“First time anyone’s trusted me near one,” I admit. “Honestly? I’ve never been this close to one before.”
Her mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. “Let me guess—he was also the expert on everything you supposedly couldn’t do?”
“Among other things.”
“Well, horses don’t care about human opinions. They respond to confidence and clear communication. Let’s start with getting you acquainted with Moonbeam here.”
The horse is massive—Diana says she’s sixteen hands, with gentle dark eyes and a silver coat that seems to shimmer in the afternoon light. My terror wars with wonder as Diana shows me how to approach, how to let Moonbeam smell my hand, and how to stroke her neck with firm, confident touches.
“She likes you,” Diana observes as Moonbeam nickers softly and leans into my touch.
“How can you tell?”
“Horses are excellent judges of character. They sense authenticity.” She hands me a brush. “They don’t respond well to fear or heavy-handed control.”
The parallel hits home as I stroke Moonbeam’s arched neck in long, steady strokes.
When Diana finally sets a stool beside us and teaches me how to swing into the saddle, my terror gives way to wonder.
I’m sitting atop half a ton of muscle and grace, and I’m not falling off. Instead, exhilaration floods me—Moonbeam moves because I asked, and for once in my life, I feel fully in command.
“You’re a natural,” Diana calls out as we complete a circuit of the riding ring. “Good posture, gentle hands, confident seat.”
Confident. That word again.
By the time the lesson ends, my thighs are trembling with fatigue, but I’m grinning like an idiot. I did it. I rode a horse anddidn’t fall off or embarrass myself or prove any dire predictions right. For once, the victory is mine alone, and I want to savor it.
Diana leads Moonbeam into the long barn. “We’ll curry and brush her out,” she says, but another rider calls her name from down the corridor. She raises her voice: “Quintus—can you help Nicole?”
The man I’ve noticed around the compound—older, methodical, watchful—straightens from a tack bench and crosses toward us. Up close, he’s even larger than he seemed. Presence without noise.
Up close, I catch details I missed before—silver threading his dark hair at the temples, forearms roped from hard work, a mouth that seems built for giving quiet instructions rather than shouting them.
He lifts a round, toothed curry comb and works it over Moonbeam’s flank in slow circles.
“Circles, not lines,” he says in English, voice low and rough-edged. “It pulls the dirt and dust up. Also feels good to horse.”
Our fingers brush as he passes me the comb. Warmth jolts through me, startling in its steadiness.
Moonbeam’s tail flicks at a fly; the sudden swish makes me jolt. Before I can stumble, Quintus’s hand closes around my elbow—firm, careful—anchoring me.
“Easy. She isn’t afraid,” he says, mouth tilting the smallest fraction. “You are.”
I let out a breath that sounds like a laugh. Strange. With his calming presence so close, I’m not afraid at all.
He watches for a beat, then adds in Latin, my translator picking up his words, “In theluduswe brushed down horses the same way. Different world, same creatures. They didn’t care about chains or freedom. Only the hand that tended them.”
Something in my chest shifts at that one stark sentence, more honest than a dozen flashy stories.
Diana’s voice carries down the row, calling for him. He steps back, takes the comb, and hands me a soft horse brush with a nod.
“She’s yours now. Don’t let her sense doubt.” Then he’s turning away to help Diana.
That night, in my room, I replay the day’s victories—standing tall, taking up space, guiding a half ton of horseflesh with my own hands.
Perhaps tonight, even my dreams will take up space.
Chapter Four
