The gravel crunched as Wren started the truck, the red taillights glowing like dying embers as it pulled away, carrying Isobel out of reach.

Ryder stood there in the deepening twilight, chest heaving, hat dangling useless in his hands. Victoria lingered just feet away, smug and poisonous, her smile stretched thin as a razor’s edge.

“Well,” she drawled, her voice like honey laced with arsenic, “looks like the mighty Ryder Hayes just found out what it means when the bull don’t throw ...