Chapter Text
His shoes alone look like they cost more than the barn.
That’s the first thing Artemy thinks when the man steps out from the fancy black car that had pulled down the long gravel path. He spotted it, a flash of ebony, through the crevices in the old wood, and he moved away from the pregnant mare he was checking on to see for himself who was visiting, especially in such a flashy vehicle, which wasn’t exactly common in their little village.
Ducking out of the barn, his property stretches out before him, always a welcome sight with its emerald fields and cattle spread across the pasture in all colors.
Big Bull Farm had been in Artemy’s family for three generations, a patch of stubborn earth that rolled over hills like the spine of a sleeping beast. It was a rough plot—gravel paths, sagging fences, the faded red barn whose roof peeled like sunburned skin—but it had a heart, and for a long time, that had been enough.
Until lately.
Now the soil wouldn’t yield, the cows gave less milk, and the debts sat on their kitchen table like unwelcome dinner guests.
Still, Artemy loved it. Not for the land’s promise or its yield, but because of what it had become. This was where he had brought Daniil when they were younger and burning. It was here they had run from the cities after university, both of them sick of cold apartments and colder people. Here, they had planted something real: not just crops, but lives.
It used to belong to his father, a stoic man made of bark and thunder, who taught him how to birth calves and ride bareback. He was a gruff, burly man, but he was always there and he cared deeply, even if he didn’t always show it well. When someone said their car broke down, he was the first to offer to fix it, and if he couldn’t, he offered a horse to ride to wherever they needed. When someone’s heater busted during the harsh winters, he opened his doors and said he’d sleep in the barn while they took his bed. When someone worried about not having enough food to feed their family, he brought them baskets of produce, jugs of milk, and cartons of eggs. He taught Artemy how to be a true man.
Now, he’s buried beneath the earth on the property, along with Artemy’s older brother and mother. Their lives may be gone, but their souls feed the soil, the animals, Artemy himself.
That being said, Artemy is sure his father would be rolling in his grave right now if he knew this fancy hotshot was stepping a single foot on his land.
Artemy squints against the sunlight as the sleek car door opens with a hydraulic hiss. The man who steps out is tall and wiry, dressed in a dove-grey suit that somehow manages not to collect dust from the gravel underfoot. His shoes are mirror-shiny, black as oil, and absurd in the context of Artemy’s cracked leather boots. His short hair is brown and greying at the temples, cut close, his face sharp like polished marble. A crow could break its beak on that jaw.
Artemy raises an eyebrow. “You lost?”
The man smiles like a negotiation has already begun and subsequently won. “No. I’m exactly where I meant to be. Artemy Burakh-Dankovsky, yes? Quite a mouthful, that last name.”
“That’s me. Most people just shorten it to Burakhovsky. Who are you?”
“Alexander Saburov.”
Artemy hums. He doesn’t bother to wipe his hand off before offering it. He’s learned early in life that if a man can’t shake your hand dirty, he isn’t the kind you wanted knowing your name.
But Saburov doesn’t hesitate, much to Artemy’s surprise—and slight unnerve, but he would never admit that. The older man’s grip is firm, dry. Businesslike. It’s not at all like Artemy’s, callous and rough from physical labor out in the fields. It’s more similar to Daniil’s, just not as warm or comforting.
“I recently purchased Elysian Estate,” Saburov informs him. “You know, the big house on the hill?”
Oh, does Artemy know. It’s a recent development, a big white “modern” farmhouse constructed on a hill, as though it’s meant to look down on all the humbler residents surrounding it. Murky and Sticky sometimes wonder about what it looks like on the inside when they pass it by. To be honest, Artemy finds it gaudy and, quite frankly, ugly.
“I do,” Artemy says. “Must have cost you a fortune.”
“To a farmer, perhaps,” Saburov says, and Artemy’s eye twitches. “Anyway, I have been meaning to introduce myself to the neighbors. Quaint people, you all are. Quaint village you have here, too.”
Artemy grunts. He turns and begins to lumber back into the barn. “All due respect, Mr. Saburov, I appreciate you coming to say hello, but I’ve got work to do. My cows don’t care for men in silk ties.”
Saburov follows him, not at all caring about the dust that kicks up onto his shoes, as though he knows he can easily buy a replacement pair. His gaze sweeps the space with detached curiosity, as though he’s browsing a catalogue of antique tools. “This won’t take long,” he says, and before Artemy can speak against him, he’s talking again, “Pleasant place. Did you build it? Or, perhaps, inherited it?”
He sure knows how to keep a conversation going. “My granddad built it. I run it.”
“I see.” Saburov steps closer. His shoes crunch straw. “You're a proud man. Good. I like pride.”
Artemy narrows his eyes. “I don’t like games, Mr. Saburov. If you’re here to buy the land, the answer’s no.”
Saburov chuckles. It’s low, barely a sound. “That’s not why I’m here. Though, given your finances… I imagine you’ve had offers.”
Artemy stiffens. “We get by.”
“Barely.”
A pause hangs between them like dust in the light streaming from the rafters. Artemy’s jaw works as he considers whether to throw this man out or hear him out. Something about him—it isn’t just the suit or the car or the smell of perfume mixed with engine oil—something about the way he holds himself sets off a warning bell.
Artemy grabs a brush and starts to groom the pregnant mare he had been tending to before Saburov arrived. She’s a quarter horse, buckskin. A good, well-trained girl.
“Beautiful animal,” Saburov comments, eyeing the mare.
“She is,” Artemy replies. “Not for sale. Neither is her foal.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it. What’s her name?”
“Golden Days.”
Saburov hums.
There’s another pause. Artemy waits. He knows the kind of man Saburov is, or thinks he does. Fancy watch under the sleeve, car with city plates, hands with fingernails that have never once touched manure. He knows exactly the game being played. Daniil would have been more gracious, maybe even charmed. But Daniil isn’t in the barn. Artemy doesn’t feel the need to play nice.
Saburov finally takes the cue. “I’ve come to ask a favor. One I hope will be…mutually beneficial.”
“Most favors that are tend to have strings,” Artemy replies, not looking up.
Saburov chuckles again. “No strings, I assure you. You used to train horses, yes?”
Artemy’s hand falters while brushing. The question had been asked so bluntly, so casually, and yet it sends an electric jolt through his veins.
He doesn't answer at first. Instead, he lifts Golden Days’ hoof, picks at it with his tool, lets the quiet sink its teeth in. A soft huff of breath escapes the mare’s nostrils.
He can still taste it. The dust kicked up by hooves on a track. Some would find it suffocating, but it was always intoxicating to him. Still is.
Finally, he says, “Yeah. I did.”
Saburov watches him like a man examining the gears of a grandfather clock. “Before you took over the farm?”
Artemy nods once. “Before my father died, after I got out of university. I worked with racers for a while. Mostly broke them in, did groundwork, trained a few mounts for the local tracks. I never rode, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He folds his arms over his chest, clearly daring Saburov to press. “Too big for the saddle. You know there’s a weight limit for jockeys.”
Saburov’s face remains unreadable. “I’ve read as much. A shame. You have the look of someone who could’ve gone far, had you fit the mold.”
Artemy snorts. “Yeah, well. The mold was made for boys who vanish if they turn sideways.” He steps out of the stall, dusts his hands off, and gestures for Saburov to get to the point. “So what’s this got to do with anything?”
Saburov’s smile grows. “I got a horse I want you to train. A jockey, too.”
Artemy’s brows lift.
Saburov continues, tone neutral and deliberate. “The horse is a pure white filly named Wishbone. Five years old. Light build, agile. Promising bloodline. And the jockey is my adopted daughter, Clara. She's fourteen.”
“Who sired her? Who’s her dam?” Artemy presses, and he realizes too late that he’s fallen into Saburov’s trap. Damn him and his interest in horses!
“Her sire is Bush Burn, and her dam is White Fang.”
Artemy can’t help the breath he blows out. White Fang is a damn good barrel racer, but Bush Burn is the one that impresses him. He’s won twelve out of his thirteen starts, only missing out on first during his debut run.
“Where’d you get her?”
Saburov doesn’t hesitate. “Sanctuary upstate. Horse rescue, doubled as a foster placement. I wanted the filly. Clara came as a condition.”
Artemy frowns. “A condition?”
“She refused to be separated from the horse,” Saburov says with the faintest shrug, like it had been a mild inconvenience. “Apparently they’ve been together since the filly came in. Bonded. It was either take them both, or neither.”
There’s a beat. Artemy feels an inkling of fire burst in him at that.
His daughter was a condition?
He and Daniil had two adopted children of their own. They came after the quiet years.
Sticky, all elbows and fury, had been six and living on the streets by the station when Daniil found him trying to pickpocket the sheriff. Artemy remembers that day in startling clarity—how Daniil had come home with a busted lip, a bloodied hand, and a boy clutched under his arm like he was hauling in a particularly troublesome sack of potatoes. “He bit me,” Daniil had said, beaming. “Twice. I might need to get checked for rabies. But I got him.”
Artemy remembers how he’d stood in the kitchen doorway that day, watching Sticky (who refused to say his real name) throw a spoon at Daniil's head and shout that he wasn’t anyone’s anything.
And Daniil had said, calmly, brushing mashed potatoes off his cheek, “All right. Well. You’re not anyone’s anything, then. But you can still stay here. Mortis likes you.”
The cat had been curled around Sticky’s thin ankles like a curse.
Then Murky, three years later, found bundled in a faded coat on the doorstep of the church at the age of five. The priest had called Artemy before the authorities. He knew what kind of home she needed.
Murky was quieter but more suspicious, with eyes that scanned like they were measuring your soul for a casket. She didn’t trust anyone—not until she found Artemy outside one night fixing the chicken coop after a storm. She’d sat beside him in the dirt and asked why he was doing it alone.
“Because if I wait for Daniil, he’ll insist on drawing up a whole architectural plan, and we’ll never have eggs again.”
She hadn’t smiled, but she stayed. And then, she stayed for good.
Now, Murky was a grubby little monarch with scraped knees and a habit of naming every chicken they owned. Sticky had mellowed into something sharper but stable. He liked rules, now. He was the one who made sure everyone’s boots were in a row by the door. Murky was the one who broke those rules just to see if Sticky would notice.
Their family was not one made of blood, but of choice.
So yes. The phrasing—a condition—strikes something raw.
But he doesn’t say it aloud. Instead, he turns away, grabbing a pitchfork and starting to rearrange the hay in Golden Days’ stall with a little too much force.
“She’s not a racer yet, then,” he says. “Either of them.”
“Not officially,” Saburov tells him. “But Clara has lunged her. Got her used to a saddle and being ridden. Got her running.”
“Sounds like they’re all set for the Kentucky Derby!” Artemy says. “What do you need me for?”
Saburov snorts. “You’re funny, Mr. Burakhovsky. Wishbone’s raw talent is undeniable, but she’s temperamental. Skittish, easily distracted, stubborn as a mule. Clara is…eager but green, as you horsefolk say. She’s got heart but no discipline. That’s where you come in.”
Artemy shifts his weight, feeling the old itch in his bones. The ache of familiarity, the echo of adrenaline in his chest whenever a horse bolts or a rider stumbles, and the stubborn pride that had long since been buried beneath the dirt and sweat of farm life.
“You know jockeying is no place for a girl, right?” Artemy says. “They don’t like women ‘invading’ their precious sport. She’ll be chewed up and spat out by those men.”
“She’s used to teeth,” Saburov says easily, too easy for Artemy’s liking.
Artemy glares, the shadows of his worry sharpening. “Used to teeth, huh? Like you? You think a rich man’s pocket can buy her immunity from those kinds of wounds?”
Saburov leans in, his voice a soft, measured drawl, dripping with that infuriating calm. “No, Mr. Burakhovsky. Money can’t protect her from everything. But it can buy her the best trainers, the best gear, and most importantly, the best shot.”
Artemy grits his teeth. “And you think I’m that best shot?”
Saburov’s eyes flash with something unreadable—confidence, challenge, maybe a touch of amusement. “I think you’re the only one with the grit, the patience, and the knowledge to pull Wishbone and Clara out of the mire and onto the world stage. And maybe,” he adds, voice dropping slightly, “to pull this farm out of its own.”
Artemy’s jaw clenches.
“Your farm is the oldest in the valley, isn’t it?” Saburov asks, tilting his head. “A shame to see it fading.”
Artemy’s hands tighten around the pitchfork handle, nails digging into the wood. “We’re managing.” He tries to change the subject, “Why do you even want me, anyway? I’m sure there’s much better trainers out there.”
Saburov’s smile twists just enough to be unsettling. “Because, Mr. Burakhovsky, despite all my resources, I don’t have you. You know what it takes to read a horse’s mood, to work with them instead of forcing them. I need your hands and your instincts. Not just muscle or money.”
“And what about my family?” Artemy fires back. “I have them to take care of—not to mention our animals! I don’t need another burden.”
“Not a burden,” Saburov counters smoothly, stepping closer until his voice drops to a confidential murmur. “A lifeline. Think about it—training Wishbone and Clara isn’t just a job. It’s a spotlight. If they win, you win. This farm of yours, the Burakhovsky homestead—it’ll be the name everyone in the racing world knows. New sponsors, new money, new life. You and Daniil won’t have to worry about how to patch the roof next winter or scrape together feed for the chickens.”
Artemy feels the flicker of hope, sharp and unwelcome. He shakes his head. “I’m not running some kind of equestrian boarding school,” he says. “And I sure as hell don’t want your rich-man drama bleeding into my barn.”
“I would pay handsomely,” Saburov says. “More than handsomely. Monthly salary. Full coverage of veterinary needs, equipment, and maintenance.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I shake your hand, thank you for your time, and go bother someone else. But I think you’ll say yes.”
Artemy almost laughs. “What makes you so sure?”
“Because this place is sinking,” Saburov says softly, gesturing around the barn with one well-manicured hand. “And you’ve got a husband, two children, and many animals you adore. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who lets things he loves starve out of pride.”
Artemy’s throat aches biting back something like a roar. For a second, he imagines knocking Saburov’s teeth in. But then he sees Sticky’s old, tattered sneakers left by the barn door. Murky’s handmade drawing pinned to the corkboard above the tack hooks. A crooked horse with a crown.
“Three months is all I ask,” Saburov says, almost gentle. “Until the end of summer. And if you don’t want to continue, then we’ll pack up and go to someone else.”
Artemy exhales.
“I—” He hates how his voice falters. “I’ll have to talk to Daniil. He’s the one who handles the farm’s books, the logistics. And—” he pauses, voice low and raw. “He’s the one who keeps me grounded. I don’t want to drag us into something reckless.”
“Of course,” Saburov says. He slips Artemy a card. “Give me a call when you decide.”
Then, he’s off, striding back to his car. Mortis, the family black cat, is sizing up the vehicle. Daniil is standing on the porch, holding a bottle of their good wine and a glass.
“I hate rich people,” Artemy growls while passing Daniil by, grabbing the whole bottle by the neck and taking a big sip.
Evening settles over the farm like a soft, worn blanket. The kitchen glows with the warm hum of the old stove, the aroma of roasted chicken and fresh herbs weaving through the air. Murky and Sticky sit at the wooden table, elbows digging into the scarred surface as they talk in low voices, their laughter punctuating the quiet like scattered notes of a familiar song. Mortis pads silently in and out of the room, sleek black fur catching the lamplight, tail twitching in time with his steady purr. Artemy stands by the window, wiping his hands on a faded towel, watching the shadows stretch across the fields. Daniil is chopping vegetables at the counter, his movements precise, calm—like a surgeon’s hands even here, in this humble room.
Daniil had been his miracle and his disaster. They met at university. Daniil was studying to be a brain surgeon. Artemy was learning all about cattle. A shared cigarette, a few drinks, and a barn stall too small to hold the weight between them.
They never talked much about what they were. They just were.
It started, of all places, on the roof of the biomedical sciences building. Artemy had been up there hiding from a particularly soul-destroying anatomy midterm, a flask tucked into the inside pocket of his worn coat and a pack of cigarettes half-damp from the rain. Daniil had come up chasing solitude too, his white coat half-unbuttoned and a medical journal curled under one arm like a weapon.
Artemy had scowled when he heard the door creak open. “It’s taken.”
Daniil had paused, eyes flicking across the rooftop like he was checking for hazards. Then, without a word, he sat on the opposite end and pulled a cigarette from his own pack.
“You smoke?” Artemy had asked, suspicious. Daniil didn’t look like someone who smoked. He looked like someone who didn’t sleep. There was always something sharp and sleep-deprived about him, like a scalpel left out too long in the open air.
Daniil lit the cigarette with the same focus he gave to every task. “Only when I’m thinking of quitting.”
Artemy had snorted. Then he’d passed him the flask. “To quitting, then.”
“To quitting,” Daniil had said and drank.
They became something of an oddity on campus after that—an agricultural science major who spent his nights with his hands in cow vaginas checking to see if they’re pregnant and a pre-med darling who could quote every known pathology of the human brain but couldn’t remember to eat lunch. They weren’t supposed to make sense, but they did. Late nights in the stables or the lab. Heated debates over coffee and lukewarm noodles. One of them smelling like iodine, the other like manure. A thousand quiet, unspoken ways they made room for each other in the spaces no one else thought to look.
Their first kiss had been a mess of mud and adrenaline during a freak hailstorm. Daniil had slipped trying to help Artemy corral a loose foal back into the barn, and Artemy had caught him by the sleeve, hauled him upright, and kissed him like he wasn’t sure he’d survive if he didn’t.
Daniil kissed back like he was calculating its weight in every cell of his body.
And then, Artemy had apologized profusely afterward because his daddy didn’t teach him consent for nothing, but Daniil just started laughing in a way Artemy had never heard before. Laughed himself right into the mud and snow beneath his expensive shoes, and he didn’t even care.
That was the exact moment Artemy knew he wanted to marry this man.
They moved into a shared flat before they ever used the word “relationship.” Before “I love you” became a promise instead of a risk. It was never simple, never clean. Daniil was too precise and Artemy too proud. They fought like thunder and mended like rivers. But they stayed. Through school. Through Artemy’s father’s illness. Through Daniil’s residency. Through the death, the debt, the terrible years of silence that came after. And eventually, through the miracle of Sticky. Then Murky. And, of course, the cat who showed up half-dead and never left.
Artemy exhales slowly now, pulling himself back to the present. Back to the warmth of the kitchen, to the sound of Sticky scolding Murky for double-dipping in the gravy and Murky blowing raspberries in response. Daniil brushes past him with a cutting board and a half-smile.
“You’ve got that look again,” Daniil murmurs, sliding the chopped carrots into the pot with a practiced hand.
“What look?”
“The one you had when Sticky locked himself in the bathroom and you spent two hours sitting outside the door reading The Wind in the Willows through the crack.”
“That wasn’t a look,” Artemy mutters. “That was patience.”
“No,” Daniil says, setting the board aside, “this is the look.”
He taps Artemy’s furrowed brow with one gentle finger. “Out with it.”
Artemy glances back at the kids—Murky now trying to sneak a piece of bread to Mortis under the table, Sticky pretending not to notice—and sighs.
“Alexander Saburov came by today.”
That earns him a pause. A subtle stiffening in Daniil’s shoulders. “The one with the estate down by Ridge Hill?”
Artemy nods. “Offered me a job. Wants me to train a horse. And his daughter.”
Daniil raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How old is she?”
“Fourteen.”
“Isn’t that a little young to be a jockey? And since when do you train kids?”
“Much too young. And I don’t.” Artemy leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “But this girl, Clara, she’s attached to the horse. Won’t go anywhere without her. And the horse—Wishbone—she’s got bloodline, potential. But skittish. Wild.”
“So, naturally, he came to you.”
Artemy huffs. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.”
Daniil smiles faintly, brushing a hand along Artemy’s arm. “You’re good with the difficult ones. It’s your curse.”
That draws a low chuckle. “Guess so. I mean, I did marry you.”
“Ha,” Daniil snorts, giving him a sharp prod in the ribs with a wooden spoon. “You know, I still don’t understand how we got here.”
“Cow midterms,” Artemy says, without missing a beat.
Daniil chokes on a laugh. “That’s not a thing.”
“They are too a thing,” Artemy says with mock indignation. “You ever have to draw the entire bovine digestive tract from memory? Didn't think so.”
“I once performed a craniotomy on a corpse with four aneurysms.”
Artemy shrugs. “Yeah, well. My cow could’ve eaten your corpse, so.”
Daniil smirks, and there’s a pause—brief, heavy.
Sticky is the one who breaks it. “You gonna take the job?”
Artemy blinks, surprised to hear his voice so steady. So direct. Sticky doesn’t often ask questions like that—he listens, stores, calculates—but rarely intrudes.
“I don’t know yet,” Artemy replies.
“What color is the horse?” Murky asks.
“Saburov said white,” Artemy tells her.
“White,” she echoes. “Like a ghost. Maybe she’s haunted.”
“Maybe it’s a rich man with no idea what he’s asking for,” Daniil mutters, turning back to the stove.
Sticky’s eyes flick toward the window. “You’re gonna do it,” he says simply. Not a question. Just a truth, already accounted for.
Artemy doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, laying a hand on Daniil’s back, feeling the small knots of muscle through the worn cotton of his shirt. The fire pops softly in the stove. The table creaks as Murky climbs up on it—Artemy doesn’t even scold them—and begins drawing something with a blunt pencil on the back of an old feed receipt.
And Artemy is thrown, for a moment, not back to the past, but forward—into the slow weight of what’s coming. The farm. The kids. The girl. The horse. The man with too much money and too little sense. The ache in his knees. The question in Daniil’s eyes that neither of them has spoken aloud yet: How long can we keep doing this?
But the kitchen is warm, and the soup is good, and Daniil’s hand finds his.
“Artemy.” Daniil turns to him again. “You love horses. You love teaching. And whether you admit it or not, you miss it.”
Artemy sighs, and this time it’s lighter.
“Yeah. I do.”
Daniil grins and kisses his cheek.
“Then let’s train a horse and a kid to kick ass,” he says. “Big Bull Farm isn’t dead yet.”
From behind them, Sticky says, “You said a bad word.”
Murky gasps dramatically. “Are we allowed to say that now?!”
Mortis meows in judgmental approval.
And under the slowly purpling sky, something like hope begins to grow again.
“Yeah,” Artemy says. “Let’s do it.”