She looked down at herself—silk blouse, clean lines, heels that never touched anything uneven. This life made sense. Contained. Predictable. Thirty-one and already on her second reinvention. She was going to need boots—if they even still fit.
As she stared at the exit, a memory she’d spent years suppressing flickered to life.
Seventeen.
She remembered the smell of expensive saddle soap and the rhythmic thud-thud of hooves on manicured turf. It hadn’t been a “farm” life; it had been an elite one. Shiny wood, spotless tack, and riders in tailored coats that cost more than most people’s rent. Everything had been as staged as the spaces she ran now. Controlled. Beautiful. Meant to be seen.
She’d been good, too. Good enough to win. Good enough to stay. And good enough to fall hard for a trainer who had no business looking at her at all.
She’d left that girl behind a long time ago. Or at least, that’s what she told herself every time she slipped into “Isabella.” She’d done the work—therapy, time, distance. She’d scrubbed the grit from under her nails until she was shiny, hard, utterly untouchable.
I don’t do cowboy,she reminded herself, her mouth curving wryly.I don’t do dirt,andI certainly don’t do men who spend their lives with animals.
But a birthday surprise wasn’t a bad excuse for a break. And hiding out on Grant Scott’s land—with all the history and trouble that could mean—sounded a lot like mercy.
* * *
Bridlepath Farm — Sylva, North Carolina
Grant Scott slammed the tailgate shut harder than necessary.
“You volunteered me,” he said, turning toward Burke. “Again.”
Burke leaned against the barn aisle door with a coffee in one hand, looking entirely too relaxed for a man currently irritating the hell out of his younger brother.
“It’s three nights.”
“That’s not the point.”
Burke took another sip, as if this conversation wasn’t happening.
Grant dragged a hand beneath the brim of his hat and looked out toward the lower pasture where two colts were tearing across the fence line like tiny drunken athletes.
“I have a routine,” he muttered. “Horses in training. Clients showing up all week.” He looked back at Burke. “Now suddenly I’ve got some complete stranger from Denver staying at my house because you decided it.”
“She’s Caitlin’s best friend.”
“That doesn’t make her not a stranger.”
Burke’s mouth twitched.
Grant kept going before he could interrupt.
“And before you start, yes, the house is big enough. That’s beside the point.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I don’t need somebody wandering around here getting underfoot while I’m trying to work.”
Burke’s expression had gone suspiciously neutral now, which meant he was enjoying this.
Grant narrowed his eyes.
“And I’m not babysitting some high-maintenance city woman who probably doesn’t know the difference between a cow and a horse.”
Burke laughed outright at that.
“Oh, you’re gonna regret saying that.”
