Bellarose had a way of taking charge that didn't much care for permission, and tonight was no different. She'd declared flat-out that Isobel's wardrobe "wouldn't pass muster at a county fair, much less a rodeo dance," and the next thing Isobel knew, she was being towed through Rose's front door like a calf on the end of a lasso.
Rose's room hit her like a highball of perfume and dust—walls plastered with rodeo queens and glossy fashion ads, closet doors hanging open like saloon gates. The air smelled faintly of leather conditioner and hairspray.
"Lord help me, Rose, you've got more clothes than a Vegas showgirl," Isobel said, her drawl soft but laced with disbelief.
Rose just grinned over her shoulder, wrist-deep in a rack of fringe, sequins, and denim. "Fashion ain't about numbers, sugar. It's about the mark you make when you walk in." Her bracelets jingled as she yanked free a scrap of dress and held it up like it was spun gold. "This'll stop every heart in the place. Try it."
Isobel caught it, frowned. The fabric was red and short—short enough to make a bull rider blush. "Rose, this thing wouldn't pass dress code in a New York nightclub."
Rose's smile turned sly. "We ain't goin' to church. We're goin' dancin'. Let 'em look."
"That's the problem. They'll be lookin' at parts of me I'd rather keep private."
With a huff, Rose dove back into the closet. The sound of hangers rattling was underscored by faint music drifting in from somewhere—low country twang threaded with a beat modern enough Ryder Callahan might've heard it in a Manhattan penthouse before trading skyscrapers for the smell of arena dust.
Rose emerged again, eyes alight, holding up a deep sapphire number that shimmered in the lamplight. "Now this here," she declared, "is worth the eight-second ride."
Isobel's mouth curved despite herself. The dress was still daring, but it had a kind of grace to it—like something that could survive both a fast two-step and the way Ryder's eyes lingered when he was watching from the rail. "Now that," she said softly, running her fingers over the fabric, "that's more like it. Perfect for a night out."
Ryder and Wren waited out front of Midnight Rodeo, the night air thick with diesel fumes and fried food drifting from the concession trailer out back. Neon from the sign bled pink and blue across the rough brick, catching the scuffs on Ryder's new jeans—designer, though you'd never know unless you knew what to look for.
Wren flicked his Zippo open and shut, the metallic click marking time. After the fifth glance at his watch, he finally broke the quiet. "So, Bellarose… seems like she could drink half the circuit under the table and still beat the pants off 'em in barrels."
Ryder tipped his head, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. "Yeah," he drawled, voice easy but edged with the city's precision. "She's got grit."
Wren leaned a shoulder into the wall, arms folding across his chest. "And Isobel?"
That pulled a small curve to Ryder's mouth, quick and private. "She's nice. Little on the careful side for me."
"Your taste?" Wren snorted. "Since when do you have one?"
Ryder's gaze slid over, steady and amused. "Since I quit chasing trouble just 'cause it was pretty. Believe it or not, I'm not in the market for arm candy anymore."
"I'd sure hope not. You damn near lost yourself after your daddy—"
Ryder's jaw locked, the name alone stirring the smell of arena dirt and blood. He turned away, watching the two-lane stretch toward the mountains. "Let's not go there."
Hands raised in mock surrender, Wren muttered, "Alright, my bad."
They let the silence settle, backs against the brick, the cool seeping through denim. Somewhere inside, a fiddle cried over a steel guitar. Then the low growl of a diesel cut through, deep and familiar—like a bull shifting in the chute before the gate flies. Both men straightened, stepping forward as Bellarose's truck rolled into the lot, headlights slicing through the neon haze.
Isobel stepped out from behind Bellarose's towering diesel, and for a heartbeat Ryder forgot to breathe. The parking lot's sodium lights caught the deep burgundy of her dress—scattered with ivory cow skulls and wild roses so vivid they might've been plucked from a desert bloom. The slit rode high on her thigh, revealing legs with the kind of tone you get from long walks down country roads, not a gym membership. Brown cowgirl boots—broken in just enough to tell a story—grounded her, while a long turquoise necklace swung low against the fabric, a flash of the Southwest here in the Smokies. Her hair, usually corralled into a bun or ponytail, fell in loose waves over one shoulder, rich brown catching gold where the light touched it.
Somewhere in him, the part that had once bought champagne by the case and closed Manhattan deals with a nod, shifted. She wasn't just another pretty face in a crowd of rodeo-night glitter. She was… something worth leaning in to see closer.
He stepped toward her, arm offered with an easy confidence. "You look… incredible." His voice was low, that Tennessee drawl worn smooth by twenty years of New York polish.
"Thank you," she murmured, sliding her arm into his. The simple contact sent a shiver up her spine, her pulse quickening like the drumroll before a gate flies open. "You look very nice too, Ryder."
He tipped the brim of his black felt hat, the gesture old as his bloodline. "Much obliged." The black plaid shirt—threaded with red, white, and gray—was crisp against brand-new Cinch jeans and his best square-toed boots. His sleeves were rolled to the forearms, revealing rope-callused skin and a watch worth more than the truck behind her—though he kept it half-hidden under the cuff. He smelled faintly of leather, cedar, and something expensive no feed store carried.
"Sorry I'm not wearin' my Wranglers tonight." The corner of his mouth curved into a wry grin, and he let one eyelid dip in a slow, conspiratorial wink.
Isobel smiled, warmth blooming through her chest. "You clean up pretty good, cowboy."
He chuckled, deep and easy. "I try. Let's head inside."