The sun had just started to sink, spilling gold over the paddocks, when Ryder stood on the porch with his phone in hand. He’d sold the company that morning, ink still drying on the paperwork, but his chest felt heavier than it had in years. He thumbed Isobel’s number like a man fingering the trigger he knew he had to pull.
She answered on the second ring, her voice warm and unsuspecting. “Ryder?”
“Can you come by?” His tone was low, roughened by dust and something darker. “We need to talk. Face to face.”
There was a pause, then: “I’ll be there.”
Twenty minutes later, she was climbing the porch steps, sundress fluttering in the evening breeze, eyes scanning his like she was searching for the man she thought she knew. Ryder motioned toward the sitting room.
“Sit,” he said gently, though
