All Eyes on Estoria [Part 1]

Zeppora sat at a small desk in the ranch office, constantly pushing her hair away from her forehead. Beads of sweat gathered at the crown of her hairline like tiny, stubborn flies. Papers, printed screenshots, and scribbled notes were spread out in front of her. She had read them all countless times.

She stared at a printed article about Princess Estoria’s theft until the words blurred.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” she muttered.

From around the corner, a broad, familiar frame filled the doorway. Finn leaned his shoulder on the frame, holding a mug in both hands. It smelled like homemade hot cocoa—rich and sweet.

“What doesn’t?” he asked, taking a noisy sip.

“The whole thing about our colt’s story,” Zeppora said. “Princess Estoria, the thief, the missing records… I want to find out what happened to that poor mare.” She hesitated and bit her lip before turning her swivel chair to face him. Only then did she really notice the cocoa.

“I haven’t found any leads on what happened to her after the horse thief was caught,” she continued. “She was already gone.”

Finn sighed deeply. The both of them cared a lot about this news that they had discovered almost a year ago now, and equally upset that no new information was ever put out about it. How often does an olympic legend like that mare become stolen, and how was she never found? All signs pointed that perhaps she was put down somewhere along the lines, but neither of them wanted to believe that. They both desired proof before giving up on the case entirely.

Zeppora reached her hand out towards her new husband, who reluctantly approached her with his beverage. Taking it and taking a big, satisfied gulp, she rubbed his hand lovingly before handing it back to him. He smiled excitedly at her small embrace, but quickly became less enthusiastic upon seeing just how big of a sip that was. At least he had the mug back now, and knowledge for himself to not go anywhere near his new wife with a full mug of fresh, tantalazing, handcrafted hot chocolate.

“I’ve only found one small clue,” Zeppora said, “if you can even call it that.”

Finn’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

“About a month after we got Toast,” she said, “an equestrian blog user posted a picture of two Loshenka mares they bought at a Tennessee auction. A chestnut and a pure white one. There’s no official connection to the case, but the white mare…” Zeppora pulled a glossy printout from the pile and showed him. “She looks a lot like Estoria. The build, the tail, the head. It grabbed my attention.”

“Huh.” Finn studied the blurred, pixelated image. “How on earth did you even find that?”

“I got desperate,” Zeppora admitted with a sheepish smile. “I started doing a bunch of reverse image searches. Screenshots of old show photos, stills from videos… anything I could drag into the search bar.”

“I wouldn’t have even thought of doing that,” Finn said, genuine awe in his voice.

“Ha!” Zeppora snorted. “You don’t even think of flushing the toilet half the time.”

She hopped up, giving his arm a hearty shove as she passed him on her way out of the office. Her shove barely made him move; he was built like one of the sturdier geldings in the barn.

Finn frowned dramatically. “It’s too soon for divorce. I said some serious vows at our wedding…”

“I’ll reconsider it when you start flushing the toilet!” she called back.

He smirked and took another cautious sip of his rescued cocoa.

Meanwhile, the new star colt-in-training at Zeppora x Dothar Stablegrounds had become a popular topic in the local equestrian community. Toast—once just an unrecorded colt from a suspicious ranch in Arizona—was now the whispered-about “maybe-prince” of the region. Although Zeppora and Whinfrey had kept their discovery as quiet as possible, Zachary’s mouth made secrecy nearly impossible. Everywhere he went to train or compete, a little bit of the truth slipped out through his loose lips like water.

“Yeah, our colt? They think he’s Princess Estoria’s foal,” he would say casually while adjusting a girth. “No big deal.”

No big deal at all. By early spring, Toast was nearly two. He had shot up in height, his freckled coat brightening into a striking white with warm ginger-colored speckles, like a toasted marshmallow dusted with cinnamon. His tail had grown long and heavy, swishing with a hint of the same dramatic flair that Estoria herself had been famous for. On one breezy morning, Zeppora led him into the covered arena for a light training session. Finn walked beside her, holding a lunge line.

“Just a little trot work, baby boy” Zeppora said.

“Baby who thinks he’s a famous celebrity,” Finn replied, following close behind her with his early morning hot latte. Zeppora rolled her eyes at him.

“You aren’t even doing the training and you already got caffeine in your hands.” She scoffed.

“Gotta be ready for anything,” Finn casually responded.

Toast flicked an ear back at them. “Celebrity” sounded like a word for horses who got extra fruit, and “Latte” was just a tasty-sounding word altogether.

He blew out a soft breath, testing the spring in his legs. His whole body hummed with a passionate flame. He wanted to show his handlers what he could really do and carve a name for himself in their hearts.

- - -

Later that afternoon, after training was finished and most of the horses were dozing in their stalls, Toast watched the barn aisle with restless eyes. He could smell fresh hay, damp wood, oiled leather, and the faint earthy scent of the older stallion two doors down. His older friend, a Rocky Mountain stallion–Fisher–stood in his stall with his head over the door, calmly working on a pile of vegetables Zeppora had tossed into his feeder.

Toast pawed at the straw. “Hey,” he called softly.

Fisher flicked an ear. “What is it, sprout?”

Toast stepped closer to the bars between them. “When I trot with my knees all high up,” he said, “everyone stares. And they whisper. And sometimes they look at those papers on the board.” He nodded toward the corkboard outside his stall, where Zeppora had pinned up articles and photographs about Princess Estoria, all linked with thumbtacks and red threads.

Fisher’s dark, mild eyes softened. “Huh,” he said. “Guess it’s because you’re probably Estoria’s foal.”

Toast’s heart thumped. He had seen the images—a white mare with a long tail and proud neck, frozen mid-stride in some magical dance. He just didn’t quite understand what it meant.

“Her… Foal?” Toast whispered.

Fisher sighed, then shifted closer, resting his chin on his half-door so he could see the colt better. “You’re going to find out more sooner or later, anyways. You already saw the articles and heard your people talking.”

He cleared his throat with a deep groan. “Your dam was Princess Estoria,” Fisher said. “Dressage royalty. Silver-medalist at the Olympics, according to those papers up there. The way you pick up your knees and carry yourself? That’s no accident. You’ve got dressage blood bred into you.”

Toast’s eyes went wide. “Dressage,” he repeated, rolling the strange word around like a pebble. “That’s… the dancing? With the tiny steps and the big circles?”

“It’s more than dancing,” Fisher replied gently. “It’s a conversation. Horse and rider learning to trust each other until the smallest shift means something. Your mom was one of the best.”

Toast looked toward the board again. In one photo, Estoria’s rider leaned forward, hand on the mare’s neck, tears on their face. In another, Estoria stood with a ribbon draped over her brow, ears pricked, calm and steady in a crowd.

“She looks so… elegant,” Toast whispered. “And like she’s not afraid of anything.”

Fisher nodded once. “Good dressage horses have to be like that. They learn to breathe through the noise. Your mom went through some horrible things, from what I’ve heard, but she still kept her mind. Calm. Steady. That’s the kind of strength you’ve got in you too.”

Toast lowered his head, his thoughts spinning.

His earliest memories were dark and cramped: a narrow stall, his mother’s body curling around him, her heartbeat thudding against his ear. The sour smell of fear and smoke. Men shouting outside, doors slamming. Through all of it, his mother had merely shifted her weight to shield him more, her breath warm and even.

She had hummed to him in little snorts and whickers, pressing her muzzle against his neck. You’re safe. Breathe with me. He hadn’t understood the words then, only the feeling. But now the pieces slid together like a puzzle. His mother was not just any mare. She was a legend.

“I’m her son?” Toast said aloud.

“You are,” Fisher confirmed. “But listen, kid—”

Toast didn’t even hear the rest. His mind had already galloped ahead. If she was that strong, he had to be just as strong. If she was a champion, well… he had to become one too.

Over the next two weeks, Toast tried to live up to a standard no one had actually asked him to reach. Zeppora and Finn kept his formal training light, mindful of his age. But Toast added his own “practice sessions” whenever he could. During turnout, he trotted elaborate loops in the pasture, lifting his knees as high as they would go. He’d halt, then spring into an awkward little canter pirouette that nearly toppled him. He’d rein back a few steps on his own, then surge forward. When the other horses grazed, he practiced transitions—walk, trot, canter, halt—again and again until his chest heaved and sweat darkened his freckled neck. He imagined invisible judges along the fence line, watching his every move. He imagined them whispering: That’s Estoria’s colt. He’s not as good as she was. He’s sloppy. He’s wild. He’s nothing special after all.

And so, he pushed harder.

One late afternoon, the sky glowed pink and gold, and Zeppora brought him into the arena for a simple lunge. Toast moved into trot eagerly when she clucked. He stretched forward, then tucked, experimenting with how his neck felt, how the weight shifted in his body.

“Easy, Toast,” Zeppora called. “Just a few circles today.”

But Toast heard only: They’re watching. Don’t mess up. Be like Princess Estoria.

He lengthened his stride, then abruptly tried to sit and collect like the mare in the photograph. His hindquarters were not ready. His balance wasn’t either. His front hoof struck the ground at a bad angle. A hot, sharp pain shot up his leg. Toast stumbled, threw his head, and blew out a startled snort.

“Whoa!” Finn shouted, taking a step forward with the line.

Toast forced himself to keep going. The pain flared but he gritted through it, refusing to let his steps show a limp. He completed the circle, then another. He lowered his head and relaxed his jaw, trying to look as calm and steady as the white mare on the board.

Zeppora frowned. “That’s enough,” she said, and brought him in. “He’s a little too fired up today.”

They patted his neck, rubbed his face, and led him back to his stall. Toast limped only the tiniest bit, his body trembling with the effort of pretending nothing was wrong. Still, he had to complete the walk of shame as they escorted him away, right into his stall for the rest of the afternoon. That night, he lay down carefully, tucking his aching foreleg under him. The pain throbbed and pulsed. It will go away, he told himself. I just have to try harder tomorrow. No one had predicted that by morning, his fetlock would be the size of a grapefruit.

“Oh no,” Zeppora breathed.

Toast shifted his weight, trying to hide the swelling as she entered his stall. When he stepped toward her, he winced. Finn appeared behind her, mugless for once, his brows knitting as he took in the sight.

“Toast,” Zeppora whispered, running a gentle hand along his leg. “Why didn’t you show us you were sore yesterday?”

Toast dropped his head, guilt rippling through him. He nudged her shoulder apologetically.

“It’s hot,” Finn said, pressing his fingers just above the swelling. Toast jerked.

“Sorry, bud,” Finn murmured. “We’ll get you the vet now, like we should have before."

The vet came that afternoon, his hands efficient and kind. He flexed the joint, took X-rays, and pronounced it a rolled, badly strained ankle—not catastrophic, but not something to ignore.

“He needs rest,” the vet said firmly. “Stall rest for a while, limited movement. No hard work. If you push him, you risk long-term damage.”

Zeppora nodded solemnly, her heart sinking. Toast had been enjoying his training so much. Now he’d be stuck in a stall, watching the others work. As if reading her mind, Finn spoke quietly once the vet left.

“Hey,” he said. “Look at it this way. We’ve been banging our heads against a wall over Estoria. Maybe this is a sign to focus on finding her while Toast heals.”

Zeppora blinked at him. “You mean… actually go to Tennessee?” she asked.

Finn shrugged. “You found that blog post. Two Loshenkas at a Tennessee auction. One white mare with no papers. We’ve emailed the blog owner, but they never responded. Maybe it’s time we go to the source.”

“That auction was last year,” Zeppora said. “Those mares could have been sold to anyone from anywhere.”

“True,” Finn admitted. “But if we don’t go, we’ll never know. And Toast can’t train for a bit anyway. Zachary can help out for once and watch the ranch.”

Zeppora looked back at Toast. He watched them miserably from the corner of his stall, his ears drooped.

“If there’s even a chance she’s out there…” Zeppora whispered, her throat tight. “Okay. Let’s do it. We’ll haul a trailer for the trip, in case we need it. We’ll go to Tennessee and dig for more clues.”

Toast’s ears pricked at the word. Tennessee. He didn’t know what or where that was. But it sounded important. It sounded like a place where lost mares might be found. Maybe even his. In fact, that night, as Fisher stood half-dozing in his stall, Toast got busy marking down a plan in the dust and straw.

“Can’t sleep?” Fisher asked without opening his eyes.

Toast stood at the bars, staring out into the dim aisle. “They’re going,” he said quietly. “To Tennessee.”

“Mmm,” Fisher replied. “So I heard.”

“If they find her and bring her home,” Toast said, “will she… like me? Or will she think I’m not good enough? I messed up. I hurt my leg trying to be like her.”

Fisher finally lifted his head.

“Kid,” he said, “your mother isn’t a scoreboard. She’ll care more that you’re alive than how high you can lift your knees.”

Toast swallowed hard.

“I shouldn’t have told you as much as I did,” Fisher added with a sigh. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’ve got to live up to some legend. You’re allowed to just be a colt.”

Toast shook his head. “I don’t want to just be a colt. I’ve got Olympian blood in me. I can’t just ignore it!”

“Being ‘just a colt’ got you this far,” Fisher said dryly. “Besides… if you want to make her proud, don’t wreck your body doing tricks you’re not ready for. That’s the opposite of dressage.”

Toast absorbed that in silence.

“I think you should rest,” Fisher concluded. “Let the people go look. They’ve got wheels. Tennessee’s a long way off on four legs.”

“I could do it,” Toast said quietly. “If I had to.”

Fisher huffed. “Sit down, you’re really acting like a colt right now. Show us some of that legendary elegance and rest on it, bud.”

Toast lay down eventually, but sleep came in thin, restless bursts. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw that blurry screenshot of the white mare at the Tennessee auction. He imagined her calling for him, searching pasture after pasture. By the time the horizon began to lighten, his mind was made up.

Before the sun rose the next day, the barn was still. The humans hadn’t yet arrived. A faint gray glow leaked in through the windows. Toast stood, his ankle still sore but less swollen. He stepped carefully, testing his weight. It hurt, but not as sharply as before. He eased his nose under the latch of his stall door. Toast had watched Zachary forget to secure it properly more than once. With a soft clink, it popped up. Toast froze, listening for danger. No sound but the rustle of hay and Fisher’s soft snore. He slipped into the aisle, then trotted—slightly limping, but determined—toward the back door. The security gate was latched too, but the gap beneath the bottom bar was wider there. Toast lowered his head, nudged the chain until it loosened, and squeezed through, scraping his hips with a grunt. Cold morning air washed over him like a wave.

Out far and beyond the barn, the woodlands behind the barn became a forest without fences. Somewhere far beyond that, hidden in a state he couldn’t picture, might be Tennessee.

“Tennesse,” Toast murmured to himself, mispronouncing it the way he’d heard Zeppora say it fast. “I’m coming.”

He walked to the pasture fence, then gathered himself. His sore leg buckled slightly, but he pushed off anyway. He cleared the fence, landing with a jolt of pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathed through it, and then started walking.

By the time Whinfrey, Finn, and Zeppora arrived at the barn that morning, Toast was three farm-lengths away.

Zeppora carried a small notebook with travel plans half-scribbled inside. Finn stretched his shoulders, already thinking about the long drive ahead. Whinfrey was the first to notice Toast’s empty stall.

“Zeppora,” she called sharply. “Did you move Toast somewhere else already?”

Zeppora froze. “No?”

They checked the pasture. He wasn’t there. They checked the medical paddock. Empty.

Finn’s eyes widened. “No way.”

“Hoofprints,” Whinfrey said, pointing to a trail of disturbed dirt leading away from the back barn gate. “He squeezed out.”

Zeppora’s stomach plummeted. “He rolled his ankle yesterday. He can’t be far. He’ll tire out quickly.”

“Unless he’s too stubborn,” Finn muttered.

Within minutes, they were in the truck. Zeppora sat in the passenger seat, clutching the Tennessee file as if it might hold any more answers than it already did. Finn drove slowly at first, scanning the sides of the road for a freckled white colt. Whinfrey followed in the SUV. They questioned neighbors they passed. One farmer had seen a young white horse limping along the ditch line about an hour earlier.

“Headed east,” he said. “Little guy looked determined.”

“East,” Zeppora repeated, sharing a look with Finn.

“Tennessee’s east, too.” Finn murmured.

Whinfrey pulled up beside them, rolling down her window. “There’s no way a baby horse overheard us being detectives and decided to travel to Tennessee on his own. That’s as much of a fantasy as Zachary learning how to follow instructions,” she said.

“Then we’ll just keep looking for him,” Finn replied. “We follow his trail and keep going. If the trail leads toward Tennessee anyway, that’s where we were headed. Looks like our trip just… expanded.”

Zeppora’s heart thudded. Their simple quest for more information had turned into a desperate chase for their runaway colt.

“We’re coming, Toast,” she whispered.

{To be continued...}