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“$1,800,” I called out.

“$1,900,” volleyed back the other bidder. I strained to see who it was. Could it be a fellow trainer who Gramps would know? The crowd was too thick, and the other party stood on the far side of the auction block. I was only five feet, three inches with heeled cowboy boots on.

“Over to you, miss.” The auctioneer pointed his gavel to me, his piercing eyes locked on me through his spectacles.

I nodded, my final bid now out into the universe. Even if I tossed in the $50 that I had for the hotel and meals, there was no sign of the other bidder slowing down.

The fury of conversation around me blurred to a distant echo.

“$2,100 to the gentleman,” the auctioneer said excitedly. “Yes!” He grinned wildly, clearly surprised to see the scrawny colt draw in so much. He swiveled to me, itching to raise the bid again.

I was done. I was out.

“Going once.”

I gave a shake of my head.

“Going twice.”

I’d lost him.

The slam of the gavel to its wooden base made me flinch.

“Sold! For $2,100 to the gentleman in the trench coat.”

Again, the stark reminder slapped me across the face. Gramps and I were small potatoes in this realm. No matter his magic with training—the way he could turn a rotten old mount into a reliable partner—this horse show world was about famous bloodlines and deep pockets.

And yet, I still wanted their acceptance, still wanted to prove what we could do with the right horse and right chance. We had to, if we were to keep Birkstrom Ranch afloat.

Disappointment turned to bile in my stomach, and I feared losing my morning coffee and apple. I’d been counting on this for so long. What would Gramps say? “Chin up, honey. Something else will come along.” That had gotten him to this point, and though I hadn’t been home to see it yet, rumors had reached me that things were bad around the farm.

I slipped from the crowd and walked through the barn, desperate to see Phantom once more. There weren’t any other Janów horses for auction today. The horses were too rare now, and I didn’t know if the opportunity would ever arise again.

Those two weeks of leave in Kötzting, Germany, had been the sole bright spot in five years of utter devastation and death. To be a part of the regiment that had saved the horses from Russian and German capture. To help Dr. Baumann with dozens of foal deliveries. To help when that convoy was attacked and the hospital was understaffed.

When I reached Phantom’s stall, as the bustle of noise continued at the auction block beyond, I pressed my hand to his nose and he sniffed me, as if remembering. The tension in his body eased.

“I’m sorry, boy,” I whispered. “I hope we see each other again.”

Phantom blew hot breath against my cheek through the bars.

Voices rose from down the aisle, and I turned as two other Arabian trainers approached.

“Jackson, Brunt.” I nodded.

The men each tipped their caps to me.

“Howdy there, Eva,” Brunt said.

I motioned to Phantom. “Were either of you the bidder?”

“No, and I didn’t recognize the bloke.” Jackson gave me a sympathetic smile. “Give Bill my best. I hope to see him in Scottsdale.”

They kept walking past, and the weight of defeat bore down on me.

Gramps probably wouldn’t feel up for a journey to Scottsdale for the big show. His voice had been frail and raspy the last time we spoke a few days ago, and he confessed that he’d been in and out of the hospital for months. I wondered what else he’d been hiding from me while I was overseas.

I needed to call him and let him know. He’d be waiting by the phone, no doubt, for the news. I put my hand on the broad forehead of the horse one last time. “Goodbye, Phantom.”