Wren set his plate aside, leaning back like a man weighing hard truth against the gentleness needed to deliver it.
“Trust me, Isobel,” he said, voice low and sure, “you’re lookin’ at a breakthrough. This same day, years past? He’d be locked down tight — mean as a snake, blind with whiskey, and out to pick a fight with the world. That’s why I near told you to stay away.”
He gave a slow shake of his head, the ghost of a grin at the corner of his mouth.
“But today? Hell, he’s holdin’ the reins. Barely touched half his usual pour. And instead of breakin’ things, he’s sittin’ there takin’ in those old rodeo tapes like he’s studyin’ scripture. That’s progress, darlin’. That’s a damn sight more than we’ve seen in years.”
Upstairs, the sound of the shower carried through the quiet — water poun
