Wren and Bella Rose lingered near the barn doors, their voices tangling in the warm evening air—quick bursts of laughter bouncing off the rough-hewn walls like spurs clicking on old wood.
Isobel stood deeper in the barn's cool shadow, her gaze following Ryder as he eased Delilah into her stall. The mare's chestnut coat shone in the fading light, and the mingled scent of hay, leather, and horse sweat settled over her like something she'd known all her life but never truly claimed.
Her eyes dipped without thought—catching on the worn denim clinging to Ryder's frame—before he disappeared into the stall. From inside, she heard his low chuckle, a sound threaded with quiet amusement that made her wonder if he'd caught her looking.
When Ryder stepped back into view, brushing dust from his hands, Isobel fell in beside him as they headed toward the others. Outside, the last of the sun stretched gold over the yard, gilding fence rails and turning the dust in the air to drifting sparks.
"So, Isobel," Ryder said, his voice slow and easy but carrying that faint New York crispness in the edges, "do you ride?"
She shook her head. "Not really, no."
Something flickered in his face—quick and subtle, gone before she could pin it down—but he didn't let it linger. "Do y'all enjoy rodeos?"
Isobel tipped her chin toward Bella Rose. "Rose here's a barrel racer."
Wren's eyes lit like a man hearing good music. "Barrel racing! Now that's somethin'. Where do you compete? Go on—tell us all about it."
While Wren and Bella Rose slipped deeper into talk of cloverleaf patterns and jackpot runs, Ryder tipped his chin toward the far side of the yard. "Come on," he said, low enough for only her to hear.
They crossed the grass to where a weeping willow spilled its long, green ribbons toward the ground. The branches swayed slow in the breeze, shadows curling over the old wooden swing that hung from a pair of thick ropes. Evening light slanted through the leaves, dappling the ground in gold and green.
Isobel eased onto the swing, keeping a polite space between them. "You have a beautiful place here, Ryder."
"Thank you." His smile came easy, but his gaze swept the land like a man taking stock—pasture rolling out in every direction, cattle grazing like scattered buttons on a patchwork quilt, round bales stacked neat along the fence line. The kind of view most folks would frame on a wall; the kind Ryder had fought his way back to.
For a moment, the only sounds were the rustle of willow leaves and the distant low of a cow. Then Ryder's voice broke the quiet—smooth, low, and carrying that faint Manhattan edge that didn't quite belong to the dirt under their boots. "So, Isobel, what do you do?"
"I'm an art teacher," she said, warmth spilling into her tone. "I love it."
He nodded, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. "Sounds like a rewarding job." His eyes drifted past her, over the ranch—lingering on the barn's shadow, then the far fence line—before settling back on her.
Isobel felt herself drawn forward like a moth to flame, her body shifting on the porch swing until the old chains creaked their protest. The evening air hung thick with honeysuckle and the distant scent of hay, but all she could focus on was the man sitting across from her—this enigma in worn Wranglers who moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd learned to navigate both bucking chutes and boardrooms.
"What else do you do beyond the ranch?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, curiosity winning over her usual Southern reserve.
Something flickered behind Ryder's hazel eyes—a shadow that came and went quick as summer lightning. When he spoke, his voice carried that distinctive drawl she was learning to love, but underneath it lurked something sharper, more precise. The ghost of Manhattan winters and steel-gray skyscrapers.
"Got a side business," he said, the words careful and measured. "Keeps me busy when I'm not in the saddle."
"Saddle?" Isobel's pulse quickened, though she couldn't say why.
Ryder's smile was slow, dangerous as a coiled rattler. "I ride bulls, sugar. Professional circuit."
The words hit her like a physical blow. Bull riding—the most dangerous eight seconds in sports, where men risked everything for prize money and the fleeting glory of conquering fifteen hundred pounds of pure fury. She'd grown up hearing the stories, the legends that got passed down like family heirlooms in these Tennessee hills.
"That's..." She searched for words that wouldn't sound foolish or naive. "That's a hard way to make a living."
"Harder ways to die," Ryder replied, and there was something in his voice—a darkness that made her think of graveyards and unfinished business. His fingers drummed against his thigh in a rhythm that seemed too quick, too precise for a simple cowboy. Like a man accustomed to making split-second decisions that moved millions rather than just staying on a bull for eight seconds.
The weight of unspoken things settled between them, heavy as the humidity that clung to the Smoky Mountain foothills. Isobel felt the familiar tug of attraction to complicated men, the same pull that had gotten her heart broken before. But this was different. Ryder wasn't just complicated—he was layered like an onion, each revelation peeling back to reveal something deeper, more mysterious.
As if summoned by her need for rescue, Wren and Rose materialized from around the corner of the house like spirits emerging from the Tennessee twilight. Rose's honey-blonde hair caught the last rays of sunlight, and her whiskey-brown eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Y'all ready to tear up some floorboards?" Wren called out, his voice carrying that particular brand of cocky humor that bullfighters wore like armor. He moved with the quick, restless energy of a man who'd spent his life dodging death by inches.
Ryder's attention shifted to Isobel, and she felt the full force of his focus like standing too close to a bonfire. "How's that sound to you, darlin'?"
The endearment rolled off his tongue like aged whiskey, smooth and warm, but she caught the subtle change in his inflection—a slight flattening of vowels that spoke of years spent far from these Tennessee hills. Where had he learned to speak like that? And why did she get the feeling there were whole chapters of his story he wasn't telling?
She glanced at Rose, who was practically vibrating with excitement, her turquoise rings catching the dying light as she gestured enthusiastically. The sight of her best friend's joy made the decision easy.
"Well, can't turn down a night of two-steppin', can we?" Isobel laughed, the sound light and musical in the evening air.
"That's my girl!" Rose whooped, bouncing on her toes like a barrel racer at the gate.
Ryder rose from his chair with fluid grace, extending his hand to help Isobel up from the swing. The gesture was pure Southern gentleman, but when their skin touched, she felt the calluses that spoke of rope burn and reins, rough patches that seemed at odds with the expensive watch she glimpsed beneath his sleeve. A Rolex, unless she was mistaken—hardly standard issue for a working cowboy.
As she stood, her sandal caught, sending her stumbling forward. Her palm landed flat against his chest, and she felt the solid wall of muscle beneath his cotton shirt, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. For a moment that stretched like eternity, she was close enough to catch the scent of him—leather and hay and something else, something expensive and sophisticated that made her think of penthouse suites and power lunches.
His hands came up to steady her, fingers gentle but strong on her upper arms. This close, she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, could see the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly when he looked at her.
"Easy there, darlin'," he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that made her stomach flutter.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, mortified by her clumsiness but reluctant to step away from the warmth of his touch.
"Nothing to be sorry for," he said, releasing her slowly, as if he was equally reluctant to break the connection.
Ryder stepped back and touched the brim of his hat—a gesture so quintessentially Southern it should have seemed natural. But Isobel caught something in the movement, a practiced quality that suggested it was learned rather than inherited. Like a man playing a role he'd perfected but hadn't been born to.
"I'll see y'all tonight," he said, that slow smile spreading across his face like sunrise over the mountains.
"Can't wait," she replied, and meant it more than she cared to admit.
She watched him walk away, noting the confident stride that spoke of a man comfortable in his own skin. But there was something else there too—a subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his head moved as if constantly aware of his surroundings. It was the posture of a man who'd learned that trust was a luxury and that showing your back to the wrong person could cost you everything.
As his figure disappeared into the gathering dusk, Isobel found herself wondering what secrets lay buried beneath that charming drawl and easy smile. In her experience, the most dangerous men were the ones who looked like they belonged in your world, right up until the moment you discovered they owned it.