Ryder woke to the pale honeyed light slanting through the wide-plank shutters of his bedroom, spilling across the quilt like a benediction. He stretched slow and easy, the way a man does after years of punishing arenas and eight-second rides, his shoulders still bearing the memory of broncs and boardrooms alike.

Rolling to his side, his hand found the cool emptiness where Isobel’s warmth would soon rest. He smiled anyway, because even the space she wasn’t in still felt claimed by her. He ...