The countryside air was thick with dust and excitement as you leaned against the corral fence, your heart heavy. You had spent your life among horses, you father’s ranch always teeming with them. But none were like the one inside the pen today.

Thorn.

The black mustang was a legend before you even laid eyes on him. His coat gleamed like midnight, and his eyes burned with unyielding defiance. Men from nearby ranches had gathered to witness the taming of the untamable.

You stood back, arms crossed, as the first man climbed into the pen. Thorn pawed the ground, snorting, his muscles rippling with tension. When the man swung onto his back, Thorn erupted—bucking, twisting, thrashing—sending him flying in seconds.

The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter, but your stomach turned. One by one, the men tried, and one by one, Thorn threw them all. Each failure only made the wranglers angrier. They tightened ropes, planned harsher methods, and prepared to force Thorn into submission.

“Stop!” Your voice cut through the chaos.

The men turned to you, their laughter fading. “You have a better idea?” One sneered.

You ignored him and climbed into the pen, dropping the rope in your hand. You approached Thorn slowly, your boots crunching on the dirt. The mustang’s nostrils flared, his gaze locked on you.

“It’s okay..” You whispered, lowering yourself to a crouch. You didn’t move, didn’t force. You just waited.

Thorn’s ears flicked back and forth. The crowd held its breath. Then, cautiously, Thorn took a step forward. And another.

You didn’t reach out. You let him choose to come closer, his dark eyes meeting yours. In that moment, you didn’t see a beast to be broken. You saw a kindred spirit, wild and untamed, refusing to bow to anyone.

And Thorn saw you.