Six hours later, the terminal’s automatic doors slid open, and Isobel emerged into the waning gold of late afternoon. There he stood—Ryder Hayes—cut from the same rugged cloth as the land he came from, yet touched with the polish of the Manhattan skyline. His dark denim fit him like it was stitched for no one else, the crisp blue of his new Cinch shirt catching the light, the fabric’s sheen still fresh from his mother’s careful wrapping. One hand clutched a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses; the other held his weathered cowboy hat against his thigh, thumb brushing the brim in an idle rhythm.
When she reached him, he leaned in, his voice low and warm. “Welcome home, Isobel.” The brief kiss to her cheek was as much promise as greeting.
The roses filled her senses, their scent bold and head
