Isobel stepped from her car, the gravel crunching under her boots, and let her gaze sweep across the long shadow of the barn. Harley’s stall stood empty, the bedding fresh but undisturbed, so she pressed on, checking the round pens. No sign of Ryder.
Determined, she climbed the hill that rose like a green shoulder behind the barn. When she crested it, the land spilled out wide and rolling, sunlight flaring off every blade of grass. And there—just over the ridge—stood Harley, tied beneath a sprawling oak whose branches spilled a lace of shade.
The unseasonably warm sun forced Isobel to shield her eyes as she walked closer. Then, movement to her right—a flicker of motion—pulled her gaze. She stepped through the brush and froze.
Ryder.
Bare-chested, only Wranglers, boots, and his hat, he
