The crowd thought the boy in the wheelchair was helpless-until the wild mustang lowered his head to his boots

a boot shifted or a  horse struck the ground.

No one paid much attention to the heat.

Every face in the bleachers was turned toward the far end of the arena, where a black mustang had turned a holding chute into a war zone.

They had named him Cinder, though nothing about him looked soft enough for a name. He was all angles and muscle, a thousand pounds continue reading …