In the dead of night, Isobel woke screaming, her cry slicing through the thin walls of the trailer. Ryder was already upright, eyes sharp, hand braced against the headboard like he’d been expecting the nightmare. His voice cut low and steady, that Tennessee drawl tempered with Manhattan control, coaxing her down from the terror.
She broke into sobs, the sound hollow and raw, and he gathered her into his arms, lying back so she could curl against the steady beat of his chest. At some point, he’d stripped off his rodeo shirt, left in nothing but his jeans. The heat of him, the sweat and dust from the arena still clinging to his skin, became her anchor.
He kissed her forehead, soft as prayer. Isobel tilted her face, pressed her mouth to his, urgent, hungry. Her hand skimmed his bare chest,
