Five days since Ryder had laid it bare for Isobel, and not a whisper back. No text. No call. Nothing but the silence of an empty corral at midnight. The not knowing gnawed at him, steady as a rope burn—slow, hot, and impossible to ignore. He’d tried burying himself in work, running numbers, signing deals, making calls to men who wore cufflinks instead of spurs. None of it stuck. Her absence threaded through everything like a lonesome fiddle note you can’t shake.
He stood before the closet in his study, the one he never opened unless memory demanded it. His hand hovered over the knob, then dropped. Walked away. Came back. Walked away again. The third time, he turned it with a sharp twist, like pulling a stubborn gate latch.
There it was. The old black case, scuffed at the edges, smelling
