My Wild Horse King (The Russian Witch's Curse Book 4)

22. Gustav

Iremember almost nothing from the night I spend sharing a bed with Katerina. Her whimpers did wake me up at one point, and I recall running my hand over the back of her head in what I hoped was a comforting manner. “It’s alright,” I whispered. “Everything’s okay.”

I wasn’t at all sure it was true, but I hoped.

The next morning, when I wake up, I’m wrapped around her body like a pipe cleaner antenna twisted around a paper maché butterfly. I want to spring away and claim I had nothing to do with it. The mattress—it must have sloped after all.

Instead, though, I flex a little bit in an attempt to stretch without waking her, because holding her feels so good. It feels better than beating my cousin in chess. It feels better than graduating summa cum laude. It feels better than counting stacks of cash—better even than depositing them in the bank.

It feels like I’m home again.

I haven’t felt like that since my mom died.

She’s warm, and she’s small and soft and pliant, all at the same time. I never want to let her go. Which is insane. She’s a woman who was born in the early nineteen hundreds and can turn into a horse, and if she ever gets her powers back, she could shock the ever-loving tar out of me for touching her at all, from what they say.

But in this moment, her face looks so delicate and so vulnerable, with tiny, almost translucent circles under her eyes. I can’t help seeing her eyes, alive and sparkling in bright, eye-catching green with tiny golden flecks. Her russet lashes rest on her pale cheek, dusted with just a handful of freckles.

I want to shift my arm and brush the edges of them with my fingers, but that would end this moment, so I don’t risk it. I simply exhale, my breath washing over her face like I’m claiming her, which is ridiculous.

She’s been in love with Alexei her entire life.

It’s not like she wants anything to do with me. I’m not regal, I’m not commanding, and I have no idea how to use any of these powers they’re all obsessed with me gaining control of. For all I know, even if we do find these journals, they’ll say absolutely nothing of value. With a maniac coming our way, probably bent on destroying me, I should steer very clear of Katerina. I should send her to Iceland.

Instead, I kept her here.

And depending on who I talk to, that maniac may be in love with her.

I think that’s my biggest motivator, honestly.

As I look at her, so innocent, lost in sleep, I can’t help wanting to protect her. No one ever has. Not her father, who should have, not the mother she never knew, and certainly not the great and vaunted Alexei, who used her like a social shield and cast her aside when it was no longer convenient. Not Leonid, who was her servant and then stole her powers and then quickly became her master, forcing her to do anything he wanted.

As much as I’ve worked to regain, she’s lost. Her home, her sense of belonging, and any ability to protect herself. She’s had to rely on the whims of others and her ability to please them to stay safe.

I hated trying to please others more than anything.

Trying to please Grandfather with every word and action, in the hopes that he would give me the keys to the kingdom. Even the company I built from the ground up is only really a success if he declares it to be. I’ve hated how every part of my life has been wrapped around gaining his admiration, his acceptance, and his approval.

I wish I was strong enough to protect Katerina as she deserves, but I can’t even keep myself safe. In disgust, I pull my arms back, retreating to my side of the bed.

Katerina’s eyes open almost immediately. “What time is it?”

I slide off the bed and stand, glancing at my phone on the nightstand. “Nearly seven a.m.”

“Oh, no,” she says. “We need to practice.”

“The rodeo isn’t until this afternoon,” I remind her.

“Right, but how long has it been since you’ve ridden a horse?” She arches one eyebrow.

“A while.”

“I doubt Amanda Saddler will be impressed with you falling off and breaking your wrist.”

She’s probably right.

“And we need to buy a saddle.”

“Right.”

“And unless you’re planning on wearing a suit to the barrel race?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “You might need some new clothes.”

Today is going to suck.

Especially since, as it turns out, Manila, UT has exactly one place that sells clothing.

The True Value Hardware store, which also doubles as a grocery store. Their selection is not good. “And if you want a saddle,” the woman from yesterday says with a half-smile, “you’re going to have to drive into Green River.” Her face, like yesterday, still swirls, surrounded with what look like tiny golden fireflies. She’s a good person, but that doesn’t mean she can help us. In fact, that’s probably why she refused to help us.

Which is just great.

“Can I ask you something?” The woman’s face is scrunched up. “I saw you folks drive in yesterday, all piling out of an SUV. Where exactly are you getting a horse from?”

It’s a good question.

“A friend of mine is keeping her for us,” Kristiana says without missing a beat. “We’re about to go pick her up.”

The woman nods. “Most everybody around here has a saddle. Maybe you could borrow one from your friend.”

Kris smiles slowly. “My friend doesn’t have one—she already told me. But. . .” She steps closer. “Any chance we could rent one from you?”

The woman shakes her head. “No way.”

Kristiana’s shoulders slump.

“You could borrow one, though.” The checkout woman’s eyes crinkle up when she smiles. “Anyone who’s willing to sign up for a rodeo just to talk to Amanda Saddler?” She’s full-on beaming now. “I’ve gotta see it. That’s all.”

I’m not sure whether she’s looking forward to my crashing and burning in the rodeo, or whether she’s referring to watching me trying to talk to Amanda. Either way, I suppose my outlook isn’t great.

Venetia, that turns out to be the woman’s name, gives us her address—which was easier to get than Amanda Saddler’s—and then agrees to meet us in an hour. We have to go and get our horse, of course. So that’s a little tricky. When I suggested that she just let us pick up the saddle, she told us she has a dozen, and we’ll want to find one that fits our horse.

It was hard to argue with that.

“See you then,” I say.

And now we just have to show up at her house, down one person, and up one horse for which we do not have so much as a halter, bridle, or saddle pad. Then we need to get that horse to the rodeo without anyone noticing our lack of a trailer. And then I have to ride in a barrel race, not die, and get Amanda Saddler’s attention.

This is a stupid plan.

“It would be easier to just bash that old lady over the head and drag her into some empty field,” Grigoriy says.

Mirdza hits his shoulder, but it’s half-hearted.

“This does feel like it has a high likelihood of failure,” Katerina says. “I didn’t think about how complicated it would be to enter a horse race without any of the things you need to properly ride a horse.” She doesn’t mention that I’m the worst rider in the group, but I’m pretty sure it’s true.

It’s going to be a heck of a lot harder than riding bareback through the streets of New York City for a few city blocks, that’s for sure. Even that was weird, though. “You people must find yourselves in strange situations all the time,” I say.

The ride to the woman’s house, which we’re making early to hopefully avoid her noticing that we don’t have any of the proper equipment, is filled with laugh-laden accounts of the mishaps they’ve all worked through as a part of the horse-shifter relationship.

“—and Sean, whom you met in that meeting, hated Obsidian Devil,” Kris says.

“And me,” Aleks says. “He thought I was a penniless Russian horse trainer.”

“Which you were,” Kris says.

“Even though this sounds bad,” Mirdza says. “I really do think you’ll be fine. If Kris and Aleks could win the Grand National?—”

“Wait,” I say. “You were riding on your husband in that race?” I can hardly believe it. “Is that legal?”

“You know,” Kristiana says, “I didn’t actually stop to ask the racing commission if they were alright with horses who could also shift into humans racing alongside real horses.”

I guess not.

By the time we’ve arrived, pulling up a hundred yards from Venetia’s house, our SUV partially obscured behind the only patch of pine trees we could find, Kris hands me a rope.

“Where’d you get this?” I take it—it’s blue, and it’s all knotted.

“I bought the rope,” she says. “And then I made it into a halter.”

“How could you?—”

She yanks it back. “Watch.” She twists it around and shifts it, and voila. I see the part that hooks over the nose, the part that wraps around behind the ears. . .she’s amazing.

“Well I’ll be darned?—”

Without any kind of warning, Katerina shifts from a human, standing right in front of me, into a tall, shining palomino mare. She tosses her head, and her white-blonde mane billows out, like we’re shooting a commercial for some kind of mane and tail product.

Kris looks at me and tosses her head, like I’m a dolt.

“Right.” Because I am just standing, staring, stupidly. “I should put it on her.” I hold out my hands, and Katerina slides her face right into the nose hole, leaving me to fumble around trying to work out how to tie the end.

“Like this,” Kristiana says, but from her tone, what she means is, ‘you big idiot.’ I remember that much about girl-speak from when I lived at home.

“Before the lady arrives, you should try getting on her and riding in that loopy pattern,” Adriana says. “It might help you look less half-witted later today.”

Doubtful.

I’m wearing the most casual clothing I have—khaki slacks and brown Ferragamo dress shoes. It’s still about as inappropriate for riding a horse as I can imagine. “I need to get some clothing first.”

“Kris rode me bareback more than she rode in a saddle, and once, she was wearing an evening gown,” Aleksandr says.

“I’m clearly not Kris.” I do, however, want to punch her husband.

“It wasn’t an evening gown,” Kris says. “It was?—”

“Just get on and let’s see whether this is going to be a comedy or a tragedy,” Adriana says.

“Maybe a little of both,” Grigoriy says.

It takes a boost from Aleksandr, which is a little embarrassing, but at least Katerina’s not dirty when I slide onto her back. I didn’t see a dry cleaner for at least fifty miles.

I’m nervous.

Of course I’m nervous.

Other than the walk down eighty-first street, I haven’t been on a horse in more than a decade. With the parents I had, I was pretty much on a horse every day of my life before then, but you never know how much you’ll retain.

My legs aren’t used to gripping the side of a horse.

My hands are no longer accustomed to holding the—well, in this case, Kristiana’s in the process of wrapping the end of the rope around to the other side of Katerina’s mouth to form a sort of rope-halter-bridle. But I haven’t held reins in so long I’ve nearly forgotten how to thread the rope through my pinkie and ring finger and then up between my thumb and index finger.

The extra rope at the top slides to the right side as my mother taught, and the second Kris finishes, I squeeze my legs at the thigh to urge my mare forward. Katerina walks off immediately, pushing past Adriana and Grigoriy as if she’s as eager as I am to put them all behind us. And if her tail swishes and smacks Adriana in the face, well, I’m sure it was an accident.

A moment later, without any urging from me, Katerina takes off at a very brisk canter, jogging through the woods in a bounding, ground-eating pace that I’m hard-pressed to keep my seat through. “Whoa,” I say. “Why are you running?”

Katerina just neighs and ducks her head, picking up even more speed.

The wind whips through her mane and my hair alike.

My thighs grip her more tightly. I crouch low over her neck, remembering the feeling better than I expected. And something inside my heart cracks wide open.

I had forgotten how much I liked to ride.

Buried under bad memories, suppressed by a mountain of resentment and anger, I had almost erased my joy at being near a horse. They may have ruined my life, and they may be responsible for the death of my mother, but there’s still something freeing, something energizing about moving in tandem with such a large, magnificent creature. The world falls away. The dangers chasing us feel a little less terrifying, and my heart forgets all its terror as we move.

It almost feels like my small heart syncs with the horse’s large one.

Or, Katerina’s, in this case.

Movement like this is good for the soul. Or at least, I think it is.

Movement in general isn’t valued like it should be. It clears your mind, it cleanses your soul, I’m sure of it. By the time Katerina finally swings back around and heads for the car we abandoned, which is now so far back I can barely see it, I feel more grounded. I feel less panicky.

And my inner thighs are shaking.

I’m so painfully out of shape.

Just as we draw up alongside the SUV again, I see a blue truck turn down the drive up ahead. “We’ll head for the house,” I say loudly.

Katerina doesn’t slow down as we approach, and in fact, as we pass Alexei, she bolts, spraying loamy soil all over Alexei’s blue shirt and pristine slacks. That time, it definitely wasn’t an accident.

I don’t have the bandwidth to turn around and see how he takes it. I’m barely clinging on as it is. When we draw near the house and turn to head down the drive, Katerina slows to a trot, and other than having my teeth rattled out and smashing my man-parts once, I’m surprised at how well I handle it all.

“You—well.” Venetia climbs out of her truck, leaning on the door frame. “You do have a horse.” Her brow furrows. “But please tell me you don’t plan on wearing that.”

I snort. “It’s the best I have right now, but believe me. Once we get the saddle worked out, that’s our next stop.”

“And do you have a place to leave your horse while you go shopping?” She tilts her head. “Because I didn’t even see a trailer.”

“We’re borrowing one,” I say. “And our friend just dropped her off, but she’ll be back by to pick her up in a minute, after running an errand.” I’m proud of myself for making that up on the fly.

Venetia frowns, but she doesn’t argue. “Well, follow me to the barn, then. We’ll take a look at what we have. You should really borrow a bridle, too, though. That mare’s just pulling you around with that rope.”

“Right,” I say. “That would be amazing, if I could.”

Katerina’s head whips around, and her eye flashes. I’m pretty sure she likes dragging me around. I can’t say I blame her. I wouldn’t be keen to arm a lousy rider with a bar of iron with which to yank on her face, but I’m going to look crazy enough without trying to compete with a halter as a bridle.

When we trot past Venetia’s pasture, at least a dozen horses race toward the fence, tails streaming behind them, nostrils flared, several of them calling out.

Venetia watches my mare carefully. “She’s not spooky, and she’s not reactive. You’re either a much better rider than I thought, or she’s a much better horse.”

“A little from column a,” I say. “A little from column b.”

Her grin is like a piece of buttered toast—warm, comforting, and a little salty. “Amanda should really talk to you folks.” She nods. “I can’t figure out what you might want with her, and I have no idea where you found this horse, but in a small town, stuff like this has a way of coming out.”

I really doubt that. But if Venetia likes us now. . . “You could give her a call and?—”

“Miss out on watching you try to do the barrel pattern?” She chuckles. “Not a chance.”

We spend the next few moments running through saddle options, and while she has quite a few saddles, most of them are fitted for a woman her size, which I most definitely am not. The two saddles she has that will accommodate someone my size are both heavy trail saddles. Shockingly, the super-annoying Russians and their Latvian lovers stay near the SUV, letting Katerina and me handle this alone.

They’re probably just avoiding an awkward situation, but it’s helpful.

“I’m not sure whether you’d be better off squeezing into a barrel saddle with an uncomfortably small seat,” Venetia says, “or a heavy trail saddle that actually fits.”

“To be perfectly honest,” I say, “I’m not sure it really matters.” I can’t help my smile. “We’re going to get dead last either way.”

“You never know,” Venetia says. “But I do wonder how you’re going to find clothing in time when you have to report to the fairground in less than an hour.”

“The races aren’t until one o’clock,” I say.

“Right.” She pauses. “But there’s check-in, and then there’s the warm-up, so you only have about an hour or so before all that starts.”

Katerina bumps the trail saddle with her nose and tosses her head toward the exit.

“Is your horse. . .” Venetia blinks and then shakes her head. “Never mind.”

I kick Katerina. “I think the trail saddle will be best.”

“You could probably borrow some of my husband’s clothing.” Venetia cringes. “It won’t fit you perfectly, but it would be better than. . .”

She doesn’t insult my clothes, but she doesn’t need to. It’s obvious. “Um, that would be amazing.”

I almost take it back when she comes out with jeans that are at least two sizes too big and the ugliest western shirt I’ve ever seen. It has different fabric on the cuff, like I’m auditioning for some kind of line-dancing team. “Oh.”

“Trust me,” she says. “You want to look very western when you compete.”

I don’t want to trust her, not on this, but I don’t have much choice. Luckily, her husband Doug and I wear the same size shoe, and the shiny, dark brown boots she brings out look way better than the ridiculous navy and bright green shirt with shiny metal snaps. Katerina stands tied nicely while I change—I can see her through the window of the bathroom—but when I emerge, she starts craning her neck for a peek, which is about the least horse-like behavior I can imagine.

Reaching for some grass? Sure. Trying to catch a glimpse of her rider in his newly borrowed western wear?

Ha.

“You look much better.” At least Venetia hasn’t noticed Katerina’s odd behavior. Or if she has, she hasn’t commented on it. A moment later, I’m riding off on Katerina’s back. The western saddle feels strange—I always rode English back home—but it’s a far cry easier to ride in than bareback was, and I probably overdo it with my waving and professions of gratitude as we leave.

Katerina picks up the pace, trotting toward the team, as we draw closer. The pile of my clothes and shoes that have been clutched on my lap with my elbow since we left Venetia’s barn finally breaks free of my hold just as we reach them, tilting forward and billowing out into the dirt.

One of my shoes spins and rolls, stopping in front of Grigoriy. He looks from the shoe, upward, his eyes stopping on the cuffs of my shirt.

As if his laughter is the impetus for the others, pretty soon they’re all howling. I’ve barely started to swing off her back when Katerina changes—wearing totally different clothing than she had before—and starts to yell.

“Three actual horses in this bunch, and three much more proficient riders. You should be ashamed of yourselves, laughing at him. He’s sacrificed more than any of you. His company’s IPO, his grandfather’s long-sought favor, and now his pride, just to try and help you find the journals you want so that he can keep your ungrateful hides safe. He doesn’t live in Russia, and he doesn’t care about Leonid. Or, you know, he didn’t, before you lot showed up and wrecked his life, and now you’re laughing at him.”

It appears they’ve struck a nerve.

“I’m sorry,” Grigoriy says. But his lip is twitching and he doesn’t really look very sorry.

“Me too,” Kris says. Only, she actually looks penitent. “The shirt was. . .unexpected, but?—”

“We have to get to the fairground in the next hour,” Katerina says. “That’s why he borrowed clothes from that nice woman’s husband, who’s clearly much larger, and who also has no sense of style.”

“Hey,” I say. “The boots aren’t bad.” I lean over and pick up my poor clothing, now soiled beyond recognition. “Either way, we ought to go. Once we’re there, Katerina and I will do our best to get her attention, but you need to find a time to talk to that Saddler woman, or this was a total waste of time.”

“At least it was entertaining.” Adriana holds up her phone and snaps a photo.

“Everyone still has their devices on airplane mode, right?” Aleksandr asks. “No signals whatsoever?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexei says. “We heard you the first twenty times.”

A few moments later, we’re loading into the SUV again, my dirty clothing in the back, and Katerina’s staring out the window, her expression strange. Before we’ve even begun down the road, she turns toward me, her voice soft. “Do you think your dad really called a cousin he’d never met in America and asked for money?”

“I’m guessing hounded is a better word for what he did,” I say. “My dad was very good at one thing—manipulating people into giving him money so he could get out of all the tight spots he backed himself into.”

“That’s not entirely fair,” Kris says. “Sometimes?—”

“No.” I shake my head. “It’s more than fair. You love him, and I try to understand that, but in my life, he’s done nothing but wreck everything I care about.”

Kris’s face crumples, but she doesn’t argue.

Which makes me feel like the villain. In some ways, maybe I am. My mom would certainly have expected me to forgive him if she were here. The only thing in the world she loved more than horses was him. I’ll never understand it, but I’m sure she’d tell me that I don’t have to understand. Love is just love.

Their inexplicable love ruined the whole concept for me.

It always looked like another way to be duped.

“We’re here.”

I don’t see a fairground anywhere close. “Are we?”

“It’s a mile that way.” Aleks points. “But if we drive up and unload there, I’m guessing people might have some questions.”

“I checked out the map.” Kristiana brandishes a map book that looks like it sat inside the gas station for twenty-six years before someone without a phone finally bought it. “The only thing along this stretch for maybe half a mile is a tiny farm—and I saw some scrub brush back there that should block your view of the road. You can change and just ride her back down this path until it dead-ends into the fairground.”

“We’ll head along to the rodeo and find a parking spot and seats,” Mirdza says.

I keep forgetting how insane all this is. I’m going to be riding in a barrel race—which is already ridiculous enough—and I’ll be riding a person who’s turning into a horse for it. Only Katerina and I need to get out, which seems obvious now that we’re doing it, but I wasn’t thinking about it until now. Although we don’t have a lot of gear, it falls to me to lug the saddle, saddle pad, and bridle, because I’m not about to fob it off on Katerina.

“I can at least take that.” She reaches for the saddle pad at the same time that I swing the saddle over my shoulder, and I nearly clock her in the face with the pommel.

“Oh.” I drop the saddle on the ground and reach for her, wanting to make sure she’s alright. The motion takes her off guard, and she falls back, losing her balance and nearly stumbling. I grab her wrist and yank her forward, and suddenly she’s leaning against my chest, both hands braced against my pecs. Her eyes are wide, and her breathing’s shallow.

“Sorry.” I shake my head. “That was clumsy.”

But she’s not moving, and I don’t really want her to move, either. I stare at her, entranced by the contrast of her flame-red hair and golden-green eyes. It’s a disturbingly beautiful combination.

“Wow, you’re the definition of a one-trick pony,” someone mutters behind us. It’s a girl’s voice. “Not that it’ll work any better for her this time.”

Katerina stiffens and shoves away from me. She’s fast, but I can see her cheeks flush before she turns.

I turn and scowl at everyone in the car, directing most of my heat at Adriana. It might not be based on any evidence, but I’m guessing she’s the one who made the snarky remark. By the time I grab the saddle and sling it over my shoulder, I have to jog to catch up with Katerina.

“What was that about?” I ask. “One trick?”

She walks faster.

I throw the bridle over my shoulder and use my free hand to grab her shoulder. “Hey.”

When she does turn around, she’s crying.

“What’s going on?”

She shakes her head and wipes her cheeks. “Nothing.”

“Something.”

“It’s just—now that I’ve actually given up on Alexei, they won’t let me.”

Oh.

They’re saying she’s trying to do the same thing with me as she did with Leonid—trying to make Alexei jealous. By flirting with me. That makes me feel. . .strange. I’m not sure why. “They think—but you and I aren’t. . .”

She rolls her eyes. “I know. Believe me.”

“I mean, not that I wouldn’t want to, but—” I cough. “We certainly aren’t faking anything.”

When she looks up at me, it’s slow. Her eyes look skittish, like a green horse I’m approaching with a saddle. “No. We aren’t.”

“If they think they see something between us, well.” I shrug. “Whatever’s there is real.”

And this time, she smiles.

“We probably ought to get ready.” Her eyes are soft, though, and it makes me happy. This is how she should look. I hated seeing her with that hunted look on her face. Even worse than the look she wore when we first met was the expression of despair I saw when the only people she knows in this century are mocking her. The girl who just fiercely defended me when they laughed.

In her century, the mocking of the other nobles was pretty devastating. She probably cares about earning their good opinion far more than I do.

A desire to gather her up in my arms and fight anyone who harms her rolls over me, and not for the first time. It is a foreign desire for me, however. Until now, the only person I’ve routinely wanted to protect was myself.

Not that I can really protect anyone right now.

I’m as powerless as Leonid ever was—and that’s who’s coming for us, thanks to my idiocy.

“Hey,” a voice shouts from not too far away.

A dog shoots past us then, tail wagging, tongue lolling out.

“Peanuts,” the same voice shouts. It sounds like a teenager, maybe. “Peeeeanuts!” The kid comes into view then, running, someone slightly shorter running along next to him.

They’re chasing their dog, which likely means they live around here. They have reason to be here.

We do not.

“Are those people up ahead?” a girl asks.

“What are they doing here?” the boy says. “Maybe that’s who Peanuts took off after.”

Hardly. He shot past us like a socialite who spied a sample sale. I doubt they’ll be keen to hear our explanations. And now that I think about it, I don’t really have an explanation for why we’re wandering along this road, lugging a saddle and a bridle with us. I can’t really say, “We hiked out here so she could turn into a horse without anyone noticing.”

In that moment, I’m not sure whether it’s my own desires taking over or whether it’s really the most expedient move to keep us from having to make up yet another lie. But I do what I’ve been dying to do all day—maybe longer if I’m being honest.

I grab sweet, gorgeous, svelte Katerina by her shoulders, and I duck down and press my mouth against hers.