The sun sat low over the valley, spilling fire across the half-framed skeleton of the new schoolhouse. Sawdust drifted in the August air, mingling with the smell of cut pine and red Tennessee dirt. Volunteers hammered and shouted, the sharp c***k of nail guns echoing across the valley.
Ryder turned the corner of the worksite, boots crunching gravel, and stopped cold.
There she was.
Isobel—hardhat tipped back, hair pulled loose from her braid, cheeks sun-warmed—standing with Bella Rose and Wren as they studied a set of plans tacked across the hood of Wren’s truck. She laughed at something Bella Rose said, and Ryder felt the sound slam into his chest harder than any bull had ever thrown him.
He hadn’t expected her here. Not after the storm he’d brought down on them both.
Ryder’s throat
