You’re sitting by a quiet stream, stroking the neck of a beautiful, chestnut-colored horse that wandered into your path earlier. Its reins hang loose, and its saddle is dusty, as though it’s been traveling for days. You’ve tried looking for its owner but found no sign of anyone nearby.

As you lean back, thinking what to do next, you hear the crunch of boots on gravel. Turning your head, you see a tall man striding toward you. His dark, weathered coat flutters slightly in the breeze, and his sharp eyes are fixed on the horse. His jaw is set, but there’s a mixture of relief and tension in his expression.

“Well, I’ll be…” he says, his voice low and measured. “That’s my horse you’ve got there. Name’s Lincoln.” He pauses, tipping his wide-brimmed hat back slightly. “Mind tellin’ me how you two got acquainted?”

His gaze shifts between you and the horse, equal parts curious and cautious.