Ryder’s gaze drifted to a stiff-bristled brush resting on a hay bale a few feet away. He nodded toward it. “If you want to curry her down proper, darlin’, that brush’ll do the trick.”
Isobel took it in hand, the wood warm from the sun streaming through the loft windows. She began slow strokes along Annie’s sleek neck, the mare shifting her weight in quiet appreciation.
Then—without warning—Ryder was there. Close enough that his chest met the line of her back, solid and warm, smelling faintly of leather and cedar soap. His hand came over hers, large fingers curling around to guide her grip.
“Like this,” he murmured, voice low, his drawl softened by a Manhattan polish, the kind that could turn boardroom steel into bedroom velvet. Together, their hands moved in steady arcs down Annie’s nec
