24. Mira
MIRA
I t's chilly this morning as I lead Rusalka across the upper pasture, her hooves finding purchase in the frost-hardened earth.
She moves beneath my touch with the fluid grace of a creature born to run, muscles rippling under her dark coat.
Every step sends vibrations through the lead rope, a rhythm that should calm me.
Instead, my chest tightens with each breath.
Renat stands at the fence line, his bulk a dark shadow against the grey morning sky.
The distance between us feels necessary—vital, even.
When he shifts his weight, preparing to climb through the rails, I shake my head.
I've successfully avoided him for more than thirty-six hours and I need to keep it that way. I don't trust myself.
"Stay back."
"Mira." His voice carries that familiar edge, the one that means he's running out of patience. "I'd like to help."
"No." I keep walking, guiding Rusalka in a wide circle that takes us farther from where he waits. "She can sense what you've done. Animals know."
The words taste like acid in my mouth, but they're true.
Rusalka's ears flick backward every time Renat moves, her nostrils flaring as if she can smell the violence that clings to him.
The events of two nights ago have left their mark on both of us—the memory of that man crumpling to the dirt, the wet sound his body made when it hit the ground.
The way Renat sat calmly afterward, gun still smoking in his hand.
"That's horseshit and you know it." Renat's knuckles whiten where he grips the fence rail. "She's a racehorse, not a damn mind reader."
"Tell that to her." I stroke Rusalka's neck as we pass the far end of the pasture. Her skin twitches under my palm, and I can feel the tension coiled in every muscle. "Look at her. Really look."
He does, and I watch his face change as he takes in the rigid set of her ears, the way she keeps glancing toward him with wide, wary eyes. For a moment, his expression softens—almost vulnerable. Then the mask slides back into place.
And while it's true that horses are so sensitive to register the emotion of their handlers, Rusalka's tension this morning is probably not related to Renat killing that man. It's more likely that she senses his frustration with me now and is happy to keep her distance.
"Fine." The word comes out flat, resigned. "But we're running out of time, Mira. Race day is the day after tomorrow."
"I know what day it is."
My father emerges from the barn, hobbling and displaying his age. He approaches the fence where Renat waits, and I can see them talking—urgent, low voices that don't carry across the field. Batya gestures toward me, toward the horse, and Renat shakes his head sharply.
I bring Rusalka to a halt, letting her crop the sparse grass while I study both men.
They're arguing about me, about the race, about choices that feel increasingly out of my control.
And their voices are low enough I can't hear a single word they're saying.
The weight of everything—the debt, the threats, the impossible gamble we're making—settles across my shoulders.
Batya breaks away from the conversation and walks toward me, his weathered face creased with worry.
"Mira, devochka , you need to let him help.
Renat's the only reason we still have a chance at this.
" His eyes plead with me, and I know why.
After Renat's boss told him to torch our ranch and kill us, I pleaded and Renat showed mercy.
Batya only wants us to show gratitude, but how?
"Help?" I spit the word out with anger. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"You saw what happened to that man who tried to sabotage us." Batya 's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Without Renat?—"
"Without Renat, we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with.
" I turn away, leading Rusalka toward the water trough.
"His family created this problem. Now we're supposed to be grateful he's cleaning up their blood with more blood?
" They promised our horse to people who abused it and made it go lame. That's not our fault.
"That's not fair and you know it."
Maybe it isn't. Maybe I'm being cruel, punishing Renat for sins that started long before he arrived at our ranch.
But every time I close my eyes, I see that man's face—the surprise, then the pain, then nothing at all.
I see the casual way Renat shouldered his weapon afterward, as if taking a life meant no more than swatting a fly.
"Fair doesn't keep us alive, Batya ." I dismount and check the water level in the trough, noting how the metal rim has started to rust. Another repair we can't afford. "But winning this race might."
My father's hand finds my shoulder, his touch gentle despite the calluses that map decades of hard labor. "Then trust him. Trust the plan."
The plan. As if there's any plan beyond hoping Rusalka runs fast enough to save our lives. As if hope has ever been enough to pay debts or stop bullets or prevent barns from burning.
I nod anyway, because what else can I do?
Batya needs to believe we have control over this, that our choices still count for something.
But as I watch Renat pace along the fence line, his frustration obvious in every movement, I strengthen my resolve.
We'll win, but not because Rusalka can run fast. I'm going to make sure of it.
That night, after Batya has gone to bed and the ranch settles into darkness, I make my way to the small office tucked behind the main barn.
The computer's ancient, held together with electrical tape and probably a few of Batya 's prayers, but it still connects to the race registry database.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I consider what I'm about to do.
Fraud. Forgery. Criminal conspiracy.
The words should terrify me, but I have no choice.
Another horse is favored to win this race and I can't let Rusalka be seen as a loser.
I can't let Renat's family burn my home and slaughter me and my father in cold blood for something that isn't our fault.
I know they will, too—I watched Renat do it without even feeling bad.
I pull up the registration information for Thunder's Shadow, the race favorite.
Every detail is there: bloodline, training records, medical history.
Most importantly, the unique identification sequence that will be verified before the race begins.
Numbers that determine whether a horse lives or dies, whether a family survives or burns.
The printer wheezes to life as I begin copying documents, each page adding to the weight of what I'm planning. Thunder's Shadow's registration tags, official weight certificates, medical clearances—everything needed to transform one horse into another.
"What are you doing?"
I freeze, my hand still reaching for the printed pages. Batya stands in the doorway, his hair disheveled from sleep, suspicion written across his features.
"What needs to be done." I turn to face him fully, letting him see the determination in my eyes.
I gather the papers, organizing them with shaking hands. "Thunder's Shadow runs in the fourth position. Rusalka will run in the sixth. All we have to do is switch the identification tags before the race begins."
Batya sinks into the chair across from me, his face pale in the computer's blue glow. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, slowly, he reaches for the printer controls. "I didn't think you were really serious about this…"
Our conversation the other night comes back to my mind, talking about Batya 's father and his illegal activities.
I thought we ended that on a serious note.
I thought he understood that this is probably the only way.
A mare in her first race running against a legend like Thunder's Shadow just doesn't have a chance.
" Batya …" I start, but he waves me off.
"Show me what you need," he says in a resigned tone, and I let my shoulders sag.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by shame. I'm dragging my father into this darkness with me, making him complicit in a crime that could destroy whatever remains of his reputation. But survival has its own morality, and we crossed that line the moment we accepted Renat's deal.
We work in silence for the next hour, printing duplicate registration forms and laminating false identification tags.
The weight specifications have to be exact—too light or too heavy and the deception will be obvious.
The medical clearances require careful alteration, changing dates and signatures with the precision of master forgers.
When we label Thunder's Shadow as a light-weight mare, and Rusalka takes his place, we'll be committing fraud that's punishable by prison time. I just can't see another way.
"This scanner quality is terrible," Batya mutters, adjusting the contrast on Thunder's Shadow's official photograph. "It barely looks real."
"It doesn't have to fool experts." I hold up the finished product—a perfect replica of the favorite's racing credentials. "It just has to fool whoever's checking tags in the pre-race inspection and the jockey."
"And after? When Rusalka wins under Thunder's Shadow's registration?"
If that happens and she really does win under his registration, we're totally fucked. I don't answer immediately. The truth is too dark, too final to speak aloud. That's why I'm banking on the favorite.
"She's not going to win, Batya ."
"And if Thunder's Shadow wins using her number?" His eyes probe me, and I wilt.
After we win, if we win, there will be questions. Investigations. Eventually, someone will discover what we've done. But by then, we'll have bought ourselves time—days, maybe weeks before the consequences catch up with us.
"We'll figure that out when we get there," I lie.
Batya nods, but I can see the doubt in his eyes. He knows, as I do, that this plan will likely destroy us even if it succeeds. But destruction tomorrow is preferable to destruction today, and sometimes that's the only choice available to people who have already lost everything.
We seal the counterfeit documentation in waterproof pouches, identical to the ones used by race officials.
The real Thunder's Shadow tags will need to be replaced before morning inspection, which means sneaking into the stable area before dawn.
Another risk, another crime to add to our growing list.
"I can do this part alone," I tell him as we prepare to leave the office. "You've done enough."
"No." Batya 's voice carries an authority I haven't heard in years. "We do this together or not at all. You're my daughter, Mira. I won't let you carry this burden by yourself."
Gratitude and guilt war in my chest as I look at him—this broken man who has sacrificed everything for a dream that never quite materialized. He deserves better than a daughter who drags him into criminal conspiracies. But the world has never been interested in what people deserve.
The ranch sleeps under a canopy of stars that seem impossibly distant.
Rusalka stands silhouetted against the pasture fence, her head raised as if sensing our presence.
In thirty-six more hours, she'll run the race of her life under another horse's name, carrying all our hopes and lies across the finish line.
If we survive long enough to make it happen.
The thought follows me back to the house, where I lie awake until dawn, clutching the false papers against my chest and listening to the wind howl through gaps in the window frame.
By tomorrow night, we'll either be free or dead.
There's no middle ground left—only the terrible mathematics of survival, calculated in blood and betrayal and the kind of desperate courage that grows in places where hope has learned to hide.