Isobel let out a breath and bent to scoop the keys from the gravel. They were heavier than she'd expected—cool, polished metal with a subtle emblem she didn't recognize. She closed Ryder's door gently and walked around to the driver's side.
She hadn't laid eyes on his truck before, but now that she had, it was impossible not to notice—brand-new Chevy 2500, black as midnight, the paint deep enough to swallow the light. Chrome caught the glow from the lot lamps, and the inside was pure luxury: leather stitched tight, touchscreen console that looked like it belonged in a jet, and more buttons on the dash than the cockpit of a chute gate at the NFR.
Sliding in, she found the power seat controls and moved herself forward until she could reach the pedals. The engine rumbled to life beneath her, smooth and quiet for something this big. She eased it into reverse, backed it out with care, then shifted into drive and started toward Ryder's place, the tires humming against the asphalt.
Thirty-five minutes later, she turned off the county road and onto his gravel drive, this time passing the barn where they usually stopped. The headlights picked out a curve of trees, and then the house appeared—and she drew in a breath.
Most of the lights glowed warm against the night, and the place looked like something out of a glossy ranch magazine. Pathway lights lit the wide parking area, leading to a deep front porch with broad steps that seemed to invite company in, even at this hour.
She shut off the truck, the sudden quiet pressing in around her, and glanced at Ryder. Still out cold, his head resting against the seat, one hand loose in his lap. "How am I supposed to get you inside?" she murmured.
Climbing the steps, she tried the front door. It swung open without resistance—and she stopped short.
The interior was even more breathtaking than the outside. The front entry spilled into a wide-open floor plan, where the living room, dining space, and kitchen flowed together beneath a high ceiling lined with thick log beams. Chandeliers made from polished deer antlers hung low, throwing soft light across the room. The walls held mounted trophies—deer, elk, even a black bear skin—and one animal she couldn't name. The arrangement was meticulous, almost curated, and it struck her that this was no simple cowboy's lodge.
In the center, a massive log staircase curved up toward what had to be the bedrooms. "No way I'm getting him up there," she said under her breath.
She glanced toward the living room and spotted a sprawling brown leather sectional, cushions deep enough to swallow a man whole. That, at least, was within reach. She set her jaw and started planning how she was going to get Ryder to it without breaking them both.
Isobel came back to the truck, finding Ryder exactly as she'd left him—slumped against the seat, hat on the dash, breath slow and even. She opened the door, unbuckled his seatbelt, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Ryder. Ryder, wake up." Her voice was firm, but he didn't stir. She shook him harder, fingers gripping the thick muscle of his arm. "Ryder!"
His eyelids fluttered, just enough to drag him halfway to the surface. It was all she needed.
Getting him out of the cab was like trying to coax a stubborn bull through a gate—every step a negotiation. He leaned almost his full weight onto her, and she staggered beneath it, the gravel crunching under her boots. The five steps to the porch felt like a full climb up a set of rodeo bleachers in August heat. Twice she nearly lost him, her arm wrapped tight around his waist, his head brushing her shoulder.
By the time they reached the couch, her back was screaming. She tried to ease him down, but his weight carried him the rest of the way, dropping him onto the cushions with a heavy thud. She pushed him back until he was sprawled out, then swung his legs up onto the sectional. His boots—square-toed, broken in just enough to show use—came off with effort, the smell of leather rising warm and familiar.
A thick blanket lay folded over the couch back. She shook it out and laid it over him.
That's when he started talking.
"Dad… no, Dad. Don't do it." His voice was rough, lower than when he was awake. He shifted, jerking to one side. "Dad, no!"
She froze, the sound of it cutting through her like a splinter under the skin. Then, just as quick, he stilled again, breath evening out.
For a long moment she stayed there, the lamplight soft against his face. In sleep, the edges of him smoothed—the hard lines of his jaw, the guarded set of his mouth. Her eyes caught on the faint glint of gold from under his cuff: a watch she'd seen once in a magazine ad, the kind priced so high the store didn't bother putting numbers in print.
She pushed to her feet, meaning to leave, before the thought hit—she didn't have a way home.
Glancing around, she spotted the log staircase and climbed it, her hand brushing the smooth railing polished by years of touch. The second story opened into a wide hallway lined with closed doors. Everything was immaculate, not the kind of clean that comes from tidying for guests, but the sort that's maintained every day.
She found a guest room, the bed made tight, the quilt rich with color. It looked warm, waiting.
The first bedroom she stepped into was generous, with its own bathroom and enough space to feel important, and for a moment Isobel thought it must be the master. But the empty closets told a different story—this room wasn't lived in. It was for guests, meant to be comfortable but not personal.
She crossed to the far end of the hall, her boots whispering against the polished wood, and found a pair of double doors. When she turned the handles and stepped inside, her breath caught.
The room opened wide around her. A king-sized bed, framed in hand-hewn logs, anchored the space like something out of a high-end ranch catalog. Two tall windows flanked a corner fireplace built of stacked stone that stretched to the ceiling, each with a cushioned window seat tucked beneath, just begging for someone to sit and watch a winter storm roll in.
In front of the fireplace sat two leather chairs the color of saddle oil, a footstool between them, and a reading lamp with a brass arm curved just so. Overhead, a massive moose antler chandelier hung from the beams, its soft light washing the room in a warm, golden glow.
It was all mountain luxury—crafted and rugged, yet touched by the kind of money that didn't come from selling calves or riding bulls on the weekend.