The sight hit like a held breath finally let go—a sweeping log house anchored deep in the grove, its wraparound porch circling like an embrace. Whiskey barrel planters spilled over with wild blooms, color burning bright against the weathered wood. The air carried a mingling of fresh pine and sweet petals, the scent drifting slow, the way dust settles after the last bull's been hauled from the arena.
Isobel took it in with a quiet awe, her gaze tracing the way each piece of the place seemed deliberate—every railing polished smooth, every flower set just so. It was rustic, yes, but touched with a precision that didn't quite match the rough edges of most ranch homes. The kind of detail that made you think of a man who'd spent as much time shaping glass and steel as he had raw timber.
Ryder caught their looks and let out a low chuckle, a sound that rumbled in his chest before sliding into the evening air. Without breaking stride, he kept toward the round pen, boots pressing into the dirt with the same measured confidence he carried everywhere—whether facing a green-broke horse or a hostile boardroom.
Bella Rose nudged Isobel's arm, her eyes bright with mischief, and the two of them claimed a seat on the splintered top of an old picnic table. From there, they could see Ryder and Delilah clearly, the mare shifting her weight in the pen, ears pricked, muscles taut under that gleaming chestnut coat.
Isobel's mind drifted back to her own world—city sidewalks and doormen, glass offices where her father's voice carried the kind of authority money breeds. She'd dated boys from that same air-conditioned life, men polished and promising, but their words had always felt like store-bought roses—nice enough, but without scent or soil. Even Sabastian, the one she'd nearly convinced herself was perfect, had left her untouched in some quiet, important way.
A cowboy had always been the last kind of man she'd imagined for herself. But watching Ryder—how his hands moved firm but patient on the lead rope, how his voice carried calm through the air like a steadying hand on a bronc's neck—something in her shifted. The thought felt foreign, dangerous even. Still, she didn't chase it off. Instead, she let herself sink into the moment—the gold of the light, the rhythm of horse and man—and yet, Ryder's pull was there, constant as a lariat tightening, making her wonder about doors she'd never planned to open.
Ryder worked Delilah in slow, deliberate arcs, but his gaze kept slipping toward the old picnic table where Isobel and Bella Rose perched. The weathered boards groaned under their weight, the sound folding into the evening quiet, but neither woman moved—eyes fixed on him with a mix of curiosity and something warmer.
He lifted a hand, a simple flick of his fingers, and Delilah broke into motion. No rope, no raised voice—just that invisible thread between horse and man, built on hours of sweat and patience. She moved like water over polished stone, her stride fluid, ears tipped toward him as though every shift of her body was waiting for his say-so.
From their vantage point, Isobel and Bella Rose stayed silent, caught in the rhythm of it—the give and take, the quiet conversation of movement and breath. It was the same kind of precision you saw in a man settling a bull rope around his glove: exact, confident, not an inch wasted.
After a smooth series of changes, Ryder stepped in, laying a hand along Delilah's neck. His touch was light but certain, the kind of gentleness that could hold its ground against any storm. He walked her toward the fence, the hint of a smile pulling at his mouth—not showy, but threaded with pride in her progress.
Bella Rose hopped down from the table, boots thudding in the dust, her grin spilling over like she couldn't hold it in. "She's doin' amazing."
Ryder nodded, his fingers combing slow through Delilah's mane, untangling each strand like he had all the time in the world. "She's got a good head on her," he said, his drawl rich and measured. "Once she figured out I wasn't here to hurt her, she started trustin' me more."
Bella Rose leaned through the fence, her palm cupping the mare's jaw with a familiarity that made Delilah's ears tip forward. "You're gonna be a star, girl," she murmured.
Ryder's mouth curved as he glanced at her. "Apologies, ma'am. Just a habit from growin' up." The "ma'am" rolled off his tongue like it belonged to him, somewhere between Tennessee pasture dust and a Manhattan boardroom handshake.
Bella Rose huffed, half amused. "Makes me feel like I oughta have a cane."
"Sign of respect," he said, his smile cutting a little wider, just enough to catch the fading light.
Before she could answer, her head turned toward the low, throaty rumble coming up the drive. "Who's this Wren?"
"Good friend," Ryder replied simply, eyes dropping back to Delilah as his hand smoothed down her neck, every motion deliberate.
The truck swung into view, and Wren appeared—tipping his hat with a casual ease that matched the grin spreading under it. Bella Rose caught Isobel's eye and smirked, and Isobel's roll of the eyes didn't quite hide the smile tugging at her lips.
Wren's gaze cut across the group, sharp and curious. His brow creased for half a beat before settling into amusement as he watched Ryder lead Delilah back toward the pen's center, a quiet hand on her neck.
"Did I miss somethin'?" Wren asked, voice low and teasing.
Ryder chuckled, the sound warm as it left him. "Yep, you sure did, buddy."
Wren turned to Bella Rose, offering his hand. "Well, hello there. I'm Wren."
"Bella Rose," she said, lashes lowering just enough to make it deliberate. "But you can call me Rose."
His fingers lingered in hers a fraction too long before he shifted toward Isobel. "And hello to you, too."
"Hi, Wren. I'm Isobel." Her smile was soft, but it lit her face from the inside out.
Wren leaned into the fence beside Bella Rose, close enough that their elbows brushed now and again. Isobel stood on her other side, tall and still, her gaze flicking between the two men.
"So what's ole Ryder up to?" Wren nodded toward the pen.
"Workin' with Bella Rose's horse," Isobel said, stepping down from the table and moving closer.
The three of them fell quiet as Ryder set Delilah into another set of maneuvers. The mare's hooves whispered against the dirt, steady and sure, the sound carrying into the soft, gold-streaked air of the valley.