Horse Gods: The Dressage Rider’s Betrayal

“Are you a Celt?” A quick nod to my hair. “You’re a true red, like my Declan.”

I touch my hair. It’s getting longer now. I scrunch up my shoulders and let them drop in a dramatic gesture. “I have no idea.”

“That’s a shame. You should know. It’s said people with red hair have a higher tolerance for pain than any other people. It was a survival skill for the ancient Celts, the warriors.” One eyebrow arches. Just one. “No idea, huh?”

He doesn’t ask why I don’t know. I like that about him. He perks up. “No matter, I’m sure you are. So, I’ll tell you the story of your people.”

My people. That’s a weird thought, that I have people. That I’m part of a larger group beyond my insane mom, mysterious father, and alcoholic aunt. Declan returns from the kitchen and goes over to check on Rosie, who looks like she’s sleeping. The fire has burned down to just a glow, and I glance longingly at the couch. I wish I could lie down, have someone tuck an afghan around me and sit at my feet, telling stories. I want to hear all about my people and their horses until I fall asleep.