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Right?
But I am kind of a lunatic.
I always have been. And I am beginning to believe in my bones that he understands me. He bit me after I was saying he was crazy. He listens when I talk.
Is it possible?
Or have I cracked?
I look him in the eye and say, “Will you let me on for a ride? Or will you break my arm?”
He stares right back at me, and then he nods, slowly.
“Wait, are you nodding that I can ride?”
He snorts. And then he nods again.
I swear, not even sure whether it’s Latvian or Russian. Can I really trust that a horse is communicating with me? I’ve probably lost my mind.
At least a dozen Russian men are staring at us, mouths gaping open, eyes wide as can be, as I pull the stirrups down, and then swing up and over his back. It’s not like we can really do anything impressive, not in a paddock that’s less than an acre in size, but at least I can distract them from my Russian slip-up and our saddle incident.
I hope I don’t distract them with an even bigger spill.
But so far, Quicksilver seems to know how to react to cues from the bit. Unlike most racehorses, the slightest shift in my hand position doesn’t have him bolting forward. It seems like maybe he was properly trained.
They’ll want to beat that out of him.
When I ask him to walk, a lively walk, a working walk, he does it. His head’s up, he’s ahead of me, but not by too much. After a careful circle, I click to ask for a trot. He lunges right into a canter, but maybe that’s not super surprising.
At least he’s on the correct lead.
The men have their faces pressed against the fence, so this time, as we approach that side of the paddock, I lean closer to Quicksilver’s neck and whisper. “Let’s really race past them, shall we? Fast enough to cover them with dirt?”
Again, as if he can understand me, his head drops a bit, and he begins pulling against my hands. When we turn into that stretch, I don’t even ask. I just release him.
He bolts.
We’re moving so fast that if I wasn’t wearing a helmet, my hair would be plastered against my head. I’m actually a little nervous, as we turn the corner, that we might careen into the side of the enclosure. I’m sitting up high enough that I’d get pretty well acquainted with the electric fence if we did, so I’m not keen.
Luckily, Quicksilver turns well.
I haul back on the reins, and he stops a little too fast. I don’t go over his ears and into the dirt, but it’s a near enough miss that it makes me nervous.
“Well,” I say. “I’d call this good progress.” I might be a little too pleased. I mean, this is my job, after all.
Viktor’s smiling when I look his way.
But someone’s trotting up the path, which usually means there’s some kind of problem elsewhere.
“That guy’s back,” he says. “And he brought the police with him. They said they want to search the property for the Latvian girl.”
And just like that, all the butterflies and rainbows in my heart drop dead. It’s back to cobwebs and skeletons in there, like usual.
6
I love my mother.
I really do. And of course, because I laid it out like that, it’s clear that there’s a but coming.
