Isobel eased her car into the gravel beside Ryder’s barn, the August heat shimmering in waves off the tin roof. The scent of hay and horses drifted heavy in the evening air. There he was—Ryder—leaning in the doorway like he’d been carved there, one boot crossed over the other, Harley’s reins draped loose in his hand. His black shirt caught the fading light, and his crooked grin did the rest.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he drawled, his voice velvet over gravel, the kind of sound that ...