Ryder eased his truck to a stop outside the old Hayes barn, the gravel crunching under the tires, the dusky orange light of late afternoon spilling over the ridgeline and onto the weathered boards. The barn had been swept clean, lanterns strung high across its rafters, fresh hay tucked into corners so the air held that soft, sweet scent of earth and grass. For all its rugged bones, the place glowed as though sanctified, the kind of glow that came from years of memories and the promise of new ...