Bella Rose came through the door like a warm wind off the barrel track—quick, bright, and carrying a paper sack in one hand and a cardboard drink carrier in the other.

“Alright, lady, spill it.” She plunked both on the counter, popping the lid on her latte with the practiced flick of a champion barrel racer. “I brought bagels and caffeine for your confession.”

Isobel, still barefoot and nursing the aftertaste of Ryder’s coffee, arched a brow. “Confession? Or debrief?”

“Same ...