Maybe twelve years old.
Grinning from the back of a raw-boned colt with the mountains stretched clean and endless behind him.
Something old and exhausted moved briefly across Wade’s face.
“I cut the timber on this ridge with my own hands to clear space for those barns,” Wade said quietly.
The smooth country-club charm was gone from his voice now. What remained sounded older. Worn thin in places.
“Everything I built out here, I built so that boy would never have to look another man in the eye and ask permission to live.”
Luke stayed still.
Wade looked away, his gaze hardening into something cold and permanent.
“I don’t lose sleep over twenty-seven-year-old small-town gossip,” Wade said smoothly, “and I certainly don’t care about the hurt feelings of a farrier.”
A long pause settled into the library, the country-club mask sliding carefully back into place as Wade leaned back slowly. The easy smile returned.
He picked up the bourbon glass again.
“Like I said, Deputy… a man thinks of his family first.”
Wade was about to continue when the heavy library doors swung open.
“Dad? You in here?”
Cal stepped into the room, looking wind-blown and invigorated from the Ridge. Right behind him was Izzy. She looked polished, but Luke caught the tension in her jaw and the way her hand stayed buried in the pocket of her field jacket.
“Well now,” Wade beamed, standing up with his arms open. “Look at this. My two favorite travelers are back. Izzy, darlin’,come here. Did you find me a painting for that wall yet, or are you still holding out for a masterpiece?”
Izzy’s eyes flickered to Luke, then back to Wade. She maintained a perfect, gallery-honed mask. “I think I found exactly what we were looking for, Mr. Hollis.”
Wade turned to Luke, his hand resting familiarly on Cal’s shoulder. “Deputy, I don’t believe you’ve met my son’s friend—or maybe it’s girlfriend by now, the way these two have been huddling—Isabella Moreno. She’s out of Denver.”
Luke stood up, baffled for a split second before his professional mask snapped back. He’d seen her at Grant’s. He knew the brothers were protective of her. Seeing her here, in the heart of the Hollis estate, felt wrong on a fundamental level.
“Yes,” Luke said, nodding to her. “Of course. Hey, Izzy. Good to see you again.”
“You too, Luke,” she said, her voice a flat, steady line.
“Is everything all right, Deputy?” Cal asked, his eyes moving between Luke and his father.
“Just clearing up some old history,” Wade answered for him, his voice as smooth as the bourbon on his desk. “But I think we’re about done here. Why don’t you three head out to the terrace? I’ll join you for a late lunch in a minute.”
Luke caught the look Izzy gave him—a sharp, almost imperceptible warning. She wasn’t just a ‘friend’ at lunch; she was holding a live grenade, and Wade Hollis had no idea he was sitting in the blast zone.
32
Hollis Ridge — Cal’s Barn
The barns at Cal’s private residence were more like cathedrals of mahogany and brass. Izzy stood in the center of the aisle, the air smelling of sweet hay, expensive leather, and the warm, musk-scented breath of champion Thoroughbreds.
Cal was in the third stall, his face tight with concern as he and a vet worked on a bay mare with a twisted gut. “I’m sorry, Izzy,” he’d said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Colic doesn’t wait for houseguests.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she’d replied, her heart jumping as a low, mechanical hum vibrated through the rafters.
It was the sound of a small-engine plane. It was low—unusually low—skimming above the treeline. She watched through the open barn doors as a white silhouette banked hard toward the ridge.
