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I’m not sure how long we run like that, but it’s more than two miles—I’m used to racing two miles, and my thighs are burning from where I’m gripping his flank. Sure, I don’t have stirrups, but it’s not like the crouch that jockeys use is easy. It’s at least as hard, balancing on top, as it is to clench around this horse bareback.

We’ve long since left Boris behind, racing as we have been into the middle of nowhere, but I have no idea where we’re going, or how long we can keep going this way before Boris will circle back and catch us in his car. I’m debating whether we should turn back and look for a road when that decision’s sort of taken from me.

Because we stop sharply, right in front of a fence.

Clearly someone owns this land.

Do I turn right? Left? I’m debating what to do when two riders in full tack come running toward me on the other side of the fence. They wave wildly, and then they cheer.

Cheer?

I’m standing in front of the fence, totally unsure what to do, when the riders finally pull up in front of me.

“You brought him back.” The rider in front is on a big, stocky sorrel, and he’s wearing nice clothes—these people have money. His hair’s short, as short as Boris’s was. His eyes are alert and they look almost shocked. “How did you get on his back?” More Russian, of course, confirming my guess that we’re in Russia.

I blink.

What do I say? I had no idea this horse was from here, and I certainly didn’t race this way to bring him to someone.

“Do you speak Russian?” the other rider asks. He’s riding a deep blood bay, and although he waited to speak, he has an air of authority the other rider doesn’t have. He points. “That’s our horse. You brought him back to us?”

I have no idea how to play this. On the one hand, I don’t want to be branded as a horse thief and thrown in a Russian prison. On the other hand, I’m not keen on surrendering the one means of transportation I’ve found when I’m only a few miles away from Boris.

“I speak Latvian,” I finally say.

The two men frown, and they start talking amongst one another quickly. I can pick up some of it, but not all.

“—our horse.”

“Not exactly. We found him.”

“But he’s worth a fortune.” Something something. “She can ride him.”

“—kicked us, and no one else will even try.”

Finally, they turn toward me. The second man to speak, the one with the shiny black boots and the longish brown hair says, “I speak some Latvian. You found our horse. You are riding him, so you know horses.”

I nod.

“You look. . .” His eyes scan my body, and I cringe at what I must look like. I’ve been wearing the same clothing for more than a week, and other than a few hose downs, which did nothing for my hair or skin, I’ve been sitting alone in a room. Covered with poop.

And I’m barefoot.

“I’ve been running,” I say. “My ex is following me, even now.” I glance back over my shoulder. “I found this horse, and he let me ride him to escape.”

“Ah.” The men nod, and they return to talking.

“—hide her, probably won’t need. . .pay her much.”

“Tuesday.” Something something. “No one else.”

My grey mount decides he’s about done standing around, and he tosses his head and starts to move.

“Whoa,” the first man says.

“Hang on,” the other shouts.

“I’m not using a saddle or bridle here,” I shout. “Not all of this is up to me.”