4. Mira
MIRA
T he morning air cuts through my jacket as I lead Rusalka toward the training arena. Frost covers the ground, and my breath forms white clouds that dissipate in the wind. Twenty-six days remain until the race that will determine whether Papa and I live or die.
Rusalka moves beside me with eager energy, her hooves striking the hardpacked dirt in a steady rhythm.
She's been in intensive training for a week now, accepting the increased workload without complaint.
Today we move to the next phase—speed work that will test her temperament under the kind of pressure she'll face during an actual race.
Papa waits by the arena gate, his weathered hands gripping a stopwatch.
He's lost weight since the Vetrovs arrived, and his face carries the hollow look of a man who sleeps poorly and eats less.
Every morning, I watch him try to hide the tremor in his fingers, but the stress is eating him alive from the inside.
"Track conditions?" I ask as I adjust Rusalka's bridle.
"Firm but not hard. Good footing for speed work." His voice cracks slightly on the last words.
I mount Rusalka and feel her coiled energy beneath me. She's ready to run, has been since the moment I swung onto her back. But readiness and ability are different things entirely. Today will tell us which one we're dealing with.
"Start with a warm-up lap at working trot," Papa calls out. "Then we'll ask for controlled speed."
I guide Rusalka through the arena gate and onto the training track. The half-mile oval stretches before us, its surface marked with the hoofprints of generations of horses who trained here before the money ran out and the dreams started dying.
Rusalka settles into a rhythmic trot and her stride eats up ground. I can feel her wanting to break into a canter, but I hold her steady. Speed without control is useless in racing. The horses that win are the ones who can channel their power when their riders ask for it, not before.
Movement catches my eye near the barn. Renat emerges from the shadows, his dark green eyes fixed on our progress around the track.
He's been appearing every few hours for the past week, always watching, always evaluating.
His presence should make me nervous, but instead I find it oddly reassuring.
At least I know where the threat is coming from.
"Transition to canter," Papa shouts from the rail.
I squeeze my legs against Rusalka's sides and feel her surge forward into the three-beat gait. Her movement is fluid, balanced, each stride covering more ground than the last. This is what she was born for—the sensation of speed building beneath her, the rhythmic thunder of hooves against earth.
We complete two laps at canter before I ask for more.
Rusalka responds immediately, her stride lengthening as she moves into a controlled gallop.
The wind whips past my face, and I lean forward in the saddle to reduce drag.
For a moment, the fear and desperation fall away, replaced by the pure joy of a horse doing what nature designed her to do.
But the moment doesn't last. As we round the far turn, I feel Rusalka's stride falter slightly. Not enough to unseat me, but enough to signal that something is wrong. I ease the pressure and bring her back to a trot, scanning her movement for signs of injury or discomfort.
"What happened?" Papa asks as I pull up near the rail.
"She hitched on the turn. Might be the footing, might be fatigue."
"Well, get down here and let me check her legs."
I swing down from the saddle and hold Rusalka while Papa runs his hands along her cannon bones and fetlocks. His touch is gentle but thorough, the same examination he's performed on thousands of horses over the decades.
"No heat, no swelling," he reports. "Probably just a misstep on uneven ground."
"Or she's not ready for sustained speed work."
The possibility of her physical body not matching the heart she's displaying is a looming fear. If Rusalka can't handle the physical demands of racing, our thirty-day deadline becomes meaningless. The Vetrovs will burn the ranch whether we have a horse or not.
"We'll try again after lunch," Papa says. "Give her time to rest and see if the issue persists."
I nod and lead Rusalka toward the barn for cooling and grooming. As we approach the main building, Renat steps into our path. His massive frame blocks the entrance, and for a moment I wonder if he's heard something that's changed the terms of our agreement.
"Problem with the mare?" he asks.
"Minor hitch in her stride. Nothing serious."
"Show me."
I walk Rusalka in a small circle, watching Renat's eyes track her movement. He studies her gait carefully, and I can tell he understands horses. He leans forward, noting the subtle favoring of her left foreleg that Papa and I both spotted.
"Slight lameness," he observes. "Could be a stone bruise or early tendon strain."
"Or it could be nothing. Horses hitch for dozens of reasons."
"True. But you can't afford to ignore warning signs."
His words carry an undertone that makes my skin crawl. This man has probably killed people for less than the debt my family owes. If he decides Rusalka is damaged goods, our thirty-day reprieve could end today.
"She'll be fine," I say with more confidence than I feel.
"For your sake, I hope so."
He steps aside to let us pass, but I can feel his gaze following us into the barn. The weight of his attention is physical, oppressive, a constant reminder that our lives hang on the performance of a three-year-old mare who's never faced the pressure of competitive racing.
But his paying attention to me, no matter how unnerving it is when his eyes linger across my body, means he's not thinking about how to punish my father for the failure of his own jockey. And believe me, I've noticed his eyes lingering a little too long over my curves at times.
I spend an hour grooming Rusalka and checking her legs for signs of injury. Everything feels normal—no heat, no swelling, no sensitivity to pressure. Papa's assessment was correct. The hitch was probably nothing more than a misstep on uneven footing.
But probably isn't good enough when death is the alternative to success.
After lunch, I saddle Rusalka again and return to the training track.
Papa takes his position by the rail, stopwatch ready.
This time, Renat joins him, his arms crossed as he leans against the fence.
The sight of him standing next to my father creates a surreal image—the man who might kill us watching the man who raised me.
"Same routine as this morning," Papa calls out. "Warm-up, then controlled speed work."
I guide Rusalka through the initial phases without incident. Her stride feels solid, confident, no sign of the earlier hesitation. As we move into canter and then gallop, I allow myself a moment of cautious optimism. Maybe the morning's issue was nothing more than bad footing.
That's when everything goes wrong.
We're rounding the far turn at three-quarter speed when Rusalka suddenly throws her head up and corkscrews sideways.
The movement catches me completely off guard, throwing my balance and sending me sliding toward her neck.
I try to regain my seat, but she bucks hard, her hindquarters launching skyward with explosive force.
The world tilts, spins, then goes black for a heartbeat as I hit the ground. Pain shoots through my left shoulder and ribs, and dust fills my mouth and nose. I try to push myself up, but my vision swims and my arms won't support my weight.
Heavy footsteps pound across the arena, and I expect to see Papa reaching for me. Instead, Renat's scarred hands close around my upper arms and haul me to my feet. His grip is solid, grounding, preventing me from collapsing as the world continues to spin around me.
"Easy," he says, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Don't try to move too fast."
I blink hard, trying to clear the fog from my head.
Renat's face comes into focus inches from mine, his dark green eyes scanning me for signs of serious injury.
There's something in his expression I haven't seen before—not pity, but genuine concern.
As if my wellbeing matters to him for reasons beyond the success of our agreement.
His hands move methodically, checking my arms and shoulders for breaks or dislocated joints. When he brushes dirt from my jacket, his touch is careful, almost tender. The gentleness seems at odds with everything I know about him, but it's undeniably real.
"Anything broken?" he asks.
"I don't think so. Just shaken up."
"Concussion?"
"My vision's clear. No nausea."
He nods and steps back slightly, though his hands remain on my arms to steady me. "What happened with the horse?"
I look around and see Papa leading Rusalka toward the barn. The mare appears calm now, but her ears are still pinned back and her tail swishes with agitation. Whatever spooked her was serious enough to trigger a genuine bucking fit.
"I don't know. She was moving well, then suddenly exploded."
"Pain response?"
"Maybe. Or she saw something that frightened her."
Renat's eyes narrow as he scans the arena perimeter. "What kind of something?"
"Could be anything. A bird, a shadow, movement in the barn. Young horses spook easily."
But even as I say the words, I know they sound hollow. Rusalka isn't a spooky horse. In all the months I've worked with her, she's never reacted violently to external stimuli. This was different—more visceral, more desperate.
"We need to examine her thoroughly," I say. "If she's injured, we need to know now."
"Agreed."
Renat releases my arms but stays close as we walk toward the barn.
I'm grateful for his presence, though I'm not sure why.
Maybe it's because he helped me when I fell.
Maybe it's because he showed genuine concern for my welfare.
Or maybe it's because I'm starting to see cracks in the armor he wears around his emotions.
Whatever the reason, something has shifted between us in the space of a few minutes. The man who pulled me to my feet might be the same one who's been ordered to kill me, but in that moment of vulnerability, I saw something else. Something I might be able to use if I read the situation correctly.
Papa has Rusalka cross-tied in the barn aisle when we arrive. The mare stands quietly now, but I can see white around her eyes and feel the tension radiating from her body. She's scared, and scared horses make poor racehorses.
"Let me check her legs," I say, running my hands along her cannon bones and fetlocks. "That bucking fit was too violent to be random."
Papa holds her head while I examine each leg systematically. Everything feels normal until I reach her left hind hoof. When I pick it up and apply pressure to the sole, Rusalka flinches and tries to pull away.
"Here." I point to a dark spot near the heel of her hoof. "Stone bruise. Deep one, by the way she's reacting."
Renat leans in to examine the area. His knowledge of horses shows in the way he assesses the problem, noting the extent of the bruising and its likely impact on her performance.
"Treatable?" he asks.
"Easily. Soaking, padding, anti-inflammatory treatment. A few days of rest and she'll be sound again."
"How many days?"
The question carries weight beyond its simple words. Every day we lose to injury or equipment problems brings us closer to the deadline that will end with our deaths.
"Three days minimum. Maybe five if we want to be completely safe."
Renat processes this information without visible emotion, but I can see him calculating the impact on our timeline. Twenty-six days has just become twenty-one, maybe nineteen. The margin for error continues to shrink.
"Fix it," he says finally. "Whatever it takes."
I nod and begin gathering supplies for Rusalka's treatment. As I work, I'm aware of Renat watching every movement, cataloging every detail. But his attention doesn't feel predatory anymore. Instead, it feels protective, as if he's genuinely invested in our success.
The realization opens possibilities I hadn't considered before. If Renat cares about more than just following orders, if he's capable of seeing me as something other than an obstacle to be removed, then maybe I have more leverage than I thought.
Maybe the man who saved my life is also the one I can bend to my will, if I play this right.