Fate & Fortune

by Michaels, Fern

  Excitement began to build in the village as each passing day brought the buyers one day closer. This year the thought of the buyers coming for the Cosars held no appeal for Katerina. Something was missing in her life, and she couldn’t come to terms with the alien feeling. Throwing herself into her work, she toiled during the day and then rode Bluefire across the plains for hours to clear her head, and still the aching feeling stayed with her.

  Someday, somewhere, she would find what she was looking for, and when she did, she would know it, she was sure of it. As always when the thought entered her mind, the Mongol was right behind, mocking her with his dark eyes. Then she would wonder . . . would she know, would she really know?

  Chapter 4

  Word spread quickly through the village—Czar Ivan’s emissary would be arriving any day now. To Katlof, he was just another buyer, but his people were always impressed when the Czar’s man came to Volin. They knew if it was not for the Cosars, a nobleman would never set foot in this part of the steppe.

  Katerina was glad that she had managed to keep outward appearances normal during the past weeks, but inside she was depressed, lonely, and hurt. She hoped her father wasn’t aware of her inner turmoil, and since he hadn’t asked if anything was wrong, she knew she was playing her part well.

  Maybe the arrival of the Czar’s emissary would distract her from her thoughts for a few days. She wondered what the man would look like. Would he be any different from the grouchy, businesslike nobles that came before him, who selected the horses, settled on a price, and were gone?

  When breakfast was over and the hut was in order, she dressed and headed for the barn. Tending the brood mares, Katerina heard a commotion outside the barn. “Yaschu, what’s going on?”

  “One of the riders just rode into the village with news of the emissary from Moscow.”

  “What news?”

  “The rider said the Czar’s buyer is on his way and should arrive within the hour.”

  Katerina felt a stir of anticipation, but paid it no mind and went back inside, content to care for the horses.

  From outside the barn she heard someone shout, “They’re here!” Putting aside her work, she left, looking for her father, and found him standing at the front of the village, waiting for the emissary. Two men approached quickly on horseback. Katerina walked to her home, deciding to wait and watch from there, knowing her father didn’t like to be disturbed when he was conducting business.

  Katerina’s sharp eyes noticed that this buyer was younger than his predecessors. From his horse the emissary looked down at her father and said, “I’m looking for Katlof Vaschenko. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

  At the sound of his deep, vibrant voice, Katerina felt her heart pound. She could see him clearly now, in his crimson jacket and black trousers. The shine from his leather boots winked in the bright sunlight as he moved to dismount the graceful brown Arabian. Respectfully, as the Kat identified himself, he removed the pointed black cap resting rakishly on his head. “Yuri Zhuk, emissary to Czar Ivan, and this man is Gregory Bohacky with whom I’ve been visiting,” Yuri said, motioning to his comrade. “Gregory comes from Kiev and is a cousin of the Czar’s. He also wishes to purchase pure whites. Gregory will observe the herd now and make his final selection during midsummer,” for he must leave immediately.

  Katerina drew in her breath as she watched Yuri dismount and walk toward her father. The Russian extended a long, muscular arm and handed Katlof a rolled piece of parchment to read. The Kat raked his eyes over the crackling paper and nodded slightly. He was proud of his rare ability to read, having learned it as a boy from a priest. It had stood him in good stead more than once and he had encouraged most of the Dons to become literate as well.

  His voice carried to Katerina. “The Czar shall have one thousand horses by the end of spring, but only if he pays the price I ask. There will be no haggling and no bargaining. Do you have the money with you?”

  “Czar Ivan said the money will be paid on delivery of the horses,” came the low, husky reply.

  “And the Kat says not one horse leaves until the money is paid . . . in advance,” came the cold, firm reply.

  “The Czar wishes me to remind you that the price is not what was originally agreed on. He wishes to know why the price has doubled.”

  “The price has doubled because I wish it. If there are more words between us, the price will triple.”

  Yuri Zhuk, emissary to Czar Ivan, looked at the leader of the Cossack village with smoldering eyes and knew he would pay whatever the amount was for the horses sired by Whitefire. “Agreed,” Yuri said curtly. “I’ll make my selection tomorrow at dawn, when the horses are at their best.”

  “The matter is settled then,” the Kat said briskly. “The following day you will leave here with a signed contract for one thousand horses. This evening you will have supper in my house.” With a curt nod of his head, the Cossack chief walked away, leaving Yuri to stare after him.

  Oles, one of the young men from the tribe, told him in cool, jeering tones that he was to remain in the Kat’s house until dinner.

  Yuri’s dark eyes were angry, and his jaw tightened at what he considered the Cossack’s crude manners. He straightened his slim shoulders as he followed the Cossack. How sure they were; how confident they appeared. Here he stood, an emissary from Czar Ivan, and he was being treated with thinly disguised insolence and mocking superiority. Tales of Cossack fierceness were widespread, as were the tales of the Kat’s horses. The Cossack, in Yuri’s view, had no equal. Some people were born to royalty, like himself, while others were born to be a Cossack. Yuri knew instantly he would have given his life’s blood to have been born a Cossack.

  A wild whoop of laughter split the air. Yuri turned to watch as a group of young Cossacks mounted their horses and rode the length of the dusty road, their weapons thrust in front of them. It must be some sort of drill, he thought to himself. For an hour he watched as horses and riders cavorted on the sleek white horses, animal and rider one, each magnificent beast perfectly attuned to the man on his back.

  Weapons drawn, the equestrians charged at each other with split second timing. A moment before impact, a rider would slide beneath his horse and come up, weapon flicking the air, from the horse’s right flank. To Yuri’s amazement, no weapon ever touched another, nobody was unseated during the drill. A pity these men did not fight for the Czar. They were a race, a people, an entity unto themselves. No soldier, no warrior, no matter how experienced, would wish to go to battle against a Cossack.

  At a sound from behind, Yuri turned to see a girl with hair the color of burnished copper in the doorway of a hut. Her heavily fringed eyes shone like rich amber. Yuri’s eyes widened appreciatively. Cossack women were more beautiful than he had imagined. Her tawny skin intrigued him, as did the doe eyes. Mongol blood must run in her veins, he told himself as he smiled at her and bowed graciously. “Yuri Zhuk, at your service.”

  Katerina inclined her head slightly, her breath quickening at his show of good manners. Not one of the young Cossacks would bow to her or show her respect in any way. This man looked at her with approval and liked what he saw.

  The thick lashes fell over her high cheekbones as she advanced a step and stood looking up at him. “I am Katerina Vaschenko. The Kat is my father. He asked that I show you around our village before supper, if it is agreeable to you,” she said hastily.

  “Only if you promise to tell me about the Cossacks.” He grinned, showing even white teeth, his voice deep yet melodious.

  Familiar with the company of the boisterous, fun-loving Cossack youths, who did nothing but taunt her, Katerina felt at a disadvantage with this tall, muscular man. Her cheeks flushed a bright crimson as she pictured what he would look like stripped to the waist. She shook her head to clear it, and forced herself to look into the Russian’s eyes. Her tongue moistened her dry lips as she imagined his nude muscles moving in his powerful back as he hunched his shoulders to make himself m
ore comfortable in her presence. She wanted to feel the wide, sensuous mouth on hers. Swallowing hard, she tried to force herself to ignore such wanton thoughts, but found herself mesmerized by his dark, smoldering eyes as they stared deeply into hers. What would his lean, hard body feel like next to hers? How would his hands feel on her flesh? Why was he looking at her like that? Surely he couldn’t read her mind, or could he? Or was it that he was thinking the same thing? The moment she saw him ride into the village, she knew he was different. She had to do something, say something. How long was she going to stand and stare at him like some ignorant child? “If you’ll come with me,” she said, her voice soft and thick with emotion.

  They walked from one end of the village to the other, each aware of the other, deliberately keeping a space between them. Katerina knew that if her arm so much as touched his, she would crumble and faint. She was petrified at this strange feeling that was taking hold of her.

  At last she risked a sideward glance in his direction when he turned to look at a small watering pond for the new colts. A sheaf of dark hair fell low on his wide forehead. His nose was straight and chiseled, his jaw lean and square, with a pronounced cleft in his chin. He didn’t have the full cheeks of other Russians, and his skin was weathered but not rough like the Cossack youths’. He sported no beard or mustache, reflecting an individual who dared to defy fashion. Her heart thundered as she imagined his cheek next to hers before their lips met in a searing, passionate kiss.

  Katerina stumbled and would have fallen if Yuri hadn’t reached out a strong arm to grasp her and bring her closer till she was steady on her feet. Leaning against him, her breathing labored, she laid her head on his broad chest and listened to the furious pounding of his heart. She raised clear amber eyes and looked directly into his as the tip of her tongue again moistened her lips, his eyes pulling her into their depths. Katerina felt him stiffen as she brought her head up till her face was inches from his. I should do what the other girls do, flutter my eyelashes, smile, and tease him with my eyes, she thought. It was impossible, and Yuri wasn’t one of those loutish young boys that . . .

  Katerina felt her body forced back slowly till she was against the wall of the stable. Like a hungry child, she raised her mouth and waited for the feel of the Russian’s lips. Her body was feverish, and she felt her breasts grow taut beneath the thin fabric of her sarafan. She strained toward him and felt a hard yet gentle hand slip beneath her bodice. Fire raced through her as she sought to fullfill her newly aroused hunger. She arched her back, and soft moans escaped her as she felt the hardness of his manhood against her thigh. Katerina felt herself soar as her breasts fought and strained against the fabric that held them prisoner. Her inner heat threatened to consume her until in the dim recesses of her mind, she heard her name being called. She tore her mouth from Yuri’s, her eyes glazed and full of wanting. “I . . . I have . . . I have to . . . go back.” Turning, she tripped and ran, her body welcoming the light breeze that wafted about her. “Oh, what did I do? How did I . . . I just saw him for the first time . . . oh, God! . . . I don’t care,” she cried as she raced indoors and slammed the door behind her, her hands clapped to her flaming cheeks.

  Yuri, his chiseled features calm, watched as Katerina raced back to her father’s house. The disturbing ache in his nether regions stayed with him. When it became a violent pain, he would do something about it. For now, it wasn’t so uncomfortable that he couldn’t live with it. The promise of exquisite release would soon be his.

  * * *

  The meal was silent. Katlof Vaschenko ate the thick cabbage soup without lifting his eyes from the bowl. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of the coarse tunic he wore. He leaned back and eyed the Russian with open suspicion. “There was no need for you to make the journey to this village. The Czar was aware of my demands and agreed to them at the time the mares were bred. When you return to your post to report to the Czar, you will deliver a message . . . from the Kat. No more visits. The horses will be delivered on schedule. For many years now, all of Russia has tried to steal our horses, tried to steal our breeding secrets. I’m the only one who knows the secret,” he lied, “and I will carry it to my grave. The crossbreeding of the Cosars has been our livelihood for centuries and will never be divulged to anyone, and that includes the Czar. The stallions are not kept here on the steppe; after they impregnate the mares they are taken away. I’m telling you this so there won’t be any need for you to creep among our people, as the last man did, to try to learn by deceit and trickery what isn’t to be told. There aren’t any stallions here except those that have been castrated,” he lied. “Tales of your ferocious Czar have filtered here, and it would be wise if you tell him that the Don as well as the Terek Cossacks are not happy with the tales of his mass murders of people and his lunatic ways. For now, his only thought is to have my Cosars. If it weren’t for my horses, he wouldn’t have a cavalry. Remind him of this matter when you return.”

  Yuri’s dark eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the slovenly Kat lean back on the rough-hewn chair. The Kat’s eyes were cold and unreadable. His body tipped precariously on the wooden chair as he eyed the Russian, daring him to dispute what he said. Yuri felt nauseated as the man’s odor reached him. He smelled of stale horseflesh and his own dirty sweat, and the fumes of vodka were strong enough to set the room on fire. His coarse, homespun clothing and mud-crusted boots were those of a fighting Cossack. This fearless leader of men, this awesome breeder of horseflesh, was no different from his men. He looked the same, he dressed the same, and he smelled the same.

  “I shall give your message to the Czar . . . exactly as stated,” Yuri said coolly. “I would like to hear the story of the horses—that is, if you wouldn’t mind telling me. There are many hours to get through till dawn, when I inspect them.” What he didn’t say was that he had no desire to sleep in the moldy-looking feather bed that was to be his. Besides, it was something to help while away the time till the old man was sodden, and then he could take the beautiful Katerina outside to some grassy spot and unleash his violent pain.

  With supreme effort he managed to keep his eyes averted from the tawny-skinned Katerina during the meal. He felt the amber, catlike eyes on him, and knew the Kat was aware of it also. He would have to be careful. She was probably being saved for one of those smelly oafs in the horse pens. Yuri’s mouth tightened as he visualized her soft, honeyed skin being caressed by some filthy, sweaty hand. He had to force himself to remain seated, his face schooled to show nothing of his thoughts: of one of those rancid, evil faces with the thick, slobbering lips salivating over her naked body.

  He was saved from further thought when the Kat got off his seat, pulled aside a curtain, and brought forth a jug of vodka. He wiped his hand across his heavy beard as he plopped the jug on the table, with a dirty hand motioning that Yuri should take the first drink. There weren’t any glasses. Yuri raised the heavy jug to his lips and drank deeply.

  The older man’s eyes registered shock when the young Russian set the jug down, precisely on the same spot he lifted it from. His eyes didn’t water, and he wasn’t coughing and sputtering.

  Yuri grinned as he stared at the Cossack. “My guts aren’t on fire. I’ve been drinking vodka since I was six years old. I admit this,” he said, pointing to the jug, “has the kick of one of your stallions, but I’ve had worse.”

  The Kat laughed. “When the jug is finished and if you are still on your feet, then, and only then, will I tell you about my horses.” He brought the jug to his lips and drank with deep gurgling sounds.

  Yuri took his turn, to the amazement of Katerina, who was watching with wide, frightened eyes. Why was her father doing this? Why was he pretending to be this . . . this dirty, unkempt, uncultured man? He was up to something, and she would have to stay in the kitchen till she found out what it was. Surely he wouldn’t kill the Russian, or would he? She had never seen him in this sort of a mood before.

  Yuri drank and set the jug down, a
patient look on his face.

  The Kat took another long, gurgling drink and handed the jug to the young Russian. “Drink as I drink,” he said harshly. “There’s more where that came from. Half vodka and half blood runs in my veins. What runs in yours, Russian?”

  “Russian blood,” Yuri said curtly as he brought the jug to his lips.

  “Fetch another jug, Katerina,” her father said, never taking his eyes from the young man sitting across the table from him.

  Katerina withdrew behind the curtain and brought out a jug, placing it on the table with a loud thump to show her disapproval. She looked at her father with contempt and at Yuri with suspicion. The Russian didn’t have a chance. Her father would probably trick him into confessing an ulterior motive once Yuri could not think logically anymore. She walked from the room, disgust written in the straightness of her back and her firm, hard gait. And they said women were fools!

  Katerina looked at the star-filled night and felt saddened. Spring was a time for lovers and she was alone. The coming months of summer would pass quickly and soon it would be time to take the mares back to the Carpathians and settle in for the long, cold winter. I survived after all; I managed to get through spring, and I can get through summer and winter the same way, she thought bitterly. The thoughts of the new colts and fillies that would be born did not help to dispel the gloom. What was her father up to? What did the Russian have in his mind? Why did she constantly think of the Mongol of the steppe? What was it about the young Russian that appealed to her? If only she knew what was in the soldier’s mind. Whatever it was, he would be no match for her father.

  Would Yuri seek her out after the drinking was over? Would he be able to handle himself, or would he be like the others when they drank vodka for hours on end? Would he want to make love to her as she wanted him to?

  Katerina walked for what seemed like hours. When she returned to the hut, she wasn’t surprised to see four jugs sitting on the table and her father talking freely of the horses. She let her eyes wander toward Yuri and then to her father. She closed the door behind her as she gave Yuri one last, lingering look, which he did not return.