Isobel was halfway through chopping a stubborn yellow onion when a knock came at the door. The blade stilled in her hand. She set it down, wiped her damp palms on a flour-dusted towel, then dabbed at the tears stinging her eyes—not all from the onion.
When she opened the door, there he was—Ryder Hayes—filling the frame like he owned the threshold. In one hand, a bouquet of deep red roses, their velvet heads heavy and fragrant; in the other, the brim of his black felt hat, just lifted in greeting. His Cinch jeans looked like they’d been cut for him alone, dark and clean from the press but carrying the easy hang of a man who knew how to break a colt or close a million-dollar deal before breakfast. The blue plaid of his new shirt brought out the steel-blue edge in his eyes.
“Well, don’t you
