Three weeks later, the Hayes ranch carried a rhythm all its own, though the heart of it—Ryder—was confined mostly to the quiet rooms of his mother’s house.
The chemo had carved its marks on him: the hard edges of his jaw a little sharper, the powerful frame that once handled bulls with ease now sagging with fatigue. His dark hair had thinned in patches, but his eyes—stormy, restless, alive—still burned with fight, even when his body betrayed him.
Isobel moved like his shadow. She was there with the cool cloth when the nausea hit, there with her gentle hands rubbing his back when he slumped weakly into the recliner. Celeste, steady as a matriarch oak, kept him fed with broths and teas, her quiet prayers murmured over him when she thought no one was listening. Between the two women, Ryder
