The sight hit like a held breath finally let go—a sweeping log house anchored deep in the grove, its wraparound porch circling like an embrace. Whiskey barrel planters spilled over with wild blooms, color burning bright against the weathered wood. The air carried a mingling of fresh pine and sweet petals, the scent drifting slow, the way dust settles after the last bull’s been hauled from the arena.

Isobel took it in with a quiet awe, her gaze tracing the way each piece of the place ...