Isobel stepped into the bathroom and felt her breath catch again. Along the left wall stretched a deep Jacuzzi tub, its edges wrapped in warm tan tile, a wide window above it framing the dark sweep of the mountains outside. Opposite, a long vanity ran nearly the length of the room, two porcelain sinks set into a slab of veined stone polished smooth as river rock.
At the far end stood a walk-in shower big enough to corral a calf, framed in weathered barnwood that gave way to a glinting wall of glass. Inside, the slate tiles shifted in rich shades of brown and tan, like earth after a summer rain.
She turned slowly, the details pressing in. What one man needs with all this? The thought whispered in her head before slipping out under her breath. "Do bull riders make this kind of money?"
Back in the bedroom, she crossed to a tall dresser and eased open a drawer—rows of neatly folded T-shirts, soft from wear. Another drawer revealed shorts stacked with the same precision, like someone cared about order even in the smallest things.
She pulled out one of each, trading the cling of her dress for the cotton comfort of his clothes. The shirt was loose on her, carrying the faint scent of his cologne and something warmer—leather, cedar, maybe a trace of smoke.
Her gaze drifted to the bed. The heavy quilt, the thick down beneath, the way the moose antler chandelier cast its glow across the log frame—it all beckoned.
"Do I dare?" she murmured to the empty room.
She did. Pulling back the covers, she slid between the cool sheets, sank into the mattress, and let sleep claim her almost at once.
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Sunlight crept into the house slow and insistent, long golden fingers stretching across the living room floor until they reached Ryder's face. He groaned, trying to roll away, but the light didn't care. With a shift that was more gravity than intention, he slid off the couch and hit the rug-covered hardwood with a dull thud that rattled every sore spot in his skull.
For a moment he just sat there—palms flat against the floor, head bent, eyes narrowed to slits. The pounding in his temples matched the eight-second rhythm of a bull he'd once drawn in Cheyenne, one that hadn't given him a second's grace.
He pushed himself upright, grabbing the edge of the coffee table for balance. The table was heavy, solid oak with turquoise inlay—a Santa Fe artisan's piece he'd picked up back in his Manhattan days, back when signing a check for something like this didn't register as spending at all.
In the kitchen, he moved without thinking, finding the right cabinet on the first try. He reached past rows of imported coffee beans and a French press that had never seen the inside of a ranch house before he'd brought it here, pulling down the bottle of pain relievers. Four caplets, swallowed dry, then cold water from the tap—he bent low, the metallic taste of the faucet making him wish for bottled spring water, the kind he used to have flown in to boardrooms.
At the sidelight window by the door, his truck sat angled in the drive, chrome winking in the sun.
"How the hell did I get home?" His voice was low, gravelly.
He shook his head, regretting it instantly, and started for the stairs. One hand caught the thick log railing, smooth from years of use but capped with hardware custom-forged by a metalworker he'd found in Brooklyn.
Step by step, he climbed past walls lined with old rodeo photos—his father mid-ride on Widowmaker, Wren hazing a bull from the chute—but between them were framed architectural sketches and clean-lined black-and-white cityscapes, relics from a life most folks in Wears Valley didn't know he'd lived.
By the time he reached the landing, the pounding in his head hadn't eased, but the quiet up here was a balm. The hallway smelled faintly of cedar and leather polish, the air from the climate-control system whispering overhead—too subtle, too even to be anything but top-of-the-line.
He steadied himself, eyes on the double doors at the far end. Home. And yet not the home most people thought he lived in.
Ryder moved through the master like a man on autopilot, still half-blind with sleep, knuckling his eyes as he crossed to the bathroom. He turned the shower knob with the same unthinking certainty he'd used a thousand times before, steam billowing up from the slate-tiled enclosure.
He peeled off his clothes where he stood—Wrangler denim pooled at his boots, shirt half inside-out on the floor—letting them lie in a careless scatter that would have made his New York housekeeper twitch. His left shoulder gave a low, familiar throb, the kind that came from a night spent twisted wrong on leather cushions built for lounging, not sleeping. He hooked his arm across his chest, stretching slow, feeling that deep rope of muscle pull tight before easing. Then he rolled his head, vertebrae giving faint, gritty pops like an old gate hinge.
The tinted skylight above let in a filtered gold, morning sun softened by glass so expensive the installer had flown in from Seattle. Ryder stepped into the shower, palms flat to the cool tile, and leaned forward, letting the heat run over him like summer rain off a barn roof. The water beat into his shoulder, down the ridges of his spine, chasing away the last grit of the night.
He took the soap—triple-milled, something an ex-girlfriend swore by—and worked it fast between his hands. No lingering, no luxury this morning; just enough to scrub the trail dust of stale whiskey from his skin. The ache in his shoulder still hummed, and his skull thudded with every heartbeat, so he kept the whole thing short.
Stepping out, he caught up the thick cotton towel hanging from a hand-forged hook, dragging it rough over his chest and down his arms. He worked it over his head as he walked back into the bedroom, drops of water still sliding down his back, the cool air hitting damp skin as he tried to shake the fog loose.