’t the Taj Mahal.”

Though if we sell him for a hundred grand today, maybe he should be headed there. And as I look around, I can’t help noticing the massive piles of poop all over—I should try and clean this up a little if people are coming to look at a horse worth a hundred grand.

“You’re pretty fancy for a horse.” I lean against the fence and fold my arms. “Today, I really need you to look your best. I can’t have you ruining this chance for me. It’s the whole reason I saved you.”

I spend the next thirty minutes with a muck tub, gathering up all the poop in the pasture I can easily reach, and then hauling it out of the field. By then, Chromey and Millie are screaming for their hay, and I’m not sure what time the buyers are coming to look at him. I decide to drop the muck tub in the back of Tim’s truck and deal with it later.

Drago watches the whole thing, seemingly a little confused. Maybe they had a poop spreader at his last barn. While I’m heaving the muck tub into the back of Tim’s truck, he snorts, spins around, and races to the corner of the paddock—the low spot—the only place that isn’t pristine.

And then he rolls.

When he walks back, a blob of mud dangling from his forelock, I swear, he’s smirking at me.

“I hate you,” I say. “You just had to do that, right as I finished cleaning all the poop—you decide to look like manure yourself. Is that it?” I glance back at my horses in the farther pasture. “Do you see Chromey over there?” I scowl at Drago again, as if he might actually care. “I’m going to give him more hay and more scratches because he keeps himself clean.”

He whuffles. . .just like a human might laugh.

“I do need to sell you,” I mutter. “But even if I didn’t, I’d want to do it . You’re turning me into a crazy person, thinking you can understand what I’m saying.”

He tosses his head, his nose moving up and down rapidly, mud sliding slowly down his face.

“Yep. I’m crazy. You’re right about that.”

One glance at his bucket shows me he never ate his breakfast. It’s been twenty or thirty minutes already. I worry that he’s not eating because of a tummy ache. Combined with the rolling I thought he was doing to be irritating, it could be a really bad sign. Skipping food and rolling for horses usually means colic. After I stare at him for a long moment, he finally drops his head into the bucket and starts eating the feed. He’s messy, and it spills all over the ground, but I gave him enough that he can waste a little.

“Good boy,” I say. “I’ll bring some hay out in a bit.”

Thanks to the time I spent on pasture cleanup, Millie and Chromey are already pacing, waiting for theirs. I always feed alfalfa in the morning along with the orchard grass, so it takes me a while to get it all distributed, but I finally finish with theirs. When I reach the stallion paddock with my arms full of Drago’s hay, he’s waiting by the gate.

For a brief moment, I worry he’s going to try and push past me, bolt, and disappear. He doesn’t, thankfully. He’s as polite as he has been the last few times I’ve gone in, following me slowly to the far end where there’s a metal hay bin. “If you’re not messy, you won’t have any dirt mixed with your hay. Be a smart boy, alright?”

He’s glaring at me when I walk toward the house, I just know it.

I’m not sure why, though.

I gave him all the things horses love, but he was definitely still irritated about something. He’s barely circled back to the hay bin to munch on his hay when a large, red truck pulls up, dragging a very nice, very shiny Logan Coach trailer. I should’ve guessed—they’re based out of Utah. It’s pretty much the king of trailers around here. Their trailer makes the one I borrowed from Steve, a very nice Lakota, look like a bargain basement hauler.

When they stop, Drago lifts his head from his hay and starts to prance back and forth along the fence line, his tail flying out behind him. I didn’t even have time to clean him up, so he’s still covered in mud, and he looks agitated at best. At least he’s moving with beauty and grace, even if he looks pretty homeless.

Unsurprisingly, Müller’s not alone. A tall man with a strong jaw climbs out of the driver’s seat.

“Isabel.” Müller waves. “This is my trainer, Josh Averett. He’s as excited as I am.” Müller’s so excited that he’s practically bouncing. He reminds me a little of the shaky, wiry little dogs that wet on the floor when their owner comes home.

Averett does not look excited. He looks wary. He tosses his head at me in acknowledgement, but says nothing.

“Look at him.” Müller’s already moving toward the stallion pen. “Isn’t he spectacular?”

Averett scowls, and I wonder whether he’s the one who will be doing the negotiating. A quick google search taught me that the first rule to successfully negotiating a good price is not to act too excited. Good luck doing that, Averett. Your boss is peeing all over the linoleum already.

“It’s a small setup,” I say. “So yes, you’ve already identified Drago.” I cross toward the gate. “He’s not done with breakfast, but you can see that he moves quite well.”

“What’s his deal?” Averett narrows his eyes. “Why did Tim decide to buy him? And why does he think he’ll do well on the track?”

I’m not sure what to say. Mr. Müller hadn’t asked about any of that, and I stupidly didn’t even come up with a story. To my knowledge, Tim’s never bought a horse. I cast about for any possible reason Tim might have bought him, and I can’t really think of anything.

“I’m assuming he bought him from a client who couldn’t handle him,” Müller says. “Or maybe he saw him while treating another horse and fell in love?”

I shake my head. “That’s sort of true,” I say, improvising badly. “He did buy him from a client, and he was actually slated to be put down. I fell in love with him the moment I saw him, and I thought I could handle him even when the older woman he bought him from couldn’t.” I cringe a little. “I know that sounds terrible, but it’s true.”

“Why are you selling him, then?” Averett narrows his eyes. “Why not keep him?”

“I need money for vet school,” I say. “And he turned out to be a nicer horse than we expected. It seemed silly for me to use him on skijoring.” I shrug.

“On what?” Averett’s frowning.

“You’ve never heard of skijoring?” I ask. “It’s racing horses, but pulling a skier behind you. We go over jumps, through obstacles, and?—”

“Oh, no,” Müller says. “You can’t waste a magnificent creature like this on that.”

“We do mostly use quarter horses,” I say.

“Plenty of horses are put down that shouldn’t be, so that doesn’t upset me,” Averett says. “The terrible part is asking a hundred grand for one of those damaged but still salvageable horses.” He’s glaring, now.

“It’s not that we’re questioning the value, mind you,” Müller says. “It’s just that?—”

“My job’s to make sure my client’s enthusiasm and optimism don’t overwhelm his pocketbook.” Averett points. “I’m assuming you’ll breeze him for us?”

“If you don’t want him, Tim will email others who might. And if no one does for that price, I’ll just keep him for myself.” Number two rule of negotiating, according to Google, is never to act like you need them. Always have something else on the back burner. “As to breezing him, I don’t exactly have a track handy, but?—”

“Right here’s fine.” Averett points at the long strip that runs the length of the property, from the edge of the driveway to the road that abuts the end of the paddock area. “I’m sure we can get a good feel for how he moves and how much speed he can handle.”

“Uh, sure,” I say. “I don’t have a racing saddle, but I could?—”

Averett’s looking pretty smug when he cuts me off. “Anselm tells me you were on him bareback yesterday. Sadly, the feed’s a livestream, so I couldn’t verify how he looked myself.”

“Sure,” I say. “Of course. Just let me grab the bridle.” And a curry comb and a brush or ten.

This time, I also lug a mounting block out to the ground outside the paddock. I can’t count on Drago to align himself with a water trough every time I want to get on. Most of the mud has at least dried, and thankfully, he allows me to halter him, curry, and brush him off so he’s not nearly as ragamuffin-looking. My heart rate slows to a less terrifying pace when he lets me bridle him. Once I’m on his back, it’ll be harder for him to race off—at least I should be able to turn him.

Unless he chucks me off.

When I lead him out of the gate, he throws his head up, ears swiveling, and my heart takes off at a dead sprint again. I keep seeing the image of him bolting away. Two different directions, even. “Okay, boy,” I whisper. “Please, please , don’t kill me, and don’t run off and make me look terrible.”

He lets me lead him to the mounting block, and he stands stock still while I hop up and swing my leg over his back, shimmying my way into place.

“Tim needs a taller mounting block for horses like you,” I mutter. “You have to be almost eighteen hands.”

“What’s that?” Averett asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing, but I better warm him up a little.” Why didn’t I think to use that for an excuse to do all this inside the paddock? Idiot.

Miraculously, he walks for me just fine, and even when we get close to the edge of the property, he makes no attempt to run. As we circle back around near the men, I ask him to trot, and he does. It’s as springy and hard to sit as it was yesterday, so I don’t keep him trotting for more than three laps before I ask him to canter.

It’s not very good to cut his warm-up short, probably, but he’s been out all night, at least. I doubt his muscles were entirely stiff with all the pacing he was doing earlier. When I ask him to canter, he seems to remember what we worked on yesterday—namely, not bolting.

“He looks like a show pony,” Averett says. “What did you say he was used for?”

“Nothing wrong with racehorses having manners,” I say. “Not enough of them do.”

“Yes, but he’s already eight years old,” Averett says. “I don’t want to depress you, Anselm, but I think he’s too old. He looks stiff to me.”

“I told you I mostly wanted him for breeding. I want to shake things up—try something new. A bloodline that hasn’t been overbred but shows promise. That’s what Gunther did. Besides, he didn’t look stiff yesterday,” Müller says. “Have her gallop him, and then decide.” He’s smiling at me broadly.

I swing him around, and I bring him to the edge of the property, near where I pulled the trailer in yesterday. When I ask Drago to go, he picks up some speed, but not much. Compared to yesterday, he’s practically crawling.

“That’s it?” Averett sounds disgusted.

Part of me’s actually relieved. Now that we’ve come down to it, I don’t really want to sell him. I mean, I’m probably just nervous about selling a horse I don’t own. The illegality of it all has me concerned, I’m sure, but I should be panicked that he’s disinterested.

I need that money. Tim needs that money.

If I don’t sell him, where does that leave us?

My only other play is calling my parents, but if I don’t sell him, how will I explain Drago to them? I can imagine just what I’ll say. “Oh, yep. You do recognize this horse?” I would laugh. “Funny story. Oliver told me he was going to be put down, so. . .” I could throw my hands up in the air and pretend I thought it was a big joke.

I doubt I’d get much laughter.

Ugh.

I’m hauling on Drago’s reins and turning him around when a car on the road behind us backfires. The noise is so loud and so unexpected that both Drago and I spook.

He takes off like a devil’s on our tail.

We fly past the two men so fast that I can barely see Averett’s face at all, but it’s enough. His jaw’s dangling wide open.

When I slow Drago down, he scans the area carefully, probably shocked that we aren’t under attack again. I can’t blame him. Those two guys from yesterday had guns, and that backfire sounded almost the same. It was also right behind us, which had to be confusing, too. If it motivated him to bolt right when I needed it, well, maybe God’s on my side. That would be nice.

“You’re right,” Averett’s telling Müller. “He can really move.”

Müller’s back to hopping up and down like some kind of strange cartoon villain. If he had a mustache to twirl and didn’t smile so much, the similarities would be uncanny. “Yes, yes, so you’re on board?” He tilts his head.

“Fine,” Averett says. “I wish Tim was here himself, but if you’re worried someone else will snatch him up, I can’t fault you. He’s got something special. I’ll admit that much.”

But as I hear the words, I realize something.

It wasn’t just simple relief when I thought they didn’t want him. I don’t want to sell Drago. I really, really like him.

Which is stupid.

I know nothing about him.

I can’t possibly keep him without telling my parents what I’ve done, and I cannot tell them this.

And the biggest problem is that selling Drago was my solution to a major issue. I have to get Tim out, and fast, and I have no other way to come up with this kind of money. I have absolutely no business saying what I’m about to say, and yet, I find myself saying the words anyway. “Oh, shoot.” I whip out my phone. “I’m so sorry, but I just got a message from Tim.”

“You did?” Müller sounds as confused as Averett looks.

“Yep,” I say. “He said we can’t sell him after all. Problem with—” I cough. “—the paperwork. It’s a long story.”

“How did you even know you got a message? You said that before you got your phone out.” Averett’s scowling.

“Uh, it came to my watch.” I gesture at my plain black watch that’s not smart in any way. Hopefully they can’t tell. “I’m so sorry to have wasted your time today.”

“Not at all.” Mr. Müller takes a step closer and holds his hand out toward Drago. “If anything changes, anything at all, call me. I’ll come right back.” He looks up at me then, and I almost feel bad. He looks like he’d have loved Drago almost as much as I do.

Wait, do I love him? A horse I just met? A horse I stole?

As Averett stomps over to the truck and Anselm Müller walks over, turning back and gazing at us wistfully, I realize that I do.

I pat his neck. “I am such an idiot. You know that?”

He turns around and rubs his cheek against my boot, like he knows I just decided not to sell him.

“I needed that money,” I hiss. “I needed it, and my boyfriend really needed it, and I should have sold you. I could have sold a horse that was supposed to die for a hundred grand and I said no.” I smack my forehead. “A hundred grand.” I exhale. “I must have lost my ever-loving mind.”

Drago just whinnies.

“How am I going to get that money now?” I wail.

But as I slide off his back, I have an idea. Now that we have fake papers we can use, if I pay for the expedited transfer on his paperwork, maybe I could race him myself and keep the prize money. I put him back in his paddock, and I lock the gate.

“I have some work to do,” I say. “We have some races to win, Catchup if you Can.”

He looks very, very confused as I walk away.

Which, he should. He is, after all, a horse. And his new—illegal—owner is a grade A moron. Let’s hope I can find some other way to get Tim out, or my parents won’t even be the first ones in line to kill me for this.