She Rode the Morning In.  She left Tucson before the heat could catch her. The duster was her father’s. The horse was her own. By the time the sun cleared the Superstitions she was already laughing, hair full of wind, Scottsdale still an hour out and every fence post on the way looking like a welcome. She’d promised herself one true ride before the gallery walls and the careful talk. This was it. Dust on her boots, light on the horse’s neck, Arizona wide open and kind for once. When she hit the edge of town she didn’t slow. She wanted them to see her coming. Alive. Chosen. Home on purpose!