That world had made sense to her.
Until it didn’t.
Now the thought of opening her own place here in the mountains did something dangerous in her mind.
Her own gallery. No board. No investors. No politics. Just art.
Could she actually leave Denver for this—the quiet, the isolation, the slower rhythm of a town where people knew each other?
A few days ago, she would’ve laughed. Now she wasn’t so sure.
The crunch of gravel outside pulled her thoughts apart.
For one brief second, relief loosened her shoulders.
Grant.
She looked toward the front window.
An SUV rolled slowly into the yard, dark windows reflecting the late-afternoon sun.
Her stomach tightened.
Wade Hollis? The thought came first because it was easier than the second possibility, rising cold and sharp behind it. The SUV stopped. The driver’s door opened, and two men stepped out in dark jackets. Izzy went still. The men from town. The ones outside City Limits.
Fear slid through her. Grant’s warning flashed back. Those men were watching you at the gala. They were watching you and Caitlin at City Limits yesterday.
Her pulse pounded.
The men moved toward the porch calmly.
Three knocks hit the screen door.
“Ms. Moreno?” the taller man called. “Sheriff Scott asked us to check on you.”
Every instinct she had screamed.
Izzy backed toward the door, reaching for the deadbolt.
The screen door jerked open.
The taller man hit the porch in two quick strides and slammed his boot into the farmhouse door before she could shut it.
Wood cracked.
Izzy stumbled backward with a gasp.
“Hey!”
The man caught her wrist in a bruising grip.
“Let go of me!”
She twisted hard, bringing her phone up on instinct to hit him.
He caught her forearm mid-swing.
“Easy,” he said flatly.
