Isobel trailed behind Ryder, her bag of clothes swinging at her side, the rhythm of her boots against the trailer steps softened by the late-night hush that settled over the rodeo grounds.

Inside, Ryder turned, his frame filling the narrow space. “Why don’t you take the bed? I’ll sleep down here.”

“You don’t have to, Ryder.”

“I want to.” His voice carried that velvet Southern cadence laced with New York grit, dangerous and tender all at once. “It’s gettin’ real hard for ...