He held her gaze a second longer.
“Come on,” he said. “Go put on your shoes.”
And like that, the day began.
* * *
The morning was already busy by the time they stepped outside.
The air was cool and clean, sunlight stretching across the pastures. Fencing ran in neat sections down the hill, horses already moving in the fields—heads down, tails flicking, easy and contained.
Izzy paused on the porch for half a second.
Grant didn’t slow.
“Stay with me,” he said, already heading down the steps.
She followed.
They crossed toward the main barn, the ground uneven beneath their feet. The closer they got, the more the place came alive—voices, movement, the steady rhythm of work already in motion.
A man led a gelding out of the aisle. Another hauled a bale of hay across the yard. Somewhere behind the barn, metal clanged lightly against metal.
No one stopped, but eyes followed them across the yard.
Izzy felt it—the quick looks, the second glances. New. Out of place. An outsider.
“Don’t mind them,” Grant said, not looking at her.
“I don’t,” she said.
She did.
A little.
They stepped into the barn.
The temperature dropped immediately, the air cooler, edged with hay and leather. Sunlight filtered through the high slats, cutting across dust motes and the long aisle of stalls.
Izzy’s gaze snagged on a woman’s hands for a beat—the sure way she checked the girth, the calm pressure on the bay’s neck—little details her own muscles remembered far better than she wanted to admit.
At the center of the activity, the woman straightened.
Dark hair pulled into a low ponytail, baseball cap pulled down against the light. Fitted tee, worn jeans, boots that hadseen actual work. She stood near the cross-ties, one hand steady on a restless bay, the other adjusting a strap with quick, efficient movements.
She didn’t look up right away.
“Morning,” Grant said.
“Mm,” she answered, finishing what she was doing before she straightened.
Then her eyes landed on Izzy.
One clean sweep.
Head to toe.
“This her?” the woman asked.
