Ryder eased the truck in reverse, gravel crunching under the tires as he steered them back toward the ranch. By the time they returned, Isobel carried her things inside while Ryder headed for the shed beside the barn. The shed doors yawned open, and the deep purr of machinery broke the quiet as Ryder fired up the zero-turn mower, its orange paint glinting in the sun.
“Ever driven one of these before?” he called over the low rumble, his voice a blend of Southern drawl with the clipped New York steel that lingered in him.
Isobel shook her head, her hair shining in the late light.
“Come here,” Ryder said, patting his lap with that half-grin that always disarmed her. She climbed onto the seat with him, the heat of his bare forearm brushing hers as he showed her the controls. His hands—scarr
