Bella Rose came through the door like a warm wind off the barrel track—quick, bright, and carrying a paper sack in one hand and a cardboard drink carrier in the other.
"Alright, lady, spill it." She plunked both on the counter, popping the lid on her latte with the practiced flick of a champion barrel racer. "I brought bagels and caffeine for your confession."
Isobel, still barefoot and nursing the aftertaste of Ryder's coffee, arched a brow. "Confession? Or debrief?"
"Same thing when it comes to men like him." Rose slid onto a stool, leaning forward like a schoolgirl with a juicy secret.
Once they'd migrated to the kitchen table, Isobel let it all spill—every detail from that first spin on the dance floor to the moment Ryder pressed his lips to her hand on the porch. She kept her tone even, but Rose was leaning so far forward she nearly fell off her chair.
"Hold up—just to be clear—you had this man, naked, right in front of you, and you did nothing?"
"Rose…" Isobel gave her a patient look over her coffee mug. "You know that's not my style."
Rose groaned like she'd missed a jackpot barrel by inches. "I get it, I do. But honey, picture it—broad shoulders, water beading down over muscles carved like—" she flopped back against the chair, draping her arm over her eyes—"Lord, I'm gonna need a moment."
"Speaking of visuals," Isobel cut in before Rose started fanning herself, "what about you and Wren?"
Rose's head popped up like a prairie dog. "Oh, Isobel, he's amazing. Kind-hearted, quick with a smile, the kind of man who makes you feel like you're the only one in the room. And that voice—" she fanned herself again, grinning.
"You guys didn't…?"
"No way. I may be a flirt, but I'm not a pushover. I like a decent courtship before I hang my hat, thank you kindly."
Isobel smirked. "I have to admit, I'm impressed by how high you've set the bar."
Rose shrugged, unbothered. "You can't run barrels without a clean approach."
Isobel chuckled, but her thoughts drifted. She leaned her elbows on the table. "Rose… what do you actually know about Ryder?"
Rose's eyes narrowed, reading the change in her tone. "Why?"
"Because there's… more to him than I thought. His place isn't just a ranch—it's sprawling, with a barn that looks newer than most hotels. Designer furniture, a stocked stable, horses worth more than my townhouse, and—" Isobel hesitated—"this morning, he got a video call. From a woman. She sounded like she knew him… well."
Rose perked up. "And?"
"I didn't hear the conversation. She said something about needing him at a board meeting. He told her to 'cover him' and hung up as soon as I appeared."
Rose leaned in, voice dropping. "Board meeting? Like… corporate board?"
Isobel nodded slowly. "I'm starting to think the man's more than just a retired rodeo star."
Rose tapped her nails on the table thoughtfully. "Could be trouble. Could be gold."
Isobel smiled faintly, but inside her chest was that unfamiliar whirl—a mix of curiosity, caution, and something warmer she didn't quite trust yet.
-----
The office was nothing like the rest of Ryder's ranch house. Where the living room smelled faintly of hay and saddle soap, this room was glass, steel, and power. One wall was dominated by a massive window framing the rolling pastures outside, but the desk—broad, gleaming walnut—belonged on the fortieth floor of a Manhattan tower.
Ryder sat back in his leather chair, the brim of his white hat casting a shadow over eyes fixed on the laptop screen. The glow lit the hard line of his jaw as the Skype feed connected. Faces popped up in a grid—board members in sleek conference rooms, backlit by New York skyline glass.
"Alright," Ryder said, voice low and controlled, his Southern cadence softened by years of Manhattan boardrooms. "Let's get to it."
Charts and figures rolled across the shared screen—stock performance, quarterly projections, foreign investment reports. Ryder's gaze swept the numbers like a rider scanning a chute gate before the buzzer.
And then, Victoria appeared—her square in the corner lighting up like she'd been waiting for the perfect moment. Chestnut hair smooth as a show horse's flank, lips painted to match the Merlot she probably kept on her desk.
"Ryder," she purred, leaning in just close enough for the camera to catch the soft glint in her eyes, "you've been gone too long. The city isn't the same without you."
A few of the other board members glanced between their screens and their notes, silent but watchful. Ryder's expression didn't shift.
"I told you," he drawled, "I don't know when I'll be back."
"But you will be back," she pressed, the smile on her lips meant for him alone.
He didn't bite. Just nodded toward the CFO's square on the feed. "Next quarter's risk exposure—let's move on."
The meeting rolled forward, Ryder's attention clipped and businesslike, until one by one, the other directors signed off. Victoria lingered a beat longer, lips curling like she wanted the last word, then her feed winked out.
Only John Kessler, his CFO of fifteen years, remained. A man built like a bull rider gone to seed, eyes sharp enough to read balance sheets and poker tells alike.
"John," Ryder said, voice dropping into something more personal, "I need you to run a check on someone."
There was the faintest hitch of interest in John's expression. "Name?"
"Isobel Wright," Ryder replied, leaning back in his chair, fingers drumming once against the desk before stilling. "I want to know who she is… and who she isn't."
John gave a slow nod. "Consider it done, boss."
The call ended, leaving Ryder alone in the quiet hum of the office. Outside, a pair of horses grazed in the distance, oblivious to the fact that their owner straddled two worlds—one built on dirt and grit, the other on glass and steel.