Ryder slept for almost an hour, stretched out on the couch like he’d been dropped there by some invisible hand. Every so often, he shifted and muttered something under his breath—half-formed words about rope, bulls, and the sun.

Isobel sat in the armchair nearest him, knees pulled up, the wet cloth in her hand cooling again in the bowl of water Celeste had set beside her. Each time she wrung it out and laid it across his forehead, she felt the thrum of worry deep in her chest.

Wren ...