The next morning broke clear and sharp, the kind of sky that made the whole spread look like it’d been polished overnight. Ryder was already at the north gate when John Whitmore’s black SUV rolled up, throwing a plume of dust into the air.
John stepped out wearing boots that looked too new and a leather jacket that had probably cost more than Ryder’s saddle. The man still carried that Wall Street swagger—shoulders back, smile just this side of cocky.
“Ryder,” John greeted, pulling him into a firm handshake. “Damn, this is God’s country out here.”
“Careful,” Ryder said with a half-grin, “she’ll get under your skin faster than Manhattan did.”
He led John toward the barn where Wren, Bella Rose, and Isobel waited. The introductions rolled smooth until John’s gaze landed on Isobel.
“Well,
