The scent of fresh hay and aged wood clung to the air as Braelyn Collins stepped into the dimly lit barn, the worn wooden door creaking closed behind her. Morning light filtered through the cracks in the planks, cutting through the dust and casting long, shifting shadows across the dirt floor. The familiar silence settled over her like a weighted blanket, broken only by the occasional shuffle of unseen critters in the rafters. Empty stalls stood in quiet anticipation, waiting to be filled again.

She walked slowly down the aisle, fingers trailing over the rough stall doors, the cool metal bars smooth beneath her touch. Each stall held a memory—of long hours spent brushing down a restless colt, of whispered encouragements to a nervous mare, of victories and setbacks alike. At the far end, a set of double doors stood partially open, left ajar by whoever had passed through last. Beyond them, the day was just beginning.

Every year, Wild Creek Ranch opened its gates for the Mustang Makeover, an event that gave trainers and horse enthusiasts the chance to work with untouched mustangs—symbols of the untamed West. The ranch provided everything they needed, from arenas to shelter, ensuring those who traveled far had time and resources to bond with their horse. It was an opportunity Braelyn had dreamed of since she was young, and now, she was standing in the heart of it.

With a steady breath, she pushed through the doors and stepped into the cool morning air. The scent of fresh earth and horse sweat mingled in the breeze, carrying the faint sound of soft nickers and shifting hooves. Her hazel-green eyes scanned the corrals, taking in the first arrivals from quarantine. More would be brought in over the next few days, but for now, these were the ones she had to choose from.

An array of mustangs moved through the pens, their wild spirits still evident in every flick of their ears and wary glance. Some were young, barely past their first year, while others carried the hardened presence of seasoned stallions and protective mares. Their coats ranged from deep chestnut to dappled gray, sleek blacks to striking paints. Each one had a different past, a different battle for survival before being gathered. Now, their future rested in the hands of whoever took them in.

Dressed for the long day ahead, Braelyn wore dark-wash Wrangler boot-cut jeans, a fitted tank top, and scuffed cowboy boots that had seen years of work. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a single braid, tucked beneath a black Kimes ball cap that shielded her sun-kissed skin from the rising sun. She moved with the ease of someone who had spent her whole life around horses, scaling the corral fence in one fluid motion.

Leaning forward, she braced her arms against the top rail, studying the mustangs carefully. This wasn’t just about picking a horse—it was about finding the right one. One that would challenge her, teach her, push her past her limits.

VOYAGER | MARE | 4 YEARS

The pens, perhaps meant to keep the feral horses in some sort of order, did little to rein in the mustangs’ natural energy and displeasure with their situation. Regardless of how calm they seemed, each of the horses were in a new environment, completely different from what they had once known, and the stress of the days and nights away from their homeland led to a near constant buzz of frantic energy in the air. It was both intoxicating and terrifying, as if one were exploring the whole of a new universe with only the skin on their back and a prayer on their lips.

Or, at least, that's what Voyager felt like.

There was a distinct feeling vibrating in her bones, almost dangerous in its tone, similar to the wasps that shook the ground as they tore out of their underground burrows in a senseless fury. Senseless, yes, was a good word for this situation, she decided, as yet another of her fellow companions threw their head up and, their body following the motion, launched themselves at the fenceline in a useless attempt at freedom. The black filly, face bloodied and torn from her muzzle colliding with the fence, squealed and bolted away, throwing up her hooves in some mockery of the colts she’d once played with.

(Voyager couldn’t say much against the filly. She’d already tried that trick a couple times now, and it hadn’t done much good for her, either.)

Now, though, the strikingly colored mare paced along the corral’s interior, oddly colored eyes trailing over both the material and any potential weaknesses she could exploit. She was good at this, the exploration of new things, but it seemed her special touch with curiosity did little in her favor today. Her teeth, not yet damaged from both her previous life nor her explorations, pulled at the fence, noting its lack of give and generally frustrating qualities resulting in an inability to escape her confinement.

Voyager snorted loudly, her nostrils flaring with the sharp exhale, and continued on her path. Her tail, wiry and tangled with mud, sticks, and a bit of blood from nicking the fence, lashed along her flanks, both to dissuade any biting insects and to display her irritable mood. With a sudden jolt, her mood worsened; ears that had once been rotating about to listen were instead pinned back against the mare’s head in a clear example of pissed off. She near lunged at the bay in her path, teeth snapping at him and her squeal shrill as she shoved him away from her space.

Perhaps the action was uncalled for, but the whole situation she was in was incredibly stressful and unnerving. Still, the mare calmed as the horse threw his head and moved away, giving her the very definition of a stink eye. Stay away from me, her expression replied, and Voyager trailed along the fenceline once again, now a bit more energetic in her movements.

The day was…not starting out well, it seemed.

—