The driver drew the horse to a halt at the wide steps leading up to the grand entrance of Ryder’s house—a mansion with its heart still carved from ranch timber, a place where glass chandeliers hung over rough-hewn beams. Ryder swung down from the carriage with an ease born of years climbing out of chutes, then turned back and caught Isobel at the waist. He lowered her as though she were porcelain and wildfire both, stealing a kiss before her feet touched the stone.
Her hand fit neatly in his, his grip steady, commanding, protective. He guided her up the stairs, the click of her heels softened under the echo of night. Behind them, the carriage disappeared toward the barn, swallowed by shadows and starlight.
“Welcome home, Isobel,” he murmured, his voice low and roughened by both Tennessee
