After settling Delilah into her stall—a wide box bedded deep in fresh shavings, the scent of pine mixing with the warm, sweet musk of horse—the three of them stepped out into the thick southern air. The sun hung low, pouring gold over the rolling pasture, catching on the sweat-darkened brim of Ryder's hat.
His hazel eyes—amber lit at the edges—found Isobel's, and something in her chest tripped over itself. It was the kind of look a man gives when he's not just seeing you, but weighing you, measuring where you'll fit in his world.
"I'd call today a win," he drawled, his voice a low, polished blend of Tennessee dust and Manhattan steel. "With some time, she'll come around. You put in the work, you can fix damn near anything that's been broken."
Isobel felt heat climb her cheeks at the surety in his tone, at the way his gaze didn't flinch away.
"I'll start her in the round pen tomorrow," Ryder went on, shifting his weight like a man already seeing the work ahead. "That's where I figure out what's in her head. See if she's just green or if somebody's taught her to fear the wrong things."
She wanted to ask what that looked like, how a man could read a horse like scripture, but his voice cut in before she could.
"You're wonderin' how she's gonna talk to me," he said, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth, a hint of city confidence behind the cowboy ease.
Isobel gave a sheepish nod. "I just don't understand how they can communicate with you like that."
Ryder's gaze held hers, steady as a bull rope in a man's grip, the late sun catching in those amber-flecked eyes. His voice came low and certain, every syllable rolling smooth with Tennessee drawl but cut sharp with that Manhattan precision.
"A horse'll tell you anything you need to know—if you've got the sense to listen. Just like people, they speak with the shift of a hip, the flick of an ear, the way their eyes soften or go hard. Delilah'll talk to me in her own language, and I'll make damn sure I hear her."
Isobel leaned in without meaning to, each word soaking into her like warm rain on parched earth. There was a weight to his knowledge, the kind you didn't get from books. "You truly have a gift with these magnificent creatures, Ryder."
A small smile curved his mouth, the kind that hinted at secrets and battles fought far from any arena. He lifted a hand, running his fingers through the thick mane of the sorrel at his side, the gesture slow, reverent. "Horses'll give you the truth every time. You just gotta know how to take it."
The slap of the lead rope against his worn Wranglers broke the stillness, each smack kicking up a thin veil of dust, remnants of the afternoon's work clinging to him like a badge. Rose stepped forward, her eyes bright with that particular mix of admiration and curiosity Ryder seemed to stir in people.
"Thank you for what you're doing for Delilah," she said. "Larry was right—you're a real horse whisperer."
Ryder let out a low chuckle, the sound carrying a hint of city polish beneath the cowboy grit. "Wouldn't go that far," he said, adjusting his grip on the rope. "But I do know my way around them."
The women climbed into the truck, the door hinges groaning like they'd soaked up too many Tennessee summers. Gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled away from the barn, the fading light washing the pasture in honey-gold.
Rose shot Isobel a sideways look, the corner of her mouth curling into mischief. "Lord have mercy," she drawled, syrup-slow, "that is one fine specimen of a man."
Her tone lingered in the cab like the scent of leather and dust still clinging to them—teasing, but edged with something that wasn't entirely a joke.