“Wren’s got to place tonight if he wants to be in the money,” Ryder drawled, settling onto a scuffed wooden bench that smelled of dust and leather. He bent low, buckling the sharp steel of his spurs against his well-oiled boots. The overhead floodlights threw hard shadows across his face, carving the lines of a man who straddled two worlds—cattle dirt and boardrooms. “He needs this check to punch his ticket for Vegas.”
Isobel eased down beside him, her dress catching the edge of arena dust, her eyes never leaving his hands. “Do you think he will?” Her voice was gentle but carried that nervous edge she couldn’t quite mask.
Ryder tugged the strap snug, testing it with the heel of his palm. “He’s sittin’ on a helluva draw. That bull’ll give him the daylight he needs.” Switching boots, he fa
