As they crossed the gravel toward the club, the crunch under their boots mixed with the muffled bass drifting from inside. The night smelled faintly of diesel and fried onions from the concession trailer. Isobel felt her pulse quicken—part excitement, part nerves. This evening had already taken a turn she hadn't planned on.
"What?" she asked suddenly, realizing Ryder had caught Bellarose's earlier jab about Wrangler butts. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she turned her face just enough that he wouldn't see.
Wren rounded the front of the truck, his blue plaid shirt clean-pressed but broken in, Wranglers sun-faded, a white straw Resistol tilted just so. "Wow," he said when Bellarose swung down from the cab.
She was pure fire in a little black lace dress that stopped just above mid-thigh, cinched with a brown leather belt that had clearly been oiled more than once. Brown boots, a chunky silver necklace, and matching earrings caught the neon light spilling from the open doors.
"You look… wow. Just wow. That's a damn fine dress," Wren told her, grinning like he'd just drawn an easy chute bull.
"Why, thank you, Wren." She tucked her arm into his without a second thought, the motion practiced and easy, and together they followed Ryder and Isobel into Midnight Rodeo.
Inside, the air was warm with a mix of perfume, beer, and the faint musk of leather. Neon signs painted the scuffed hardwood in shifting shades, and the band on stage was sliding into a cover of "Amarillo by Morning." Ryder and Wren pulled out chairs for the women, easing them forward with a smoothness that spoke of habit, not performance.
"Chivalry ain't dead," Bellarose said, flashing Wren a teasing grin.
"Not in our world, ma'am," Wren replied, tipping his hat.
She groaned. "There's that word again. Ma'am! Makes me feel like I should be bringing a casserole to a church social."
Ryder smirked. "Told you she hates it. Says it makes her feel old."
"We were taught respect—ma'am and sir included," Wren said.
"Alright, alright," Bellarose laughed, tossing up her hands. "I need a drink. Isobel?"
"I could use one," Isobel said.
"We'll get 'em," Ryder offered, his tone carrying that easy mountain drawl, sharpened ever so slightly by a New York cadence he couldn't hide. "What'll you have?"
"Bahama Mama for me," Bellarose said.
"How about you, Isobel?" he asked, holding her gaze just a second longer than necessary.
"Strawberry daiquiri, please."
He gave a small nod, then touched two fingers to the brim of his hat—an old cowboy courtesy—and motioned to Wren. At the bar, Ryder leaned on the polished wood, shoulders square, scanning the room with a precision more Wall Street than Wears Valley. His shirt was black plaid threaded with fine red, white, and gray, his jeans dark and stiff, and when he adjusted his sleeve, the glint of a gold watch winked before he tugged the cuff back down. The bartender slid the drinks over; Ryder tipped with cash folded neat and crisp—hundreds, not twenties.
"Holy smokes, Isobel," Bellarose whispered as soon as the men were out of earshot. "Those are two very fine cowboys."
But Isobel barely heard her. Her gaze stayed fixed on Ryder—how even here, in the neon and noise, he carried himself like a man used to owning the room.
"Hello? Earth to Isobel?" Bellarose waved a hand.
"What? Oh—sorry."
"Mm-hm." Rose grinned. "Girl, you are hooked."
"No, I was just… looking at that couple over there. Cute together."
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England." Bellarose winked. "Glad you came tonight."
"Me too," Isobel said softly, then hesitated. "I just… I'm still struggling with him being a bull rider."
"Why? 'Cause it's dangerous?"
"It is dangerous."
"So is driving to school every day, but you still do that," Rose replied with a shrug.
"That's not the same."
"Look, he's probably some small-town rider who takes the calmer stock. Don't overthink it. Just enjoy the company. And seriously—look at him."
Isobel sighed, eyes drifting back to the bar. "Yeah. He is something, isn't he?"
"Exactly. Tonight's about having fun."
"Alright. You're right."
"That's the spirit," Bellarose said just as Ryder and Wren returned, drinks in hand.
"Here you go," Ryder said, setting the daiquiri before her. "Hope it's to your liking."
"Thank you," she murmured, offering a small, shy smile.
"To a fun night," Wren said, raising his glass.
They all echoed him, the chime of glass lost under the music. Isobel felt the heat of Ryder's presence beside her, the faint scent of leather and something richer, more polished—like he belonged both here and somewhere else entirely.
After a few more sips of her daiquiri and Ryder working his way through half a longneck, he rose from his chair, the scrape of it against the wood barely audible over the steel guitar. He held out his hand, palm steady, fingers long and sure. "Care to dance?"
There was no coaxing in his tone—just quiet certainty.
Isobel's smile came slow, almost shy, as she slid her hand into his. He led her through the crush toward the dance floor, his stride unhurried but purposeful, like a man walking into a chute knowing exactly how he'll ride it. A slow number had just struck up—"Speechless" drifting from the speakers, the crowd thinning to couples in close embrace.
Ryder drew her in, his arm banding around her waist with the kind of confidence that came from both the saddle and the boardroom. For a breath, she stiffened—unused to a man claiming space around her so effortlessly—but then the heat of him seeped in, and her shoulders loosened. The scent of him—leather, cedar, and the faint undertone of something rare and expensive—settled around her like warm smoke.
She rested her head on his shoulder. His hand shifted, sliding to cradle the back of her head, fingertips grazing through her hair in a slow, absent stroke. The touch wasn't rushed. It was deliberate. Like he knew how to pace eight seconds in the arena—and a slow dance on a hardwood floor.
Her pulse stumbled, then quickened, the music swaying them in a gentle, unbroken rhythm. Ryder's grip tightened just enough that she felt anchored, not trapped. She could hear the faint thud of his heartbeat under her cheek, steady as a metronome.
As the song wound toward its last verse, Ryder eased his hold and leaned back enough to see her face. His thumb and forefinger found her chin, tilting it up. Hazel eyes—warm with gold flecks under the low light—searched hers a half second longer than most men would bother. Then his mouth was on hers, the kiss certain, the kind that didn't ask for permission because it had already been granted in the way she leaned into him.
She answered him at first, letting the moment sweep her, but as his kiss deepened, she broke away, breath uneven. Taking a small step back, she steadied herself.
"What's wrong?" His voice was softer now, but the concern in his eyes was sharp—like a man reading a market shift before it crashes.
"I need a drink," she said quietly. "Can we go back to the table for a while?"
"Of course." The words carried no argument, only a measured calm. He took her hand again—not pulling, just guiding—and led her back toward the table, where Bellarose and Wren sat angled toward each other, their laughter hushed and their faces close enough to share secrets over the music.