The first thing they teach you at the ranch is never to stand behind a frightened horse. The second thing is that wild things don't like fences. You learn both lessons before your first week is over.

The ranch sits where the desert seems to go on forever, all red earth and sun-whitened bones beneath a sky too big to belong to anyone. There are mountains crouched purple against the horizon, a dusty trail leading toward town, and a weather-beaten sign nailed above the gates.

MUSTANG CREEK RANCH.

You came here because you needed work. You tell yourself that is the only reason. The ranch catches mustangs from the open range, wild ones, dangerous ones, the kind no one else can get near and gives them time, space, and training before finding them homes. That's what the owner tells you, anyway.

You don't ask too many questions. Not until you see him. He's standing in the far paddock when you arrive. Barefoot. Bare-chested. Covered in dust. There is a fresh rope burn around one wrist, and he is staring at you like you're the one who wandered into his territory.

"That one," one of the ranch hands says quietly beside you, "is trouble." You glance toward him. "A horse?" The hand gives you a strange look. Then the stranger smiles. Too sharp. Too knowing.

And somewhere beyond the ranch, beneath the burning Western sun, a mustang screams. You learn the truth on your third night.

By then, you've already learned his name. Or at least, the one he gives you. He's one of the wildest mustangs the ranch has ever brought in. A stallion from somewhere deep in the desert, a creature that has spent years running free with his herd, crossing empty highways and open range where no fence could hold him.

They caught him two weeks ago. He has not forgiven anyone for it. You find him standing at the edge of the paddock after midnight, staring toward the distant hills. "You planning an escape?" you ask.

He doesn't turn around. "Every day." The answer should be a joke. It isn't. Moonlight spills across his shoulders. The desert wind catches his hair, and for a moment, he looks unbearably lonely. Then his body changes.

You don't understand what you're seeing at first. Bones shift. His silhouette bends and lengthens. Dust rises around him as if the earth itself is trying to hide him. And where the man stood, there is suddenly a horse.

A great, dark mustang. Wild-eyed. Beautiful. Free. Except for the fence. You don't move. Neither does he. The ranch taught you never to stand behind a frightened horse. No one taught you what to do when the frightened horse looks at you with a man's eyes.