Isobel returned to the fence rail, her hand steady this time, the dust of the round pen still swirling faintly around her boots. The gelding—dark-eyed, weary of men but strangely curious—moved without hesitation toward her palm. His breath was warm, earthy, the smell of hay and sweat and something untamed. She stroked along his cheekbone, down the arch of his neck, tracing the slope of muscle to the broad line of his shoulder. Both her hands found rhythm, moving like she’d watched Ryder do: slow, soft sweeps across hide scarred by a rough past.
She brushed her fingertips gently over his eye, and the horse lowered his head, sighing as though he’d been waiting for that very touch.
Lifting the halter from her shoulder, Isobel held it out. The gelding snorted, ears flicking, but he didn’t mo
