14. Mira
MIRA
T he training schedule needs restructuring.
I spread the papers across the kitchen table, calculating timing and recovery periods with a mechanical pencil and too much coffee.
Rusalka needs more intensive work—mid-gate bursts, stamina circuits, controlled speed intervals—but I have to balance intensity against burnout.
Push too hard and her spirit breaks. Not hard enough and we lose the race.
Neither option works.
I tap the pencil against the table edge, studying the numbers I've written and rewritten a dozen times. Fifteen days until race day. Fifteen days to turn potential into victory. The math doesn't lie, but it doesn't comfort me either.
" Batya ," I call toward the living room where the television drones with morning news. "Can you help me today? I need someone with a stopwatch."
His footsteps shuffle across the hardwood. He appears in the doorway, gray hair uncombed, yesterday's shirt wrinkled. The past few weeks have aged him, carved deeper lines around his eyes and mouth. But his hands are still steady when they need to be.
"What do you need?"
"Timing drills. Recovery circuits. I want to see how she handles sustained speed over different distances."
He nods, understanding immediately. This is the language we both speak—horses, training, the pursuit of that perfect combination of power and endurance that separates winners from also-rans.
"When do we start?"
"Now," I tell him, standing up.
The round pen feels smaller today, or maybe Rusalka feels bigger. She moves through her warm-up with controlled energy, her muscles loose and ready. I guide her through basic paces first—walk, trot, controlled canter—letting her body prepare for the harder stuff to come.
Batya stands by the gate with a stopwatch and clipboard, his expression focused. We've done this dance before, he and I, countless times over the years. But today carries a different weight. Today determines whether we keep the ranch or watch it burn.
"Ready for the first burst," I call.
He raises the stopwatch. "Go."
I cue Rusalka into a full gallop, her hooves drumming against packed earth. The first marker comes up fast—thirty seconds of sustained speed. She hits it smoothly, breathing controlled, stride even. I bring her back to a trot, then a walk, monitoring her recovery.
"Time?"
"Twenty-eight point four. Clean breathing throughout."
Good. Better than good.
We run the circuit six more times, varying the distances and recovery periods. Rusalka handles each burst with increasing confidence, her times staying consistent, her form holding strong. By the end of the session, she's tired but not exhausted, responsive but not stressed.
I'm walking her through the final cooldown when Renat appears at the fence line. He doesn't announce himself. He simply falls into step beside me as I lead Rusalka around the perimeter. I don't acknowledge him, don't change my pace or pattern. But I don't tell him to leave, either.
He notices the pole configuration I've set up for tomorrow's session—a complex pattern designed to test agility and speed simultaneously. Without asking, he adjusts the spacing on two of them, making the angles more challenging but still achievable.
"Tighter turns build confidence," he says, his voice low and matter-of-fact.
I glance at the poles, then at him. He's right. The adjustment improves the setup. But I don't thank him for it.
We work around each other for the next twenty minutes, testing Rusalka's responses and pushing her. The space between us stays charged with unfinished conversations and unresolved tension, but we manage to function, to cooperate without communicating.
Batya watches from the fence, but I never get a good read on what he's thinking.
He's like that—masking his thoughts behind a poker face most of the time.
When we finish, Rusalka is cooled down and settled, the training area is organized for tomorrow, and Renat is heading back toward the bunkhouse without another word.
"That man is complicated," Batya says after Renat disappears from view.
I don't respond. Complicated doesn't begin to cover it.
Night falls with the promise of frost. I pace my bedroom, wearing a path in the carpet between the window and the door. The light in the bunkhouse loft glows yellow and warm, and I know Renat is up there, probably reading or cleaning weapons or doing whatever enforcers do in their downtime.
Fifteen days. The number circles in my mind, relentless and unforgiving. Rusalka is good—better than good—but she's not ready for a race of this caliber. Not yet. She needs more time, more conditioning, more fine-tuning of speed and stamina.
Sixty days would be ideal. Forty-five at minimum. Time to build her confidence gradually, to push her limits without breaking her spirit. Time to turn potential into guaranteed victory.
But time is the one commodity I don't have. Unless I can convince Renat to ask for it.
The plan forms slowly, methodically. Keep him interested. Keep him engaged. Use whatever connection exists between us to buy more preparation time. If I have to sleep with him to save the ranch, then that's what I'll do. It wouldn't be the first sacrifice I've made for this place.
I change clothes—jeans that fit well, a sweater that shows the right amount of skin without being obvious about it. Nothing too calculated, nothing that screams seduction. Just enough to remind him that I'm a woman as well as a trainer.
The kitchen is dark when I slip downstairs. Through the window, I can see Batya on the back porch, the red glow of his cigar tip moving in slow arcs. He does this sometimes when he can't sleep, sits outside and smokes and thinks about whatever ghosts haunt him from the day.
I'll have to go the long way around. Through the old hay barn, past the equipment shed, then across the yard to the barn. It adds ten minutes to the walk, but it keeps me out of Batya 's line of sight.
The hay barn smells musty and old, filled with the accumulated scent of decades’ worth of storage. Moonlight filters through the high windows, creating geometric patterns on the floor. I'm halfway through when I smell smoke.
Not cigar smoke. Not the comfortable smell of tobacco and evening air. This is sharper, more acrid. The smell of accelerant and burning wood.
I freeze, listening. Voices drift from the far end of the barn, low and urgent. Two men, maybe three. The words aren't clear, but the tone is unmistakable—they're working, focused, completing a task.
I edge closer, staying in the shadows between the hay bales. The voices become clearer as I approach.
"—should be enough to make the point?—"
"—Lev wants the whole place to go?—"
"—not yet, just a warning?—"
Karpin men. They're here, in our barn, setting fires.
I turn to run, to get back to the house and call for help, but my foot catches on a loose board and I stumble, nearly faceplanting next to a rack of old horse shoes. The sound echoes through the barn like a gunshot. The voices stop immediately.
"What was that?"
"Someone's here."
Footsteps pound across the floor, moving fast. I run toward the door I came through, but it's too late. They're between me and the exit, cutting off my escape route.
"Well, well. Look what we caught."
The voice belongs to the same man Renat threw to the ground days ago. His face carries the bruises to prove it, purple and yellow marks across his jaw and cheek. His eyes burn with humiliation and rage.
"Little Mira Petrova. Out for a midnight stroll."
Two other men flank him, both carrying gasoline cans and disposable lighters. Behind them, small flames lick at the base of the hay bales, growing stronger with each passing second.
"You picked the wrong night for wandering around," A thug says, moving closer. "But maybe it's better this way. Front row seats to watch your world burn."
I back away, looking for another exit, another escape route. But the barn only has two doors, and they're blocking both. Smoke begins to fill the air, making my eyes water.
"Let me go. This doesn't solve anything."
He laughs, the sound harsh and ugly. "Doesn't it? Your boyfriend embarrassed me in front of my men. Beat me down in my territory. Now I return the favor."
"Renat isn't?—"
"Isn't what? Your boyfriend? Your protector?" His smile turns cruel. "Then he won't mind watching you burn."
One of the other men grabs my arm, dragging me toward an empty stall at the back of the barn. The wood is old and dry, perfect kindling. They shove me inside and slide the bolt home, trapping me behind walls that won't hold against flames for more than a few minutes.
"Enjoy the show," he calls, already moving toward the door with his companions.
The fires spread faster than I expected. What started as small, controlled blazes quickly grows into something hungry and wild. The old wood catches immediately, sending sparks and smoke toward the rafters. The temperature rises, making the air shimmer and dance.
I throw myself against the stall door, but the bolt holds firm. The wood is thick, reinforced with iron brackets that won't give way to desperate shoving. My hands are already raw from trying to force it open.
"Help!" I scream, knowing Batya is too far away to hear me over the crackling flames. "Fire! Someone help me!"
The smoke gets thicker, making me cough and gasp for clean air. The flames climb the walls with terrifying speed, consuming everything in their path. Heat presses against my skin, making sweat run down my back and arms.
This is how I die. Trapped in a burning barn while the ranch burns around me. All because I wanted to seduce a man into giving me more time.
"Help me!" I scream again, my voice cracking with smoke and fear. "Please, somebody help!"
The flames reach the rafters, sending burning debris raining down around the stall. I press myself against the far wall, covering my head with my arms, and pray that someone—anyone—will hear me before it's too late.