Naomi was there, leaning against a fence rail, checking a clipboard. When she saw them, her eyes didn’t go to the cart; they went straight to where Grant’s arm was resting—inches from Izzy’s shoulder.
“Grant,” Naomi called out.
Izzy eased the cart to a stop.
Naomi didn’t move. She just stood there, effortless in her work gear, dark hair catching the light. Attractive in a way that didn’t require silk or high-end denim. She looked like she belonged to the dirt and the horses, and for a split second, Izzy felt a sharp, unexpected prick of something dangerously like insecurity.
Grant hopped out of the cart. “What’ve we got?”
Naomi stepped closer, showing Grant the clipboard. They stood close—heads bent together, voices low, the shorthand of people who had worked side by side for years.
“The vet called about the yearling in stall six,” Naomi said, her voice dropping into all-business. Her hand brushed Grant’s forearm as she pointed to a note on the page.
Grant nodded, his attention fully on the work.
Izzy sat in the driver’s seat, fingers tapping against the steering wheel.
She was the outsider. The city girl. The complication.
Watching them, she realized Naomi wasn’t just a manager. She was part of what he’d built.
Grant looked back at Izzy, sensing the shift. “Naomi needs me for a minute. You think you can find your way back to the house without launching into the pond?”
Izzy pulled on a cool, gallery-owner smile. “I think I can manage, Scott. Try not to let the paperwork overwhelm you.”
Naomi’s gaze flicked to Izzy, cool and measuring. “We’ve got it handled.”
“I’m sure you do,” Izzy said.
She put the cart in gear and rolled away, but she could still feel Naomi’s eyes on her back.
And, more annoyingly, she could still feel the phantom heat where Grant’s arm had been.
* * *
The gravel path curved around the side of the main barn just as the low rumble of an old diesel echoed up the valley road.
Izzy glanced up.
An older flatbed truck rolled through the gates, dust trailing behind it. The door bore faded black lettering:
TALLEY FEED & TACK
The trailer behind it was stacked high with grain and feed pallets strapped beneath heavy canvas ties.
The truck eased to a stop beside the barn with a rough diesel shudder.
Grant looked up immediately. “Feed’s here.”
Naomi glanced toward the truck. “About time.”
The driver’s door opened.
A tall man climbed down slowly, somewhere near sixty, lean and weathered from years in the sun. Silver threaded through his dark hair at the temples, and there was something deeply worn—but steady—about his face.
Grant stepped forward first.
“Mornin’, Sam.”
