Storm Called

by Susan Copperfield

  “He’s turned my schedule into a disaster. He says it’s about time I started making myself properly visible. He has me attending every damned social event in the kingdom between now and kingdom come. Next week, I’ll be spending my weekends hitting the rodeo and show circuits. It’s like he wants to work me to death.”

  “Working you to death would not be a good use of his heir,” I countered. “Just threaten to elope if he overworks you, as you’ll obviously snap from the stress.”

  “I have not threatened to elope before. Think it’ll work?”

  “I have no idea. It might end with you being handcuffed to furniture again.”

  Jessica bowed her head and sighed. “That happens all the time. I think they enjoy cuffing me to things at every opportunity.”

  After having gotten to know her, I was beginning to understand why they went to such lengths. “You do run away often, you have to admit.”

  “I’d run away less if they’d stop screwing around with my schedule.”

  I doubted that. “Just your schedule?”

  “Pat!”

  I considered why the king might want to work his daughter to death, and one possibility stuck out to me. “Is it possible he wants you to be assertive in his preparations for you to take over the kingdom?”

  “He’s planning on having a bunch of braindead suitors attend the social events, hoping he can convince me to marry one of those pathetic scumbags. Yesterday, he tried to saddle me with a prince from Virginia.”

  “What’s wrong with this prince from Virginia?”

  “He’s currently thirteen.”

  My brows shot up. “Has your father lost his mind?”

  “Pat!” my mother spluttered. “You’re talking about the king.”

  “Oh, don’t worry yourself none, Mrs. Laycal. My father’s a complete and total nitwit. Pat’s just telling the truth. I think he has. So, as my favorite co-conspirator, what do you propose we do to handle this problem? He suggested I marry a child, Pat. It’d be one thing if I were closer—much closer—in age to him, but that brat’s a kid. A spoiled one. A spoiled rotten kid who expected me to clean up after him. They were discussing a wedding in three years, but he’d still be a child even then. Fine, my parents aren’t that close in age, but that’s just fucking ridiculous. When there’s more than a ten year gap, there’s a huge fucking problem!”

  Cooking couldn’t make all of my problems go away, although if I banged my head into the counter hard enough, I might escape from my plight temporarily. How had I gotten dragged right into the heart of a princess’s marriage woes? Oh, right. I’d invited her into my apartment, fed her, and treated her like a human being rather than a pawn in a game of royals.

  I only had myself to blame.

  I definitely only had myself to blame for being fool enough to love everything about her.

  My parents alternated between staring at the princess and staring at me, and my mother’s expression shifted from bewildered to worried. “Pat?” she asked.

  “What is it, Mother?”

  “Did you just suggest that she should elope?”

  Jessica giggled.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “But she’s a princess.”

  “I’m also a royal pain in Pat’s ass,” the princess replied. “Right?”

  No matter what I said, I couldn’t win. “While you’re most definitely a royal, the only pain in my ass came from a saddle and hours of riding lessons today.”

  “That was smooth. Have you been sneaking in diplomacy lessons?”

  As I was already skirting a potential execution when her father found out I existed, I decided I didn’t have much else to lose. “I’m the only normal person on a complete floor of helpless elites who require me to guide them to the nearest trash can. Apparently, I’m paid to be polite about it. Does that count?”

  “It pains me to say this, but yes. I’d say that counts. We’re not very good at that sort of thing. You’re going to be cleaning up a lot of messes, Pat. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you understand how a trash can works?”

  “Better than either of my parents and the majority of spoiled elites and royals who hire people to clean up after them. I have, on occasion, picked up after others, too. I recently invaded the kitchen and asked to be put to work because I was bored. I cleaned dishes. I learned a very valuable lesson during that kitchen invasion.”

  “Which was?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever worked as hard in a day of my life as you’ve worked in one day cleaning dishes in a kitchen. And you’re not valued because of your lack of magic? I think if everyone in my caste was forced to clean dishes for a few days of every month, they’d value you and those in your caste far more. I might make it a requirement for anyone who wants to consider themselves part of our court. If they want to come to our palace and eat our food, then they need to work in our kitchen and get a good look at reality. Well, your food. My food would likely kill them. I tried my cake, Pat. It was awful compared to yours.”

  I grabbed the nearest wooden spoon and pointed it at her. “Go ahead, Jessica. Ask my mother what happened the first time I tried to cook a cake.”

  “He made a brick. A charred, circular brick. And, bless his little heart, he tried to eat it. Made himself sick, too, because he refused to waste food,” my mother loyally reported. “If your cake was edible, you did far better than he did on his first try.”

  Jessica’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “She was worried I’d break a tooth. For the record, milk does not make charred bricks go down any easier. I was forced to acknowledge defeat.”

  “He never charred another cake after that. His motto was ‘never again’ following that incident. Some days, I regret the day I got him that box of cake mix. I created a monster.”

  “You created a masterpiece.”

  My parents stared at Jessica like she’d grown a second head or had completely lost her mind. I ducked my head, cleared my throat so I wouldn’t laugh at their flummoxed expressions, and put the finishing touches on the chicken so it could go into the oven.

  “What? It’s true. Have you really looked at him? He’s easily the best damned chef in the entire kingdom, and trust me when I say I eat the best food in the world too damned often for my own good. His is better. Well, if you like barbecue. But we’re Texans. We like barbecue. It’s the one true food.”

  Obviously, the easiest way to catch a wild west Texas wind was to ring the dinner bell and serve barbecue. “You’re layering it on a bit thick there, Jessica.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “You’re biased.”

  “So?”

  I laughed, shook my head, and slid the pan in the oven, adjusting the timer to account for how my parents’ oven ran a little cooler than I liked. “I’m glad you like my barbecue.”

  “Like is too small of a word for how I feel about your barbecue.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want the yams?”

  “Don’t you even think about skipping the yams, Patrick Laycal!”

  I laughed long and loud. “Don’t worry, Your Highness. Your yams are safe. This time.”

  I loved the flash of her eyes while she glared at me. “I’m not sure how yet, but you’re going to pay for that, Pat. Mark my words.”

  I didn’t mind at all. Even when life worked against us, it’d keep us close for just a little while longer. Some battles I didn’t know if we could win, and I couldn’t see a way to close the gap dividing us.

  I would try, but sometimes, my best couldn’t be enough.

  For a while, I’d feed my princess her favorite food and enjoy watching her charm my parents with her vibrancy, finding comfort in the knowledge they, too, saw the real woman hidden behind her unfortunate title.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Within minutes of arriving at the stable following my Sunday night course, I had an audience of my instructors, each of whom had a different horse, and an amused Branst in their wake.


  He led Morning Glory, who wore a saddle. I pointed at it. “Since when does she have a saddle?”

  “I find it amusing your first question is about her saddle.”

  “I’ll get to the why part as soon as I deal with where it came from.”

  “It’s a gift from Dr. Winstil. This is the cheapest damned saddle money can buy, it’s been gutted to be as light as possible, and we’ll add weights as she strengthens. She won’t be ready to ride until she’s at least three, but she’s going to be broken to saddle and used to weights long before you even think about getting onto her back.”

  “But she’s not even a year old.”

  “When Dr. Winstil says we’re to get her saddled and in the ring and on the lunge, I listen. He’s got a good eye for the horses. Congratulations are in store, Mr. Laycal.”

  “They are?” Branst handed me Morning Glory’s reins, and I realized the bridle didn’t have a bit. “What kind of bridle is this?”

  “It’s a hackamore. We’ll get her used to wearing the hackamore before we decide how we’ll handle her real bridle. We might go with a hackamore. If she responds to rein and leg well, there’ll be no need for a bit. A lot of horse empaths prefer hackamores. They don’t need a bit for their horses. But, and here’s an important but, bits do serve a purpose, and you might lose control with a hackamore. Under normal circumstances, we’d never consider a hackamore for a green rider.”

  I could guess. “Morning Glory’s circumstances are anything but normal.”

  “That’s right. The saddle is loose, and she opened her mouth to ask for a bit like she’s seen other horses do when you’ve been getting the horses ready for a lesson. The reins on this one clip on and off, so while you’re doing your lessons, we’ll start teaching her. She wants to learn, so I see no reason not to teach her. No matter how much she begs you, she is not to be ridden. If she checks out at three years, we’ll start her then, but not a day before. I won’t see a horse lamed in my stable from an overeager rider ready to get in the saddle. In the meantime, we’ll start looking for an older horse for you.”

  “Elana wanted me to meet a black she’s afraid will go to the meat market.”

  “That woman lives to pester me!” Branst howled.

  I turned to Valerie as she seemed more likely to give me a straight answer compared to Milden or Solomon. “What’s wrong with the black? Is he too young?”

  “He’s four,” Valerie reported. “I know the horse she has in mind for you, and you’re going to need every single lesson we can fit in between now and his auction date if you want half a hope of handling him. He’s worse than his damned brother, and if you can tame that bastard, you’ll earn the respect of every last man and woman in Texas.”

  “My odds of pulling it off? How good of a horse is he?”

  “He’s fit for a king if anyone could ride him. I’m going to be blunt with you, Pat. That horse should’ve been shot between the eyes from the day he was born. He’s worse than the devil.”

  “I thought Her Royal Highness’s horse was the devil.”

  “That devil is this one’s older brother, same dam, same sire, and even worse. He’s hospitalized people, Pat. I don’t even know if anyone will ever be able to ride him. There are some horses that just never break, and they’re willing—and able—to kill.”

  “Where is this horse?”

  As one, everyone pointed down the hall of the stable in the direction of the quarantine stall.

  I scratched my brow, glanced down the hall, and then arched a brow at Branst. “He’s here?”

  “He’s slated for the meat market in three weeks. The best Elana wrangled was bringing him and seeing if we could get a rider on his back,” the stablemaster reported. “She told his owner she had a potential buyer with a young filly for breeding later. Owner’s thinking about it. So, here we are. You’re his last chance. To date, he’s broken four legs, three arms, cracked a skull, and I lost count of the ribs. One foot.”

  “That explains why you’re all here, each armed with a horse. But why is Morning Glory saddled and bridled if the goal is to ride that stallion? Also, I’m not going to forgive you if I get killed doing this.”

  “But you’re going to try,” Branst muttered.

  “Well, yes. It’s not his fault.”

  “The horse is mean, Pat. It happens. Sometimes, there’s just a horse without a good bone in his body. He’s not like Her Royal Highness’s horse. He never will be. I don’t call a horse bad blood lightly, but this stallion? He enjoys when he gets somebody hurt.”

  “He’s in the quarantine stall?”

  “The one right before it. We had it reinforced because he likes trying to break out. I’ve also moved Morning Glory next to him to give him some company. Your filly’s quite possibly daft. She likes him.”

  I rewarded my filly by rubbing her nose and giving her a kiss. “Good girl.”

  Branst sighed.

  “It’s why we’re even considering it, Branst,” Valerie muttered. “This is insanity, and I expect you’ll be the next and last he sends to the hospital, and you’ll consider yourself damned lucky if he doesn’t send you straight to your grave. Give me one damned good reason I shouldn’t just have that horse sent to auction tonight, because I’m already ready to.”

  “Is he always aggressive?”

  “Yes. Always.”

  “So why not make it if I can get him to work on the lunge? If I can’t work him on the lunge, there’s no way I’m getting on his back. And if I never ride him, isn’t that my business if I buy him?”

  “You can’t save every horse, Pat,” she replied. “There’s always going to be one you can’t save, and that’s something every horse empath has to learn.”

  “If he can be ridden, how good of a horse would he be?”

  “You’ve seen that big brute of a black Her Royal Highness rides, right?”

  I nodded.

  “He should be just as good. Her Royal Highness wanted him, but His Royal Majesty said he’d shoot him himself if he came to his stable. That ended that.”

  Jessica’s determination to escape yesterday made a lot more sense upon hearing the news—and why she’d talked about her horse so much.

  If anyone could tame the young stallion, it would be her. But since she couldn’t, I’d have to. The woman really might put me in my grave before she finished with me, and I’d go down smiling about it.

  I needed to stop clinging to the impossible.

  Sighing, I handed the reins of my filly to Branst. “Please tell me he’s at least haltered.”

  “That’s the one thing we’ve managed, but that’s where our luck ended. I won’t have that devil in my arena yet, not until I can reinforce the doors,” he warned.

  “How about to the cross ties so he can be groomed?”

  “If you get him on a lead line and on the cross ties to be groomed, I’ll eat saddle leather.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “As I’d rather not eat saddle leather if I don’t pull it off, how about you groom Morning Glory before my evening lessons for a month? I’ll groom the school horses if I can’t get him on the ties and groomed.”

  “Deal. Good luck, Pat. You’re going to need it.”

  I could only assume Jessica’s black was several years older than the one I’d risk life and limb to save. According to size, I would’ve assumed Stops on a Dime the elder. He towered over any horse I’d ever ridden, and I doubted any other could match him in height. From the safety of the hall, I whistled and looked the animal over.

  The horse’s ears turned back, and he watched me with a dark, judging eye.

  Stomps on a Dime would’ve suited him better, and I could guess how so many riders had gotten injured trying to tame the stallion. The first thing I’d do was give him a new name, something he wouldn’t associate with whatever had gotten him so distrustful of people.

  The uneasy feeling I’d learned to associate with a distressed horse strengthened the longer I stayed near his stall.
r />   I’d heard of fear aggression in dogs often enough I backed up and turned to Branst, narrowing my eyes. “Hey, Branst?”

  “Problem?”

  “Is fear aggression a thing in horses?”

  “It can be. Why?”

  I tilted my head towards the black. “He might be more frightened of me than I am of him, truth be told.”

  “You’re picking up something from him? He blank slates the other horse empaths.”

  “Just the uneasy jitters when a horse is upset. Distrustful, maybe? Possibly afraid. Ain’t been around a lot of frightened horses, but it’s kinda like when something scares the liver out of me.” I cringed as my accent came out. “Is it like in dogs?”

  Branst grunted and came closer.

  Stops on a Dime flattened his ears, retreated to the back of his stall, and kicked his hooves against the wood.

  The stablemaster joined me, looking over the stallion, his expression thoughtful. “It very well can be. We don’t have his full record; we ain’t even sure if he’s had all his vaccinations, so we took care of that. We had to sedate him to do the examination. He’s jumped from owner to owner because he’s got too damned good a pedigree to put down but nobody can handle him. From my understanding of the situation, we’re doing well actually getting him into the stall. Don’t ask how we got him into the stall.”

  “You sedated him?” I blurted.

  “Yesterday. He came in after you left for the day. While he was down, we took a close look at him. General health is good, and he came out of sedation just fine. He’s fully vaccinated now, and we took care of his shoes at the time. Since you’ll be his potential owner, it’s up to you if we geld him. Might settle him down.”

  “But would it settle him down in three weeks?”

  “No, it wouldn’t, and if we can get him tamed enough to breed, he’ll make you a fortune in stud fees. Everyone wants a spirited horse, and everyone thinks they have the perfect mare to balance out his fire.”

  “Then let’s not. I think I’ll be at this for a while, if you want to put Morning Glory back in her stall and get the others stripped of their tack? I’m not going to rush him if he’s scared of me.”