“Wren’s got to place tonight if he wants to be in the money,” Ryder drawled, settling onto a scuffed wooden bench that smelled of dust and leather. He bent low, buckling the sharp steel of his spurs against his well-oiled boots. The overhead floodlights threw hard shadows across his face, carving the lines of a man who straddled two worlds—cattle dirt and boardrooms. “He needs this check to punch his ticket for Vegas.”

Isobel eased down beside him, her dress catching the edge of ...