All Eyes on Estoria [Part 2]

[We continue...}

Toast’s journey had already taken him farther than he had ever gone alone. He followed the smell of wet asphalt and distant hay, trotting along the shallow ditches beside the road to keep away from the rumbling metal beasts that roared past. Cars honked, brakes squealed, and a few drivers slowed down to stare.

“What in the—? Is that a baby horse?” one woman gasped, pulling her car over to call animal control.

Toast skittered away from her, not understanding what she wanted. He crossed a shallow stream, nearly slipping on the wet stones. He waded through tall grass that brushed his belly and made his legs itch. He met a crow perched on a fence post.

“Hey, black bird.. Uh..” Toast called, unable to find the words. “Have you seen Tennessee?”

The crow tilted its head. “You walked into it,” he croaked.

Toast blinked. “Really?”

The crow cawed laughter. “No. I just like to see the look on your face. Tennessee sounds like a weird animal.”

Toast snorted. “Hmph.... You’re a bird. I thought you could see from above really far.”

The crow ruffled his feathers. “Ha! Tough luck, kid. Keep going the direction you’re going and you’ll probably end up there. It’s Southeast. Probably.”

“Thanks,” Toast said, even though he wasn’t sure if that counted as directions.

He walked on until his ankle throbbed so hard he had to stop. He paused in the shade of a scraggly tree, sides heaving.

Maybe Fisher was right, he thought. Maybe I was stupid to even try.

A dog barked. Toast’s ears snapped up. A lean border collie trotted up the dirt lane toward him, tongue lolling.

“You’re not one of mine,” the dog woofed. Toast stood there, puzzled.

The collie huffed. “Loose stock makes humans mad. You’re coming with me, okay?”

“I’m looking for my mom,” Toast said. “She might be in Tennessee.”

The dog’s eyes widened. “Tennessee? Buddy, that’s—”

“That’s where? Where?!"

“You’re a long ways off,” the dog muttered. “Still…” He sniffed the air. “You smell like good people. Barn people. They’re looking for you, you know. If you’re not one of mine, you should turn back.”

Toast’s heart squeezed. “They’re going to Tennessee,” he said. “To find her.”

The dog studied him for a long second. “Head east until you reach the big road with all the loud things,” he finally said. “Follow the fence line along it. There’s a fuel stop where truckers gather. They see everything. Maybe they’ve seen horses like you.”

“Thank you,” Toast said sincerely.

The dog circled him once, gave his ankle a sympathetic sniff, and then trotted away to chase a stray goat. By midday, Toast found the fuel stop. The concrete smelled like oil and hot rubber. Massive trailers sat in neat rows like sleeping metal giants. Behind the fuel stop, beyond a chain-link fence, he heard a horse whinny from inside a trailer.

Toast lifted his head. “Hello?” he called. He circled the lot until he was met with a metal wall, equipped with slots for air. A paint gelding stuck his nose between the slats in the trailer, eyes bright. “Woah! A real mustang!” he said.

“I’m looking for Tennessee,” Toast replied. “And a white Loshenka mare. She might have come through an auction here. Or somewhere. I don’t know.”

Toast’s jaw dropped. “Really? Where?”

“Huh?” the gelding said. “I’m confused. You’re not wild?”

“No?” Toast responded apprehensively.

“Then you must be really really lost.”

Toast shook his mane indignantly. “No! I’m headed to Tennessee!”

“Tennessee? That’s where I just came from. You’re not far from the border.”

“Have you seen a horse there named Princess Estoria? I’m looking for her.”

“I can’t read the human signs, but as for a white Loshenka mare… I saw something like that on the way back. There’s a ranch a couple hours east of here that bought some fancy horses from an auction last year. Red-something ranch. They had a big sign with a cow on it and everything.”

Toast’s heart began to pound in his chest.

“How far east? And where’s east?” he asked hoarsely.

“Follow this road east,” the gelding said. “Stay on the grass line. When the fields start to turn red and rocky, listen for a human shouting ‘Joseph! Lunch!’ He’s always yelling for the ranch owner. That’s how you’ll know you’re close.”

“Thank you,” Toast breathed. He took off, the pain in his ankle subsiding from the adrenaline. His skinny legs erupted into a gallop with unstoppable determination. Just like that, he was off.

Back on the highway, hours behind Toast, Finn and Zeppora stopped at the same fuel station. They hadn’t seen him along the ditches, and their worry had thickened into something heavy and sharp. They spoke with a few truckers, and even showed them photos from their training with him on their phones.

“Yeah, I saw a young colt,” the attendant at the counter told them. “White with some spots. Big ol’ leg on the poor thing. Must’ve bumped his hoof with a rock. He was headed east earlier, runnin’ and everything. It looked like he had somewhere to be.”

“Of course he did,” Finn muttered.

“East, then,” Zeppora said with a determined nod as they got back into the truck. “We keep following him. If the trail leads all the way to Tennessee, then… so do we.”

“It practically already led to Tennessee,” Zeppora whispered. “We’re halfway to our original destination. This colt is truly insane.”

She gripped her chest, burning with desire to find a lead on Princess Estoria. She breathed deeply as they pulled back onto the highway, ready for answers to come.

By late afternoon, Toast’s legs were trembling. His ankle burned with every step. But as the landscape shifted—fields dotted with rust-colored clay and scrubby trees—he heard what the paint gelding had described.

“Joseph! Lunch!”

A woman’s voice, distant but clear, carried over the rolling hills. Toast’s heart leapt. He followed the sound. He crested a small rise and saw it: a spread of fenced pastures, weathered barns, and a sign at the driveway’s entrance painted in bold red letters.

REDHORN HORSE RANCH.

Toast swayed where he stood, exhaustion buzzing in his bones. He had made it. He had made it!

He staggered down toward the closest fence. Horses grazed in the pasture—a mix of colors and shapes. But two figures, near the back, made his breath catch. One was a rich bay mare with the long, sweeping tailbone and elegant neck he recognized from his own reflection. The other was a white mare, thinner than the photos on the board back home, her coat dulled, scars faintly tracing her legs. Both were unmistakably Loshenkas.

Toast approached the fence, heart hammering. “Hello?” he called softly.

The bay mare’s head snapped up. Her nostrils flared as she scented him. Her ears pitched forward, then pricked even higher. “I don’t believe it,” she breathed. “Am I crazy right now?”

“Excuse me,” Toast said, fighting not to wobble. “Have you ever heard of a mare named Princess Estoria?”

The bay mare’s eyes widened. She turned sharply, calling out with a piercing, urgent whinny.

“Stori! You need to come see this. You’re not going to believe your eyes!”

The white mare at the back flicked an ear. She looked tired, her head low as she picked at sparse grass. At the sound of the bay’s call, she turned. Her eyes fell on Toast. The world seemed to freeze. The mare went absolutely still for half a heartbeat. Her eyes widened to their fullest, so wide he could see the whites flashing around the dark. Then she sucked in a sharp breath and exploded into motion. She bolted toward the fence. Toast’s heart lurched as she thundered closer, her gait uneven and desperate. She skidded to a stop a mere length away, staring at him as if he were a ghost.

“Wait,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “No… no, you can’t be…”

Toast swayed, suddenly shy. “Hello,” he said nervously. “I… I think you’re my mom.”

The mare’s entire body trembled. She lifted her head and screamed—a raw, panicked sound—and then spun, hurling herself toward the interior fence in a wild attempt to jump out.

“Stori!” the bay mare shouted. “Stop!”

The commotion drew the attention of a man in a faded baseball cap and a glorious mustache coming out of the barn. He looked up just in time to see his white mare try to scramble over the fence in a desperate, half-formed leap.

“Whoa!” he shouted, dropping the bucket he carried. “Easy, girl!”

He hurried toward the pasture, catching sight of the freckled colt on the outside as he ran.

“What on earth—?” he breathed. “How did you get here?”

He slowed, hands held out, trying not to spook either horse further.

“Easy, Estoria,” he murmured—using a shortened barn name he’d never realized was so literal. “Easy, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

Estoria stood panting, sides heaving, but she didn’t charge the fence again. She stared at Toast, her expression somewhere between terror and awe. The man—Mr. Joseph Yosef—took in the colt’s color, his long tailbone, his freckled coat, his Loshenka bone structure.

“I’ll be,” he whispered. “You look a looot like like this pretty lady right ‘ere.”

He moved to the gate, carefully opening it to the outside. Toast, too exhausted to flee, merely blinked at him.

“Come on, buddy,” Yosef said gently, extending a hand. “Let’s get you inside before you collapse on the road.”

Toast hesitated, then stepped forward. In a matter of minutes, he was in the pasture with the mares, the gate latched behind him. Yosef pulled his phone from his pocket, mind racing. No papers. Strange auction. A white Loshenka mare named Estoria with scars that didn’t match an average trail horse’s past. And now a colt who had somehow walked onto his property with the same eyes. He started making some urgent phone calls.

Six hours later, a mud-streaked SUV and horse trailer pulled into the gravel drive of Redhorn Horse Ranch. Finn’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Zeppora’s eyes were red-rimmed from fighting sleep, a stack of printed articles and photos nearly spilling out of a file that was clutched against her chest. They had followed lead after lead: neighbors, truckers, a highway patrol officer who had spotted “a small white horse running east,” and finally a call forwarded from an overworked animal-control dispatcher.

“Someone in Tennessee says a colt wandered onto their ranch,” the dispatcher had said. “Looks like a Loshenka. The owner's name is Joseph Yosef. Redhorn Horse Ranch. Sound familiar?”

Zeppora had practically screamed yes, but she hesitated.

“Joseph Yosef? Seriously?”

The dispatcher could only shrug and chuckle in agreement to the ridiculousness of his name. Once they arrived, Joseph met them in the driveway, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“You must be the people looking for the colt,” he said.

“Yes,” Zeppora blurted, already fumbling for her phone. “Is he—? Is he okay?”

“He’s tired, sore, and stubborn as a mule,” Yosef said. “But he’s okay. You’re gonna want ‘nother look at that fetlock.”

Zeppora sagged with relief. Finn exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“And, uh,” Joseph added, adjusting his cap, “you might want to see the company he’s keeping.”

He led them down the path toward the back pasture. Toast stood in the middle of the field, one front leg slightly rested, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Beside him stood the bay Loshenka mare, her neck arched protectively. On his other side, close enough that their shoulders touched, was the white mare. When Estoria saw Zeppora and Finn approaching, she lifted her head but did not move away from her colt.

“Oh,” Zeppora breathed, coming to a stunned halt at the fence.

Zeppora couldn’t speak. The mare in front of them was older and more worn than the glossy photos from ten years ago, but the structure was the same. The delicate build. The powerful hindquarters, even under the scars. The fountain of tail, even if it was duller now. The head that had once bent beautifully at the poll in every dressage test she’d ever performed.

“It can’t be,” Finn whispered.

“Who, the mare?” Yosef asked inquisitively. “She was acquired at an auction downtown. Sold her off with some scars nobody bothered hidin’. She’s got some bowing goin’ on after gettin’ her checked out. Likely a fracture that ain’t set right. I thought I’d turn her into a trail horse, but she never quite took to the job. Too many bad memories stored up in those legs, maybe.”

Zeppora swallowed, her eyes stinging.

“My name is Zeppora,” she said softly. “This is my husband, Finn. We—” Her voice broke. “We have reason to believe that the mare is Princess Estoria. And that colt is her foal.”

“No kiddin’,” Yosef said. “I called the vet who did her intake when I bought her, and he mentioned an old microchip scar but the thing turned out to be broken inside.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “But I guess sometimes the world is small,” he finished simply.

Toast stepped forward, leaning his head against the fence. Zeppora rushed to him, wrapping her arms gently around his freckled face.

“You stupid idiot,” she whispered, half laughing, half sobbing. “You ran all the way here?!”

Toast nuzzled her shoulder, breathing in her familiar scent. His ankle ached, but a different ache in his chest—the ache of missing someone he barely remembered—had eased the moment he’d stood beside Estoria.

“Can we…?” Finn asked Joseph quietly, nodding toward the gate.

“Go ahead,” Joseph said. “She’s usually jumpy, but have at it.”

Zeppora and Finn slipped into the pasture. Estoria watched them warily, nostrils flaring. She flinched when Finn took a step, scars reminding her of hands that had not always been gentle. Zeppora stopped a respectful distance away and lowered her gaze slightly, body relaxed. She knew better than to rush a traumatized horse.

“It’s okay, girl,” she said softly. “We’re not here to take him away from you. We’re here to take you both home.”

Estoria’s ears flicked toward her. She nickered quietly, then turned to Toast, touching her muzzle to his neck. Toast felt tears prick behind his eyes—an odd, human feeling reflected in a horse’s body. He didn’t understand why his chest felt so full, only that being between his mother and his humans felt… right. He finally heard her voice clearly in his mind.

“Baby, my baby,” she whispered. “I thought you were gone. I thought… after they took you…”

Toast pressed his nose against her cheek. “They saved me,” he told her. “They brought me to a place with good hay and sweet fruit and a golden mare who told me stories. You must have been so brave, mama.”

Estoria’s breath shuddered. She took a shaky step toward Zeppora, then another. Zeppora held her ground, hand held out, empty. Estoria sniffed her fingers. They smelled like apples and ink and the same colt who had just ran a few hundred miles just to find her.

Zeppora’s eyes filled with tears. “We found you,” she whispered. “We really found you.”

Inside Joseph's small kitchen, after the horses had been moved to a closer paddock for observation and rest, papers lay spread across the table again. Vet intake forms. Auction receipts. Zeppora’s photos from Estoria’s show days, printed from old internet archives. A hastily taken picture Joseph had snapped of the mare when he bought her.

“So that’s why she never quite fit in,” Joseph said, sitting back with a long sigh. “She came to me with old tendon injuries, that nasty old fracture, and a couple of badly healed cuts from some kind of accident, and a look in her eyes like she’d seen too much. I figured she’d had some rough miles on her. I didn’t realize she was that mare.”

Zeppora nodded, her voice thick. “She was stolen while in foal,” she said. “We believe Toast is that foal. The timelines match. The physical traits match. And… well.” She smiled faintly. “He walked straight to your ranch like he had a map in his blood.”

Finn cleared his throat. “We’d like to… make an offer,” he said carefully. “For Estoria. We’ll buy her for twice whatever you paid at the auction.”

Zeppora choked on the air she was breathing at her husband's words. She whipped her head at him with shock and confusion, but also genuine awe. She snapped her gaze to Joseph, watching his every body movement and reaction. Joseph looked out the window toward the pasture where Estoria and Toast now stood side by side, the bay mare grazing nearby like a sentry.

“I bought her thinkin’ she’d be a trail horse,” he said. “Turns out, that ain’t the life for her. Not here, anyhow. I’ve tried my best, but she’s never really settled.”

He turned back to them. “I like to think I was a safe stop along the way,” he added. “But I’m not her final home. She deserves a place where her story means somethin’. Where someone can actually understand what she’s been through.”

He smiled at them, his mind made up. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said. “On one condition.”

Finn tensed. “Name it.”

“Send me updates,” Joseph said. “Show me she’s okay. And if she ever decides she likes trail ridin’ after all, I want to see a picture of that too.”

Zeppora laughed, wiping at her eyes. “You have my word,” she said.

They shook hands, and just like that, the impossible had happened. Princess Estoria, the stolen legend, was coming home with her own foal. However, loading them into the trailer took patience. Toast walked up the ramp with little hesitation—he trusted the humans, and he was too tired to argue. Estoria hesitated at the base, eyes flicking nervously between the dark interior and her colt inside. Zeppora stood at the door, speaking softly.

“This is different,” she murmured. “No more thieves. No more auction barns. This is just a ride home. To your colt. To a place where no one will ever sell you again.”

Finn stood on the other side, holding a bucket of sliced apples. Between the smell of fruit and the steady sound of Toast nickering inside, Estoria finally lifted a hoof, then another, and stepped into the trailer. The ramp closed with a gentle thud.

Finn exhaled. “Okay,” he said, voice shaky with relief. “Let’s get this cute little family reunion back home.”

The road stretched long ahead of them, but the tension in the truck had changed. It wasn’t raw panic anymore; it was fragile hope, held together by coffee, fast food wrappers, and the occasional teary laugh.

“Whinfrey is going to say ‘I told you so’ so hard it echoes,” Finn said, eyes on the highway.

Zeppora sniffed a laugh. “Zachary is going to tell everyone at every show within a hundred-mile radius.”

“He already does that and we didn’t know where she was,” Finn pointed out. “Now he’ll actually be right.”

Zeppora leaned her head against the window, watching the trailer in the side mirror. “They’re both in there,” she whispered. “After all this time. Toast and Estoria. That doesn’t really flow well, actually…”

Finn’s eyes softened. “We did it,” he said. “You did it. You made this happen, love.”

“Don’t,” she said quickly, wiping at fresh tears. “If you make me cry again, I might crash the truck just to spite you!”

“That’s not how spite works,” Finn argued.

“Shut up, you big… Handsome… Ugh! Hunky idiot!” Zeppora shot back weakly.

He laughed, a full, relieved sound. “You think I’m hunky?”

Romantic banter settled into silence for a few miles—comfortable, humming with the sounds of the road. Then Zeppora spoke again, softer.

“Do you think she’ll remember dressage?” she asked. “After everything?”

Finn considered. “I think she remembers more than anyone realizes,” he said. “We’ll just have to give her space.”

Zeppora nodded. “I want Toast to spend a lot of time with her,” she said. “This is so special for us all.”

Finn reached over and squeezed her hand. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” she responded in a loving whisper.

Inside the trailer, the rhythm of the road rocked the horses in a slow, steady sway. Toast stood close enough that his shoulder brushed Estoria’s. Each time the trailer turned, they leaned together, balancing each other.

“You’re hurt,” Estoria said quietly, glancing at his wrapped ankle.

“I rolled it in footwork training,” Toast admitted.

Estoria snorted softly. “Good footwork is all about listening to your body. Protecting it. Partnering with it. You must remember that from now on, okay?”

Toast blinked. “Huh. Fisher said something like that…”

Estoria’s ears flicked. “Fisher…?”

“A stallion back home, my friend.” Toast explained. “He told me about you. About the Olympics. About how you were calm, even when bad things happened. I remembered… being with you. In that dark stall. You kept breathing in rhythm. I remember that.”

Estoria closed her eyes for a moment. The memory of that night—metal doors, the slap of halters, the suffocating smell of smoke from burning papers—flashed through her mind. She remembered curling around her foal, refusing to panic in front of him even as terror churned inside.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t fight to keep you with me,” she whispered.

“You didn’t have to,” Toast replied. “I fought to come find you. And now… we’re together again.”

Estoria lowered her head and gently bumped his neck with her muzzle.

“When your ankle heals,” she said, “I’ll show you what dressage really is. I can’t promise I’ll be what I once was. My body is… different now.” She shifted her weight, feeling the old scars tug. “But I can still teach you the parts that mattered most.”

Toast’s heart swelled. What an honor, he thought happily.

Outside, the sky darkened into the evening. The truck’s headlights cut through the growing dusk as they carried their precious cargo home. Hours later, Zeppora x Dothar Stablegrounds greeted them with the soft glow of barn lights and the excited, anxious faces of Whinfrey, Zachary, and a handful of staff who had stayed late to hear how the search went.

“Did you find him?” Zachary shouted before the truck even rolled to a stop. “Did you find him?”

Zeppora climbed down from the driver’s seat, exhausted but grinning. “We found more than that,” he said.

When the trailer ramp lowered, everyone fell silent. Toast walked out first, limping but proud. Zeppora led him, her hand steady on his halter. Behind them, Estoria appeared, blinking in the barn light. Whinfrey’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, my God.”

Zachary dropped the bucket of old feed he was holding. “No way,” he breathed. “No actual way. That’s… that’s her.”

Horses up and down the aisle snorted and whickered. Frenchie tilted her head, eyes shining with curiosity and something like respect. Estoria paused just inside the barn, ears flicking nervously at the new scents and sounds. Toast brushed against her shoulder, and she took a breath, deep and slow. Zeppora watched closely. When Estoria’s breathing steadied, she felt her own heartbeat do the same. They settled Estoria into a large, deeply bedded stall across from Toast’s. For the first time since he could remember, Toast lay down that night with the sound of his mother breathing only a few steps away. The barn, once just a place he lived, now felt like something else entirely.

It felt like home.

In the weeks that followed, healing became the core rhythm of Zeppora x Dothar Stablegrounds. Toast’s ankle mended under vet supervision and careful management. He learned that rest was not the enemy of greatness; it was part of it. Estoria received gentle physical therapy, massage, and slow strolls around the quieter paddocks, always with a calm handler and often with Toast nearby. When the time was right, Zeppora took Estoria into the arena on a walk, no fancy work, no pressure—just big soft circles and easy lines. Finn walked alongside, and Toast watched over the fence, eyes wide.

“Look at her,” Zeppora whispered.

Estoria’s head was low, her back beginning to swing, tension melting from her muscles inch by inch. The moment the arena gate clicked behind her, she had snorted and tensed—but then she’d caught sight of Toast and exhaled, as if remembering she was no longer alone. Zeppora didn’t ask for any collected work. She didn’t even ask for a trot that first day. She let Estoria relearn what it felt like to exist in a space where no one demanded perfection. Later, when Toast was cleared to start light work again, Estoria stood in the center of the arena while he walked a large circle around her. Every time he lifted his knees too high in an anxious attempt to impress her, she flicked an ear and gave a small, disapproving snort.

“Breathe,” she would remind him. “Feel your feet. Think of where your weight is. You got this, sweetie.”

Slowly, Toast’s movement changed. It became less frantic, more thoughtful. His trot still had the natural flair of his breeding, but it was guided now by a different intention. No longer did he hold himself to the impossible standard of living up to her glory, but instead, of cherishing her guidance as the example herself walked alongside him, breathing love and encouragement into his ear. On crisp mornings, Zeppora would watch them together in the pasture—the retired champion and her once-lost colt—and feel a quiet joy that had nothing to do with ribbons or headlines. They had gone searching for an Olympic legend, a stolen princess of the dressage ring.

What they brought home instead was something even better. A family.