Rose's laughter rolled through the cab, warm and rich, the kind of sound that wrapped itself around Isobel's chest and loosened something there. "Scare you?" she teased, a slow grin tugging at her mouth as her hands stayed steady on the wheel. The turn signal clicked once, twice, and the truck eased onto a narrow country road lined with split-rail fences and pasture gone to late-summer gold. "Ain't nothin' to be scared of. They're just big ol' softies, Iz." Her voice carried that sure, bone-deep confidence of someone who'd been raised in a saddle.
Isobel kept her gaze forward, but the unease didn't leave her voice. "I don't know, Rose. Twelve hundred pounds of muscle that can kill you in an instant?" The drawl slipped heavier into her words, sweet as tea but edged with doubt.
Rose's chuckle came low, her eyes creasing at the corners, sunlit skin pulled tight over the grit of someone who'd earned every line. "Thing is, Iz, they don't know that. Most horses ain't got a clue how much damage they could do. You earn their trust, show 'em you won't lead 'em into trouble — and at the same time, you make damn sure they know you're the one holdin' the reins." She shot her a sideways wink, the kind that could coax a smile out of the stormiest day. "It's a delicate balance, sweetie."
Isobel arched one brow, caught between skepticism and admiration. "You're quite the expert, Rose. I'll take your word for it."
Rose's laugh came easy, warm as a summer breeze slipping over bare shoulders. "Oh, I know," she said with the calm conviction of someone who'd bet her life on it and won. She eased off the gas, the truck settling into a slow roll as they turned onto a long gravel drive flanked by apple trees bowed under the weight of late fruit. The crunch of rock under heavy tires was a steady, grounding rhythm, drawing them toward the barn ahead — a sweep of beige and weathered grey with doors flung wide like a Sunday welcome.
Isobel stepped down from the truck, the faint scent of hay and leather drifting to meet her. Her breath caught. This wasn't just a barn — it was a cathedral to horseflesh. The wide concrete aisle ran straight and clean between neat rows of oak stall doors, each one framed in brass that winked in the afternoon light. At least a dozen horses leaned out, ears pricked, eyes bright with curiosity, their soft whickers rolling through the space like a greeting.
Rose moved with purpose, boots ringing against the concrete as she crossed to a stall where a handsome chestnut waited, the sheen of his coat catching the sun. She reached up and rubbed the broad plane of his forehead, her touch slow, sure. "Hello there, handsome," she murmured, voice gone low and tender. "You're such a beautiful boy."
The gelding — Harley — dipped his head, lips twitching, eyes soft with a devotion that needed no translation. Isobel felt a smile curve her own lips, drawn into the quiet communion between them — two creatures speaking a language that didn't require words.
A deep, steady voice rolled out from the shadows, cutting clean through the quiet of the barn. "That's Harley, ma'am."
Both Isobel and Rose turned toward the sound. He stepped into the light slow, deliberate, like a man who knew exactly how much space he could command. Faded Wranglers rode low on his hips, a white T-shirt smudged with sweat and dust clinging to a frame built by both hard labor and a lifetime of discipline. The brim of a white straw hat shadowed his face until he was close enough for the sun to catch the flecks of amber in his hazel eyes.
Isobel felt her knees go a little weak before she could scold herself for it.
"Hi there," he said, the words smooth as good bourbon with a faint bite of city polish underneath. His smile was slow, unhurried — a burn you felt before you knew you'd been touched by it. "I'm Ryder."
Her cheeks warmed at the sound of his name. Still, she gathered herself, reaching for his hand. The grip met her with a firm weight and the rough grain of calluses.
"Hi. I'm Isobel." She tilted her head toward her friend, a flicker of mischief in her eye. "And this is Bella Rose."
Those dimples cut deep as he nodded in greeting. "Pleasure to meet you both. Can I have my hand back now, ma'am?"
Flustered, she released him, the ghost of his touch still tingling against her skin.
Rose stepped forward, that slow, knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth, eyes lit with a kind of mischief that could start a brushfire. "Hi, Ryder. I'm Bella Rose." Her boots rang against the concrete as she tipped her head toward the trailer, leading him out into the sun. Inside, Delilah was working herself into a lather — buckskin hide gleaming, hooves striking the floor in a sharp, restless rhythm, the whole rig shuddering with each kick.
As they neared the trailer, Ryder's face shifted — the easy charm cooling into something sharper, more deliberate. His brows drew in, eyes narrowing as he studied the buckskin's restless movement. "What's goin' on with Delilah?" The question came low, the faint grit of Tennessee in his tone smoothed by an undercurrent of Manhattan steel.
He stepped up beside the trailer, boots settling in the gravel with quiet finality, his attention locked on the mare. Behind him, Rose and Isobel traded a glance, both caught by the way he seemed to take in every flick of her ears, every coil of muscle, like he was reading a code only he understood.
Ryder moved closer, slow and unhurried, the air between him and the horse tightening. The breeze sifted through the apple trees overhead, carrying the sweet tang of fruit and the faint musk of hay. From the barn, a few curious geldings snorted softly, their ears tipping forward toward the scene.
Delilah's hooves struck the trailer floor, a sharp, frustrated rhythm, but the way he stood — calm, grounded, utterly sure — began to work on her. Her breaths came less ragged, her eyes flicking to him in quick, uncertain glances.
He nodded once toward the back of the trailer. "May I?" The words were quiet, but carried the weight of a man who was used to asking permission and already knowing the answer.
Rose's mouth curved, her eyes bright with intrigue. "Help yourself," she said, her voice lilting like a melody she wasn't sure how would end.