The Hayes family plot lay tucked against the back pasture, where the ridge of Cove Mountain caught the last of the sun. Ryder walked slow across the grass, boots heavy as if each step carried the weight of every mistake he’d made. His father’s stone stood tall and simple, the name etched clean against the weather-worn marble.

He sank to his knees in the dirt, hat clutched to his chest. His voice came low, rough, carrying both his New York cadence and that Southern drawl that returned ...