26
Hollis Ridge — Midday
The road climbed before Izzy realized how high they’d come. Long, easy curves followed the spine of the mountain. Not fighting the slope. Claiming it. The Escalade’s engine worked a little harder; her ears caught the faintest pressure shift.
“This all yours?” she asked. She didn’t take her eyes off the ridge.
Cal’s grip tightened on the wheel. “My father’s. Everything the light hits.”
“Big backyard.”
“Too big,” he said. “He bought the mountain so he wouldn’t have to look at anyone else’s lights.”
Izzy let that sit. It wasn’t land. It was an empire.
The gates appeared around the next bend. Iron. Hand-forged. Set into stone columns meant to look ancient. Centered between them—a crest.
Hollis Ridge Farm.
No tagline. No explanation.
“Subtle,” she said.
Cal huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s him holding back.”
The guard stepped out, saw the car, and stopped. The gate slid open without a word.
Not unless they’re expected.
Or owned, she thought.
The tires transitioned from asphalt to stone. Hand-laid pavers. The landscaping was designed to look accidental. Canadian hemlocks stood in deliberate rows; boxwoods carved into lines that softened nothing.
Controlled wilderness.
They crossed a narrow bridge. Fast-moving water cut through the quiet of the cab. The trees closed in—light shifting in patterns—then the world opened up.
Izzy leaned back.
Pasture stretched to the right. Thoroughbreds moved like fluid, their coats catching the light.
To the left, a separate structure. Stone and timber.
“The garage,” Cal said. “My corner of the map.”
“Five bays?” She counted the doors. “That’s a lot of corners.”
The drive curved, climbing higher. The air felt thinner. Sharper.
Then—the house.
Not a house. A statement.
Stone pulled from the peak. Timber cut to scale. Glass framed the ridge like he held the deed to the sky.
Behind it, the lake. Wide. Still. Fifteen acres of engineered glass tucked into a fold of the mountain.
“This isn’t a farm.”
