My Dark Horse Prince (The Russian Witch's Curse Book 2) by Bridget E. Baker

Author:Bridget E. Baker [Baker, Bridget E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Purple Puppy Publishing
Published: 2023-03-30T18:30:00+00:00

15

The last time I walked into this barn, I was using crutches and a leg brace, and still, I could barely move. I begged for a loan and was fired instead. Brigita, for whom I had worked for months, and whom I had known for more than a decade and a half, told me I had a month to find a new place for my horses. It’s been less than two weeks, and she wouldn’t surrender my horses when John went to collect them.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” There are wrinkles at the corners of Kris’s eyes, and her brow’s locked into a furrowed position.

“I need to face her alone,” I say.

“But she won’t be alone,” Aleks says.

The window on the back of the truck is open, and I can see Charlemagne, hanging his head out. He tosses it. Clearly he thinks I should take the backup they’re offering.

“I want to give her a chance to do the right thing,” I say. “Taking you in with me will only put her back up.”

Kris compresses her lips, but she doesn’t argue. “Go, then.”

“If you’re not out in five minutes,” Aleks says, “we’re coming in after you.”

He’s been watching too many American films in an effort to catch up with modern culture. It’s making half of what he says unbearably cliché. Not that Kris seems to have noticed.

Love really does make you blind.

“I’ll know in less than five minutes, I imagine,” I say.

“I’m ready to barge in and yell,” Kris says. “More than ready.”

I appreciate her support so much that it hurts. It was her idea to stop here on the way home. “We have the trailer hooked up already, and I know you’re worried. Let’s get those babies and bring them home.”

The word home makes my heart expand.

It hasn’t felt like I had one since Kris had to sell Liepašeta.

But now I do again. I think about her face as I march inside. It’s a miracle that I’m able to walk in, frankly. I should be more grateful. Isn’t it funny how quickly miracles stop mattering once the limitation they repaired is a thing of the past? Humans don’t retain our gratitude for very long.

We’re all quite greedy.

“Where’s Brigita?” I ask one of the grooms.

He points at the main arena.

I figured that’s where I’d find her, but I must’ve been harboring hope that we could have this face-off without an audience. No luck. I square my shoulders and push past the wheelbarrow and toward the arena.

Brigita’s facility is set up with two outlying barns that feed into the main barn. The main barn, in which I’m now standing, is shaped like a large letter T. It has stalls all down the main row, with a wide alleyway, and a huge covered arena that abuts the line of stalls, but branches off away from them at a ninety-degree angle, forming the bottom of the letter.

She’s riding Blanka when I arrive.

My horse. My beautiful, grey mare sails over a four-foot jump right in front of me.

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