The sun had dropped behind the ridge, leaving the ranch bathed in a bruised, lavender light. Ryder’s shoulder ached like a bad memory as he eased his truck into the long gravel drive. Dust rolled behind him in lazy plumes, catching the glow of his taillights.
He saw her before he killed the engine—Victoria. Perched on the hood of a low, sleek import that didn’t belong anywhere near red dirt or hay bales. She had one ankle crossed over the other, silk blouse cut on the bias, lipstick a shade too sharp for this county.
“Victoria,” he muttered under his breath, already tired.
She hopped down as he climbed out, heels sinking into the gravel. “You don’t answer calls anymore, Ryder. Thought I’d make it easy for you.”
“Wasn’t lookin’ for company,” he said, brushing past her toward the porch.
