20. Mira
MIRA
T he evening air carries the scents of cooling earth and distant rain as I watch Renat work Rusalka through another practice start in the paddock.
The mare's coat gleams copper in the fading light, her muscles bunching and releasing as she responds to his cues.
What strikes me most is how different he looks now compared to those first awkward attempts weeks ago.
His hands are steady on the reins, no longer fighting her mouth or second-guessing every movement.
When Rusalka shifts her weight, preparing to bolt forward, he reads the subtle change in her posture and adjusts his seat accordingly.
The connection between them has become fluid, natural—the kind of partnership that can't be forced or faked.
"Easy," he murmurs as she prances sideways, eager to run. "Wait for it."
Rusalka's ears flick back toward his voice, and she settles into position. Her hindquarters coil beneath her, ready to explode forward the moment he gives the signal. The tension builds between them—horse and rider both wound tight, waiting for that perfect moment of release.
When Renat clicks his tongue and shifts his weight forward, Rusalka launches herself into a full gallop.
Her hooves pound against the packed dirt, throwing up small clouds of dust as she stretches into her stride.
Renat moves with her, his body following the rhythm of her gait instead of fighting it.
They flow together around the paddock, a single unit of power and purpose.
I lean against the fence rail, watching them complete the circuit.
The improvement is undeniable. Three weeks ago, Renat could barely stay in the saddle during a controlled walk.
Now he's handling a thoroughbred at full speed with the confidence of someone who belongs there.
The transformation should please me—it's what we've been working toward all this time.
Instead, it fills me with a complex mix of pride and dread.
Every day that Renat gets better, every small victory in his horsemanship, brings us closer to the race that will determine everything.
Eight days left. Eight days to perfect what we've built, to hope it's enough, to pray that the gamble I'm already planning won't destroy us all.
Renat slows Rusalka to a trot, then a walk, letting her breathing return to normal as they circle the paddock.
When he guides her toward the gate where I'm standing, both horse and rider are breathing hard but satisfied.
Sweat darkens Renat's shirt along his spine, and Rusalka's neck gleams with moisture.
"Better?" he asks, dismounting with more grace than he possessed a month ago.
"Much better." I unlatch the gate and step into the paddock. "She's not fighting you anymore. See how her ears stayed forward the whole time? That means she trusts you to make the decisions."
Renat runs his hand along Rusalka's neck, and she leans into the touch. "She's a good teacher. Patient with my mistakes."
"Horses usually are, if you listen to them." I reach up to check the mare's breathing, counting her respirations as they slow. "She's recovering faster too. Her conditioning is coming along."
We begin the cooldown walk, leading Rusalka around the paddock at a leisurely pace.
The evening settles around us, bringing with it the peaceful rhythm that I've come to associate with these moments—the soft thud of hooves on dirt, the creak of saddle leather, the quiet satisfaction of work well done.
From my jacket pocket, I produce a red apple I'd saved from lunch. Rusalka's nostrils flare as she catches the scent, and her step quickens with anticipation. I slice the fruit in half with my pocket knife, offering one piece to her while handing the other to Renat.
"Spoiled," he says, but there's affection in his voice as Rusalka crunches her treat.
"She's earned it." I watch the mare chew, juice dripping from her lips. "A good horse deserves good treatment."
Renat takes a bite of his half, and for a moment we stand in comfortable silence. The sun has nearly disappeared behind the tree line, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Soon it will be full dark, and the ranch will settle into the quiet rhythms of night.
"You know," I say, choosing my words carefully, "she trusts you now. Really trusts you. That's not something you can fake or force—it has to be earned."
He goes very still beside me, the apple forgotten in his hand. When I glance at him, I see something raw cross his features, quickly suppressed but not quickly enough. The comment has hit deeper than I intended, touching on something vulnerable that he keeps carefully buried.
I keep my voice gentle. "Trust is the foundation of everything we do with horses. Without it, you're just a passenger hoping not to get thrown. With it, you become partners."
Rusalka nudges his shoulder, looking for more apples, and he absently offers her the rest. I can see him processing what I've said, turning it over in his mind.
For someone who's spent years having his worth measured by his capacity for violence, the idea that he's earned something through gentleness and patience clearly carries weight.
"Partnership," he repeats, as if testing the word.
"Partnership." I nod. "The best riders aren't the ones who dominate their horses—they're the ones who find that perfect balance between leading and following. You've found that with her."
We complete another circuit of the paddock and when Rusalka's breathing has returned to normal and her coat has begun to cool, we head toward the barn to remove her tack and brush her down.
The familiar routine of caring for a horse after exercise grounds me, provides structure in a world that seems increasingly uncertain.
As we work, I find myself studying Renat's face in the dim light of the barn.
The harsh angles of his features have softened over these past weeks, and there's a calmness about him now that wasn't there when he first arrived.
Being around the horses has changed him in ways that go beyond riding technique.
They've given him something he didn't know he was looking for—a sense of purpose that doesn't involve destruction.
The thought should comfort me. Instead, it makes the deception I'm already planning feel like a betrayal. I squirm uneasily and sigh, and he looks up at me as he removes Rusalka's bridle. "Why don't you get rest? I'm thinking of turning in soon myself.”
I nod uncomfortably but I have no intention of resting. I'm too antsy, too nervous with anxious energy. "Sure…" I tell him, patting his hand before walking out of the barn toward the house.
An hour later, I'm in the kitchen gathering supplies for what I hope will be a peaceful evening under the stars.
The bottle of wine I pull from the cabinet is nothing special—a red blend Batya bought months ago and never opened—but it will serve its purpose.
The blanket I retrieve from the linen closet is thick wool, warm enough for a chilly night but not so heavy that it will be awkward to carry.
Batya appears in the doorway as I'm checking the wine glasses for cracks, his presence announced by the familiar creak of the floorboards under his weight.
He's moved more slowly these past weeks, the stress and sleepless nights taking their toll on his already weakened body.
When I look up at him, I see new lines around his eyes, deeper grooves bracketing his mouth.
"Going somewhere?" he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
"Just out to the pasture. Thought I'd do some stargazing." I hold up the wine bottle. "Maybe relax for once."
He studies me for a long moment, and I can feel the weight of unspoken questions in his gaze. When he finally speaks, he sounds like he's preparing for me to blow up. "How far are you willing to go with him, Mira?"
I set the wine bottle down on the counter, buying time by checking the cork, examining the label, doing anything to avoid meeting his eyes. I wasn’t even intending to invite Renat out there, but I know what Batya saw the other day before he left the porch and Renat had his way with me in the barn.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You know exactly what I mean." His voice is gentle but insistent. "That boy came here to destroy us. Now you're sharing drinks and taking evening walks and looking at him like he hung the moon. So I'll ask again—how far are you willing to go?"
I busy myself with folding the blanket, creasing the edges with unnecessary care.
The truth is, I don't have an answer to his question.
Every rational part of my brain knows that Renat is dangerous, potentially catastrophic.
His loyalties are divided, his position precarious.
Caring about him could destroy everything I've worked to save.
But rationality has very little to do with the way my heart speeds up when he smiles, or the sense of safety I feel when he's near, or the growing certainty that whatever is building between us might be the only thing strong enough to get us through what's coming.
"I don't have an answer," I finally admit, still not looking at him.
"Are you falling for him?"
The direct question cuts through all my careful deflections, demanding honesty I'm not sure I'm ready to give. I pause in my folding, hands stilling on the soft wool. When I speak, my voice comes out small and rigid.
"Maybe." I shrug, the gesture feeling inadequate. "All I know is that we have eight days left. Eight days to make this work, to save the ranch, to keep everything from falling apart. And maybe—maybe whatever this is between us will be strong enough to help us survive it."