Danni pressed her charcoal against the paper, sketching the lead mare's powerful legs. She wanted to be like her mom—tough, hard-working, driving that stagecoach across the desert. But she also wanted this: capturing the mustangs on paper, freezing their speed in black lines. Her fingers smudged the drawing as she added the flowing tail. Someday she'd know every horse out here, which ones ran fastest, which ones led their herds. Then maybe she could do both things at once, just like Mom did everything at once. She held up the picture and squinted at it. The mare looked strong. Perfect. Back at the orange tree behind the house, Danni climbed the shimmering rope ladder. Silver threads caught the morning sun. The ladder led up to her tree house—white walls with purple shutters cut into heart shapes. This was where she'd work. Mom worked hard on her stagecoach routes. Danni would work hard here, making picture after picture of every mustang she saw. Inside, she spread her drawings across the floor. Horses running, horses drinking, horses with dust flying from their hooves. She needed people to see them. That's what artists did—they showed their work. She gathered the best ones and tucked them under her arm. Down in town, Danni set up easels along the walkway. She propped a horse painting on each one. The drawings weren't fancy, but they showed what she saw every sunrise. A brown stallion mid-gallop. The spotted mare with the crooked blaze. The black colt that always ran last. She stepped back and looked at her display. This was the start. Draw the horses, know the horses, work hard like Mom. Her dream was taking shape, one charcoal line at a time.