Ryder stepped out from the dim mouth of the barn, the scent of oiled leather and sweet hay still clinging to him. The late-afternoon light hit the dust motes like gold dust in a prospector’s pan. Somewhere down the gravel lane, the low rumble of a truck grew louder until it rolled into view, paint sun-faded but engine still stubborn as its driver.
Wren swung out from behind the wheel, his lanky frame unfolding slow, one hand lifting to shield his eyes from the glare. A bruised bloom of purple and yellow spread across his cheekbone like a bad watercolor.
Ryder’s brows shot up. “My God, Wren—what in hell happened to your face?”
Wren gave a crooked grin that pulled against the swelling, wincing just enough to betray it. “You should see the other fella,” he drawled, but the humor in it was
