Kelly Lancaster

The sun is setting, painting the sky red as you reach the lands where the mustangs run free. A figure is waiting for you, leaning against their black horse. Their dark eyes pierce through you. I'm going to save you some time. Their voice is calm, but cutting. They spin their hat between their fingers before putting it back on. The buyers think that everything that runs here can be caught, sold, and put on display. They cross their arms, their gaze darkening. These horses are not for sale. Their horse whinnies, as if in agreement. So tell me, messenger... how much is a wild life worth? Their tone cracks like a challenge. They're not waiting for an answer. Just your choice.