My Wild Horse King, page 1
My Wild Horse King
The Russian Witch’s Curse
Book IV
Bridget E. Baker
Copyright © 2024 by Bridget E. Baker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For Chewy
You’re the world’s worst dog, but look!
You still got your own book.
Contents
1. Gustav
2. Katerina
3. Kristiana
4. Katerina
5. Gustav
6. Katerina
7. Gustav
8. Katerina
9. Katerina
10. Gustav
11. Katerina
12. Katerina
13. Gustav
14. Katerina
15. Gustav
16. Katerina
17. Gustav
18. Katerina
19. Katerina
20. Gustav
21. Katerina
22. Gustav
23. Katerina
24. Gustav
25. Katerina
26. Gustav
27. Katerina
28. Gustav
29. Katerina
30. Gustav
31. Gustav
32. Katerina
33. Izzy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Bridget E. Baker
1
Gustav
When I was in grade school, Latvia experienced the worst recession it had ever known. In fact, the country lost a quarter of its gross domestic product in under two years.
Things were pretty dire for most everyone.
People don’t handle stuff like losing their job with no hope of a new one very well, and many, many of my friends had already lousy fathers who only got worse thanks to the turn in the economy. Alcoholics. Abusive jerks. Depressed souls who stopped even trying to support their families. I think that’s why it took me so long to notice. In fact, it wasn’t until I walked in on my little sister Kristiana watching The Lion King that it hit me.
That father died for his child. My dad was nothing like that.
My dad sucks.
Dads are supposed to protect you—it’s the central part of the gig.
They’re supposed to teach you and shelter you while you grow.
Mine never did that.
He was too busy gambling, and while he may have won sometimes too, I never really saw a difference when he did. Whereas, I do vividly recall nearly every time he lost.
But even more than me, it always wrecked my mom’s life.
My very earliest memory is of my mother, the phone pressed against her ear as tears rolled down her face, begging her parents to send her money so that we wouldn’t lose Liepašeta, Dad’s family farm.
That wasn’t the only time she begged, though. In fact, I remember countless instances where my mom was forced to bail Dad out. But the last time. . . It was long after Grandfather and Grandmother had refused to send another dime, long after Mom had been turned down for any additional loans by every bank in Latvia, and long after Mom had exhausted the contents of her own trust fund and personal savings. That last time, Mom set out to repair the damage done by Dad’s gambling debts herself, by riding in the Grand National and betting on her own horse to win. I still recall her telling me, her eyes shining, that she meant to be the first woman to win the Grand National, and that when she did, she was going to insist that Dad put the farm in her name—so he couldn’t ever put it at risk again.
She did make the history books.
Just, not in the way she hoped. She became the first woman to die as a result of that wretched race. That was the day I started to hate horses, gambling, and my father—in that order—but it took me three more years to get away from it all.
Leaving Latvia was a bonus.
In the end, when I finally escaped, I had even less money than Dad before that last fateful race. I barely scraped together enough for a plane ticket, which is how I found myself on the front porch of my estranged American grandfather’s mansion, knowing they barely knew me and guessing that they didn’t like me. Dad had seen to that, with all the times he’d forced Mom to call and beg for money.
To my grandparents, I was part and parcel of exactly what had killed my mother—my grandfather’s beloved only daughter. I couldn’t even blame him for cutting us off. I was Latvian, through and through, and Latvia had burned Mom right down to the ground.
But this was my only play.
Because I didn’t want to be Latvian. It had come to stand for failure, for loss, and for the promise that I would never amount to any more than my own father had. More than anything, I wanted a new start in a new place where no one knew me. I wanted to leave racing, horses, gambling, and my pitiful little country behind forever. Mom had gifted me a comprehension and fluency in her native tongue, and I meant to put it to good use. I’d secured admittance to an American school, but the only way I’d be able to stay without any funds of my own to pay for my schooling was with the support of my very wealthy and very judgmental grandfather.
After banging on the door and doing my best to schmooze a very disgruntled butler, I was starting to worry I wouldn’t even be allowed to see him. But when the door opens abruptly, I straighten.
“It is you.” Only the slight widening of Grandfather’s nostrils betrays his feelings about seeing me here, on his porch, without an invite. Ironically, it’s Dad’s cursed poker training that makes me capable of recognizing these types of tiny tells. Now I just need to convince him to bankroll me for the next four years. According to Mom, Grandfather’s absolutely famous for only making solid investments, no matter how ill-fated they may at first seem.
I just have to convince him that I am one.
“I know it’s late,” I say. “My flight was delayed, and by the time I navigated the public transportation system, well. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
“It’s ten thirty,” Grandfather says. “And I’m sixty-one, not ninety-five.”
I frown. “I’m not sure whether you saw the letters I sent, but I was accepted to New York University, and I’m starting there next week.” I force a smile. “Now that I’ll be in New York City, I was hoping that—”
“No,” he says. “I won’t pay for your education.”
Well, that’s unfortunate. I wonder how long they’ll let me attend before booting me for nonpayment. Maybe I could find a part-time job. Or, there has to be some kind of loan system, even for foreign nationals, right?
“I’m sure your father sent you here to—”
“He told me if I left Europe, he’d never speak to me again.” It’s harder than I thought it would be, repeating my dad’s angry threat.
“You’re assuming he doesn’t really mean it.” Grandfather raises one bushy white eyebrow. He may not be more than sixty-one, but his full head of hair is the color of cotton balls, and his eyebrows are twice as thick as a normal person’s.
“On the contrary,” I say. “I made him promise that he’d stand by it.”
Grandfather stares at me, frozen, for three beats. And then he throws his head back and bellows, like a bull that’s just run into a barbed wire fence. At first, I try to figure out how he was injured, standing stock still as he was.
Then I realize that he’s laughing.
When he stops, it’s equally unexpected, and it’s just as disconcerting. “Have you ever read the Bible, boy?”
I can’t help my frown. He keeps changing the subject in ways that make no sense. I shake my head, tightly, sensing this is not going well for me.
“That’s a pity. There’s a great story in there—a boy who sold his birthright.”
What’s he talking about?
“He sold it for a bowl of oatmeal.” He shuffles just a bit closer. “A bowl of pottage, they called it.”
“Why would he do that?”
Grandfather tilts his head. “Your mother sold your birthright, you know, for that parasite husband of hers. Sold it four times over.”
Oh.
“I know you’re here because you need money. It’s the only time I ever hear from anyone with the Liepa surname, but here’s the thing. I’m done giving money to all of you. You hear me?”
I nod slowly.
“But you are my grandson.” He sighs. “I imagine you need money for school at least, and that’s one thing I can respect—wanting to better yourself.”
A tightness in my chest eases. Mom always said Grandfather acted tough, but he would sometimes yield, if you didn’t push. I was counting on that still being true.
“I’ll loan it to you,” he says. “How about that? Market interest.”
I’m not exactly in a position to argue. “Yes,” I say. “I do need money for tuition and housing.”
“And, as long as you’re getting As, I’ll waive the interest,” he says. “When you graduate, if you graduate, you come to work for me. If you prove to me that you’re nothing like your father, I might even consider giving you back your bowl of porridge.” His snort is sharp.
“I plan to prove myself to you in any way I can.” I shake my head slowly. “And I’m sure that I’ll get all As, but I can’t promise to work for you.”
His scowl is t
“I’m sure your company’s amazing, but it’s too risky, working for someone else. If I’m going to work my hardest to impress you, I’ll do it while building something for myself. Then if you decide that I don’t measure up, I’ll still have something to show for all my hard work.”
His lip curves upward very, very slowly. “You’re hedging your bet.”
I shrug. “My dad never bothered, but I’m not like him.”
“No.” He harrumphs. “Perhaps not.” He runs his hand over the bristle on his face. “New York University.” He shakes his head.
“I’ve read that it’s a good school, and New York City is in the middle of everything.”
He shrugs with a slightly pained expression. “It’s not bad, but it’s not Ivy League.”
“I can’t get into an Ivy League,” I say. “And paying for it would destroy me.”
Grandfather whips a phone out of his pocket and presses a few buttons. “Hey, Ulysses.” He pauses. “Uh-huh. As if I’d let you get away with that. I’ll show you on the back nine on Tuesday.” Another pause. “But that’s not why I’m calling.” He grunts. “No, not about that either, though I haven’t forgotten. Actually, I’m calling to tell you that my tall, handsome, brilliant grandson is about to start school at NYU. It looks like I may have to realign the Belmont Endowment.”
I can’t tell what the man’s saying, but the person he’s talking to just got much louder. It almost sounds like he’s shouting.
Grandfather smiles. “Why yes, perhaps his admittance letter was lost in transit somehow. You can send it to my address. I’ll text you the details.”
“What was that?” I ask.
“Yale,” Grandfather says. “You were just accepted to Yale.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” I cross my arms.
“Worried you’ll fail?” He’s smirking now, and it’s irritating.
“It’s not that,” I say. “But Yale sounds very expensive, and you said I have to repay everything but the interest. I imagine I’ll get more bang for my buck at NYU.”
“You’re intriguing, Gustav Liepa.” But Grandfather’s frown returns. “You know, I’ve always hated that name. You have no idea how much I hate it now.” He narrows his eyes at me. “If you change your name, I’ll give you the money for tuition for all four years. You’ll only need to borrow money to cover your living expenses.”
“Done,” I say.
“Just like that?” He raises both eyebrows.
I shrug. “I’ve never loved my name. You overpaid.”
I made him laugh twice in one conversation. At the time, I had no idea how rare that was.
And that’s how I came to be known as Daniel Belmont. Unlike my father, Daniel Belmont makes the smart play every time. He never gambles. He never so much as buys a lottery ticket. He’s smart, he works hard, and he doesn’t cut corners.
It takes every bit of my time and one hundred and ten percent of my effort, but ten years later, I’ve actually built a company that Grandfather’s proud of.
Forget Grandfather, it’s a company that I’m proud of.
And in two months, Grandfather will finally retire, and he’s going to name his successor, the person who’ll inherit control of his entire estate. A decade ago, I had a snowflake’s chance of being named, but now? I’m neck and neck with my cousin Prescott. I knew this day was coming—Grandfather’s seventy-second birthday—and I’m prepared.
So when my legal team calls and tells me they hear my IPO’s about to go live, I’m ready. My road show presentation is polished, my books and numbers are immaculate, and I’ve got a bombproof team in place.
My mother let my father and her obsession with horses destroy the life she was born into, but I’m about to win it all back and more. All that stands between me and success is taking this company I’ve built public and showing my grandfather that I have what it takes to go all the way. I’ll finally escape my father’s legacy once and for all.
Of course, that’s when my irritating little sister starts calling. I feel a twinge of guilt, but not nearly enough to answer her. I hear she married some rich guy. She’s his problem, now.
She’ll be fine, even without my help.
Because any help I give her just enables Dad. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m the smart one. The safe one. The one who will never, not ever, wind up like the rest of the Liepa family. I’m free of the name, the gambling addiction, and anything else that family ever tried to foist off on me.
Free.
That’s what my cross-continent move was all about a decade ago, and it’s still true today. The only way I stay free of the Liepa plague is to hold my ground and play it safe. Kris will figure things out without me.
She always does.
2
Katerina
In Russia, you can’t throw a rock without hitting a half dozen princes or princesses. Or at least, people claiming that title. It took the monarchy far too long to apply principles of primogeniture. But in my father’s case, his title was at least backed up with both land and power. My father felt guilty, I think, that my mother died giving birth to me, and he denied me nothing. What I really wanted, however, I never quite got.
In almost seventeen years, my father never once spoke kindly to me. No matter what I mastered, or how I behaved, he never seemed to care. But today, I ripped my brand new gown while visiting my favorite horse, and he’s never had any problem yelling over that kind of waste.
“Someone’s going to notice,” my father’s saying when I reach the end of the hall.
I slide to a stop on the thick rug before he could possibly see me. My room’s at the end of the main hall, but there’s no way I’m marching past him like this. I need my lady’s maid to try and repair the rip before he sees me—before tonight’s ball.
“If we don’t take the portraits down, someone will eventually notice that her eyes are the only blue ones, amid a sea of deep russet.”
I’m not his child.
That’s my first thought, and it would fit. If my mother had been unfaithful. . . But that can’t be. I’ve been mastering my powers, and last week, I shifted into my equine form for the first time. That’s a magic unique to the Yurovsky line—my father’s magic.
But he’s still talking.
He’s arguing with someone who doesn’t speak nearly as loudly as he does, perhaps Mrs. Cerny, our housekeeper. “Of course not,” he mutters angrily. “But no one must know that her mother wasn’t legitimate. Even her grandfather doesn’t know, or he’d never have given her mother that dowry, and then I’d be in even bigger trouble than I am.”
Legitimate?
My mother—whose dowry famously saved my father’s estate—was not actually my grandfather’s child? And my grandfather’s struggling now, after a dispute with the czar. I’m sure if Grandfather had an excuse, he’d demand all that money back from my father in a heartbeat.
“But of course,” my father bellows, clearly growing more agitated. “Not a single war to wage since the cursed Turkish mess that stupid San Stefano destroyed, which means our powers are essentially useless. The only way to clear the current debts is with another well-planned marriage. And when this fell right into my lap, it must be fate.” He guffaws. “Seventeen’s more than old enough.”
I can’t help the squeak I make. No one has spoken to me about marriage at all—this is to be my first ball.
But when Father’s head pokes around the corner, his eyes widen and his nostrils flare. “Katerina.”
I swallow.
“You should not be listening in on adult conversations around corners.”
