“Hell, Pat, you get him to sniff your fingers without trying to bite your hand off, and I’ll call it your win. I have no idea how we’re going to get him groomed or muck his stall. Hope you have an ace tucked up your sleeve. You’re going to need it.”
“And you said he’s four? How have people been taking care of him?”
“You want the real answer or the one that’ll make you sleep better at night?”
“The real answer, please.”
“They haven’t. They’ve been letting him loose in a paddock. He wasn’t even shod, his hooves were a mess, and I’m impressed he wasn’t sick. We groomed what we could reach while he was down, but that’s all I can say. When we got him out of sedation, we brushed him off as much as he could before he became aggressive again. Landed a light bite, but otherwise, it went well enough. Please believe me when I say the last thing I want to do is shoot a horse with a tranquilizer dart because none of us can work with him. I suspect your theory on fear aggression is right. It’s better than what we’ve come up with. Damn it, if our horse empaths could work with him, we could help.”
“You can’t fix abuse,” I replied, careful to keep my tone gentle. “And you can’t make it magically go away, either. But if he was abused, that’s going to take a lot longer than three weeks to work through, Branst.”
“We’ll make a horseman out of you yet. I’m thinking the problems have been amplified each time he’s been dumped at a new owner. If you can get him on the cross ties without having to drug him, I’ll report back to his owner we’re having positive results, and I’ll see if I can get him pulled off the auction for you. That’s the best I can do if you don’t think you can get in the saddle. Only way that horse dodges the auction for certain is if you can prove he can be ridden without killing somebody. But his health matters, too. We need him out of the stall to muck it. If you can’t get into his stall to work with him, if we can’t keep him groomed, he can’t stay. It’s not fair to him, and I won’t set a horse like him loose to run with the mustangs. He’s too aggressive. I’m sorry, Pat. You’ve got three weeks. Do what you can, and if you can’t make it happen, try not to blame yourself too hard. Some fights you just can’t win, and this might be one of them. It won’t be any fault of yours.”
It wouldn’t be any of the big black’s fault, either, but I kept quiet on the matter. It wouldn’t help anything. “I’ll do what I can.”
“No doubt. We’ll adjust your lesson schedule to account for your work with him. How many hours a day do you think you’ll be spending with him?”
The stallion snorted and kept as far away from me as possible, and I wondered how I’d manage working a miracle. “Put me in for two hours of riding lessons a day. I’ll spend the rest of the time with him. I figure I’ll need the riding lessons to get over the frustration.”
“I figured you were a smart one. Tonight, do what you can for him but don’t expect anything. Consider it a hard-earned break from your lessons for a day. If you want to try bribes, there are sugar cubes and carrots in the tack room.”
At least with Morning Glory in the stall beside him, I’d have some company while I tried to figure out how to convince the big black to accept my presence enough to keep him off the meat market. In what was becoming a disturbing trend, I worried I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
At eleven, the stable quieted as most of the staff went home with the exception of two men who kept an eye on the horses and worked as security. Most of the lights were dimmed except for the ones near Morning Glory’s stall. In a good change of luck for me, there was a set of cross ties near the black’s stall, which would give him a good view of me working with my filly, who drank up attention with no sign of ever tiring of it. I took the lightweight saddle off her back, which earned me a snort and both her ears turned back.
“You’ll get to wear it again soon,” I promised, draping it across her stall door. I left her hackamore on, figuring it wasn’t much different from a halter. If I’d made the wrong decision, I’d hear about it from Branst tomorrow.
I took my time grooming my filly, who might end up a match for the black if she kept growing like a weed. I needed to ask Dr. Winstil if her growth spurt was normal, if I needed to do anything special for her leg, which had healed better than anyone expected, and if we’d need to change her exercise schedule to account for the extra hands.
She’d transitioned away from gangly-legged filly to a young mare in the blink of an eye, although a lot of her time in surgery and recovery accounted for some of that. From the reading I’d done, she wouldn’t stop growing until five or six years old, and by the time she was six, she’d be ready to train and ride in the more challenging competitions.
The stable had several thoroughbreds who couldn’t be ridden anymore because they’d been pushed too hard when too young, and they enjoyed what they could of their lives. My favorite of them was Spartacus, but it hurt whenever he saw someone about to go on a ride.
He just wanted to carry a rider again. When I’d asked Dr. Winstil about it, the older man had sighed, shook his head, and told me he’d never be up to carrying the weight of a man again.
When I’d asked about the weight of a young child, he’d stared at me with narrowed eyes. After several evaluations, the thoroughbred had gotten a new lease on life—and lower caste children about to undergo talent evaluations got a chance to ride a horse.
I couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve changed for me if I’d gotten a chance to ride a horse, too.
Down the hall, several horses snorted, and when I checked on them, Spartacus leaned out over his stall door and flapped his lips at me in a bid for attention.
Sometimes, I wondered if my wayward talent counted as more of a curse than a blessing—and if Spartacus’s owner would consider letting me work with him and the kids.
“I’ll groom you, too,” I promised. “Let me finish with Morning Glory first.”
No one fully understood how magic worked, or if horses could speak English, but the gelding bobbed his head and settled down to wait.
From the back of his stall, the black horse watched me, his ears twisted back and his entire body tense.
I spent the entire evening grooming horses in a futile effort to convince the stallion I—or the brush I used—wouldn’t hurt him. I just hoped I’d be able to convince him sooner than later his best chances were with me.
Then again, I’d be skeptical, too. I wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor, a fount of money or wisdom, and had about as much to learn as he did. At best, we’d make a motley pair.
It’d be a long three weeks.
Chapter Sixteen
To get the black used to my presence, I spent as much time with him and Morning Glory as I could. I went to work and classes as normal, ate at the office whenever possible, and kept a ready supply of energy bars and vegetable juice on hand to cut down on how much time I spent outside of the stable. When I wasn’t grooming horses or taking flying lessons thinly disguised as horseback riding, resulting in the replacement of three helmets in the first week I’d started jumping, I kept the stallion company.
Sometimes I read.
Sometimes I talked to Morning Glory.
Sometimes, when my common sense abandoned me, I used my phone to research the latest political news trying to catch a glimpse of Jessica’s life. If I were to believe the newspapers and tabloids, the royal line would die with her. Half approved, citing the reasons the princess had given me for her dislike of her suitors. The other half believed she needed to find someone—anyone—and continue the lineage.
All of them agreed on one thing: without Jessica’s talent, without her parents’ talents, Texas would be in a lot of trouble every year when the hurricanes rolled through. The neighboring kingdoms would be in trouble, too.
I’d found one article more intriguing than the rest: Jessica came from a dying line of powerful waveweavers, and nobody born after her had even a fraction of her power.
The ne
xt time I saw her, I’d have to ask her if her control of water, lightning, and wind was really so fine-tuned and powerful she could boil someone’s blood in their veins without leaving a mark on them. What could she really do with her magic?
Mine seemed so inferior compared to hers, and the longer I thought about it, the more I believed any future with us in it was nothing more than smoke caught on a breeze.
She could save kingdoms.
I might be able to save a single horse.
The horse in question snorted, drawing my attention from my phone. I hadn’t believe such a large animal could sneak up on somebody, but he’d gotten close enough to steal my hat, which I had managed to pry out of Jessica’s hands after dinner a week ago.
He tossed his head and waved my hat in the air like it was a toy.
Putting my phone back into my pocket, I resumed my routine to see if I could cajole the black into coming out of his stall long enough to muck it out and give him a quick brushing. I’d discovered if I waited until he was tired enough, I could sneak in and take care of most of the work, enough to meet the barest of Branst’s minimums and buy the horse time.
I began with a carrot, which I set on his stall door.
Then I waited. As it was Saturday night, I had hours before anyone else would come in, and Branst’s orders had been clear: nobody was to come anywhere near the black’s stall when I was working with him, which left me as the only human around.
If I needed one of the hands, I’d have to go to the break room and ask for help.
The carrot drew the black’s attention, and he stretched out his head and gave himself a good shake. I expected my hat wouldn’t survive the horse’s attentions, but he eyed me, his wariness as strong as always.
When Morning Glory stole my hat, which happened several times each day, I’d managed to teach her to give it back. Sometimes, she’d thrust it into my hand, but when she was in a mood—or wanted to show off—she’d return it to my head as though she had never stolen it in the first place.
The stallion was in a mood, and while his aim wasn’t as good as Morning Glory, he returned my hat along with a hefty dose of horse slobber.
Unlike my hat, the carrot didn’t stand a chance. He snatched it, retreating to the back of his stall to eat his treat.
“Good boy,” I praised, careful to keep my tone light.
Progress was progress, and while wearing horse slobber wasn’t my favorite thing in the world, I’d take what I could get.
As the first carrot had been accepted, I put the next bribe on the ledge of his stall, a single sugar cube. His ears perked forward, and he eyed me, the obstruction barring him from enjoying his treat. I grinned. After a whole week of trying to cajole him into trusting me enough to come close, I finally was getting somewhere with him.
Small steps would eventually take us where we needed to go.
The sugar cube lured the stallion closer, and he stretched out his neck trying to reach the treat without coming too close to me. Careful to keep my movements slow and smooth, I picked up the cube, put it on my palm, and offered it to him.
I’d miss my fingers if he bit them off, and it’d probably result in a one-way trip to the wrong kind of auction. We both had a lot to lose, and I refused to be afraid of what the stallion could do. Maybe he’d been aggressive towards others, but he hadn’t done anything to me.
I could tell when he was frightened, so I had no reason to believe the same didn’t apply to him.
It was easy to lose my worries around him when he’d stolen my hat and given it back without doing anything harmful to me.
He eyed my hand, one ear turned back. When I stayed still, his ears perked forward, and he gave the sugar cube his undivided attention. He lipped my fingers on his quest for his treat, leaving a trail of slobber on my skin before reaching his prize. Once in his possession, he lifted his head and kept an eye on me.
“Good boy,” I praised again, keeping still so he could have a chance to breathe in my scent as I’d seen other horses do.
Either he’d grown tired of seclusion, no longer considered me a threat, or had been so starved for positive attention he’d take a few risks to get more. He bumped his nose against my hand. As he’d met me halfway, I turned my hand and gave him a rub like I did with Morning Glory every time I had her out in front of his stall.
It took less than a minute for him to decide he liked attention and wanted more. Once I’d given his brow a good rubbing, he presented his neck, which was in dire need of a good grooming.
“Want the brush?” I cooed to him, and with my free hand, I picked up the curry comb I kept nearby.
As the stallion didn’t retreat to the back of his stall, I assumed he wanted to stop itching from being so dirty. I transferred the comb to my right hand and gave him a chance to sniff it before I rested it against his neck so he could get used to the feel of the bristles. When he didn’t protest that, I started with gentle strokes to start removing the caked on dirt. While I’d done some light brushing and basic grooming when the stallion had been too tired to put up a fight, I hadn’t done more than remove the largest cakes from his coat.
He’d turned more brown than black from the neglect we hadn’t been able to erase due to his fear.
Careful to keep my voice as quiet and gentle as possible, I praised him when he stood still and when I couldn’t reach anything else to brush, I pulled back and set the brush on the ledge of his stall and picked up the lead line hanging between his and Morning Glory’s stall. “Want more of that, boy?”
I needed to figure out a name for him, one that he wouldn’t associate with people cursing or yelling at him.
The stallion stretched his head towards me, close enough I could clip the lead to his halter. I did, and while the metallic clack of the clip securing startled him into snorting, he only turned his ears back and showed the whites of his eyes.
“That’s a boy. You’ll feel a lot better soon,” I promised. It’d take me hours to conquer his filthy coat and clean his stall, but once I had him secured to the cross ties, my life would become much easier. I eased the stall door open, gave him as much line as needed to work without pulling on his head, and waited for him to come out on his own. I held the curry comb in my other hand as a lure to convince him he wanted to follow me.
Then I waited.
And waited. And waited.
I could understand why someone might get frustrated with the poor horse, but after what felt like an eternity, the stallion took his first step towards me, both ears pinned back and blowing air. I took a step back, too, guiding him in the direction of the cross ties. The stable had a set between every stall, and as he’d grown accustomed to Morning Glory’s presence, I’d secure him where he could see my filly and monitor the rest of the stables.
Getting him back into his stall would be a challenge, but I’d deal with one problem at a time.
Once he took the first step and nothing bad happened to him, the others came easier, and he left the comfort of his stall, standing still while I secured his halter to the cross ties.
I’d won the first battle, but I worried the war had just begun.
Careful to continue praising him, I went to work to restore his coat to a glossy black rather than a dulling dark brown. He drank up the attention, bobbing his head as I reached the itchier spots. At one point, he’d stretched out his head and flapped his lips in equine bliss, something that hurt to watch.
Something so simple as a grooming shouldn’t have made such a difference for the stallion.
I saved his hooves for last, expecting him to put up a fight and otherwise refuse to lift his legs so I could get a look. As I worked my way down his legs with the brushes, I discovered he would lift his hoof without me asking, giving me a chance to examine him for damage like I’d been taught.
To my relief, his hooves seemed sound, and I only needed to do minor cleaning with a pick, something he tolerated with admirable grace.
His good behavior earned him
two carrots and a handful of sugar cubes, which he ate out of my hand.
With his coat restored to its proper color and satisfied I couldn’t spot any obvious laming or signs of illness, I tackled my next big task, which involved completely mucking out and cleaning his stall. Dodging the big stallion would make my work challenging, but I dumped the soiled bedding over the stall, leaving a bigger mess for me to clean up in the hall later, and swept out the rest, careful to avoid getting any on the animal.
He handled the noise better than I expected.
Once done to even Branst’s satisfaction, I decided to gamble. Grabbing one of the lunge lines and coiling it around my arm, I unhooked the stallion from the cross ties and led him to the arena. His ears pricked forward when I guided him through the gate and closed it behind us. I exchanged the shorter lead for the longer lunge and guided him to the center of the arena.
“Go stretch your legs,” I said, feeding him some line while keeping a firm grip on the end of the lunge. The line would give the stallion almost full reach of the entire arena.
He stared at me, his ears flicked forward.
As part of my lessons and general education, I’d worked several horses on the lunge before, although I’d had a long whip to help encourage the horse as needed, although I only used it for a light touch when necessary. All of the horses in the stable responded to spoken commands; even Morning Glory had learned the most common commands just from watching me work with other horses.
Nobody knew what he’d been taught to do.
“Walk,” I ordered, keeping my tone authoritative but gentle. Yelling at him wouldn’t do any good. If anything, it would do a lot of harm with no gain.
Someone had taught the stallion something when he’d been younger. He shuffled into a walk, both ears pricked forward. I extend the line, clucking my tongue to encourage him. He picked up his pace, extending his stride and bannering his tail.
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