Grant shifted awkwardly, sensing something emotional moving beneath the surface that he didn’t fully understand.
“Well,” Grant finally muttered,“if everybody’s done haunting each other, I need this grain before Naomi murders me.”
That earned the faintest ghost of a smile from Sam.
“Naomi still running this place with an iron fist?”
“Worse.”
Sam nodded once and moved toward the flatbed, but before he passed Izzy, he paused.
“You paint?” he asked suddenly.
Izzy blinked. “A little. Mostly gallery work and restoration now.”
Sam studied her another second. His gaze dipped to the notepad tucked against her side.
“She painted too,” he said quietly. “Used to stand just like that at a fence line.”
Before Izzy could ask who he meant, Sam stepped past her toward the barn.
Grant watched him go, brow furrowed.
“What was that about?”
Izzy looked toward the older man unloading feed beside the truck.
Old grief sat on him so heavily that Izzy could almost feel it.
“I don’t know,” she admitted softly. “But whoever she was… he loved her very much.”
Grant’s jaw tightened as he watched Sam disappear into the barn shadows.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
“He did.”
7
Bridlepath Farm — That Evening
The barn had settled into its rhythm by mid-afternoon.
Izzy stayed out of the way.
Mostly.
She leaned against the rail of the indoor arena for a while, watching a lesson unfold—quiet instructions, steady circles, the soft drum of hooves against packed footing.
She didn’t miss the looks.
When she stepped a little too close to the rail, Naomi’s voice came without turning. “Stay behind them.”
Izzy paused.
Then smiled faintly to herself and stepped back. “Yes, ma’am.”
Grant caught it—the smile, not the words—and let it pass.
