Chapter 4 The Cathedral

POV: Isobel

The truck rumbles along, the countryside opening up in that easy Tennessee way you only get miles from town. Split-rail fences line the road, pastures gone gold in the late summer heat, apple trees heavy with fruit no one’s bothered to pick. The trailer rocks behind them, Delilah still restless but quieter now, as if the landscape itself is helping to calm her down.

Rose keeps her hands relaxed on the wheel, satisfied with how their conversation about horses has ended. “Thing is, Iz,” she says, picking up right where she left off, eyes crinkling at the corners, “most horses don’t know their own strength. They haven’t a clue what kind of damage they could do. You earn their trust, show them you won’t lead them into trouble.” She glances over, quick and bright. “And you make sure they know who’s holding the reins. That’s the trick.”

Isobel stares ahead, doubt softening at the edges but still there. “Twelve hundred pounds of muscle that could kill you just by accident,” she says, her drawl thicker now, sweet but edged with worry. “Forgive me for taking my time to find that comforting.”

Rose’s laugh is low and real, the kind that doesn’t need an audience. “Oh, I know,” she says, and there’s not a bit of fear in it.

She slows the truck and turns down a long gravel drive lined with apple trees, the tires crunching a steady beat. At the end of the drive stands a barn, wide and weathered, colored like old hay and a winter sky, its doors open in a quiet welcome.

Isobel steps out and the first thing she notices is the smell—hay, leather, and something warm underneath, the scent of animals cared for and a place that’s been worked with purpose for years. She breathes it in, and something shifts in her chest, soft and unexpected.

This isn’t just a barn. It feels holy.

The wide concrete aisle stretches between rows of oak stall doors, each framed in brass that catches the afternoon sun and throws it back in warm gold. Horses lean out, ears pricked forward, eyes bright with a curiosity that feels personal. Their low whickers roll through the barn, traveling up through the soles of Isobel’s boots.

She stops without meaning to.

Rose is already walking, boots ringing against the concrete, heading straight for a stall halfway down where a chestnut gelding waits, still and patient. She presses her palm to his forehead, slow and gentle. “Hello there, handsome,” she murmurs, her voice soft and private. “You are a beautiful boy.”

The gelding dips his head into her hand, eyes soft. Isobel feels a smile pull at her lips before she realizes it, caught by the quiet connection between them.

She’s still watching when a voice calls out.

“That’s Harley, ma’am.”

It comes from the shadows at the far end of the aisle, deep and easy, settling on the back of Isobel’s neck before it reaches her ears. She turns.

He steps into the light, and it almost seems like the sun was waiting for him.

She notices the boots first—worn, dark from work, hitting the concrete with quiet confidence. Then the faded Wranglers, low on a frame built by real labor, not gym hours. A white T-shirt clings to broad shoulders, smudged with dust and sweat. The brim of a white straw hat shades his eyes until he gets close, and then the hat stops mattering entirely.

His eyes are hazel, flecked with amber, steady and sharp. They find her right away.

Isobel’s knees feel the change before she does.

“Hi there,” he says. His voice is smooth and warm, Tennessee vowels polished with something sharper underneath, like bourbon with a little city bite. His smile comes on slow, dimples deep. It lingers, a burn you notice before you even know what’s happening. “I’m Ryder.”

The name shifts the air in the barn. Isobel clocks this and files it away for later.

“Hi,” she says, thankful her voice stays steady. “I’m Isobel.” She nods toward Rose, who’s watching the moment with an expression Isobel refuses to acknowledge. “And this is Bella Rose.”

He holds out his hand. She takes it.

His grip is warm and solid, callused from rope and weather, unapologetic. She’s aware, a little too aware, that she’s holding on a moment longer than she should.

Those dimples deepen. “Pleasure to meet you both.” He pauses, perfectly timed. “Can I have my hand back now, ma’am?”

Heat rushes into her cheeks. She lets go, the feel of his hand lingering on her skin, and takes a step back, trying to collect herself.

Rose moves forward into the gap, that knowing smile doing its work. “Hi, Ryder. I’m Bella Rose.” She nods toward the trailer, her voice shifting into the tone she uses when something matters. “Larry Hutchins sent us. Said you were the man for Delilah.”

Ryder’s expression changes. The easy charm sharpens, focus settling in, like a dog that just heard its name called for work. He follows Rose toward the trailer without being asked, boots crunching gravel in a way that leaves no doubt he’s in charge.

Through the slats, Delilah is visible in pieces: flashes of buckskin, white-rimmed eyes, hooves pounding a nervous rhythm that hasn’t quit since they left town. Each kick makes the whole trailer shake.

Ryder stands by the trailer, and goes still.

It’s not the stillness of waiting. It’s the stillness of listening.

He studies the mare the way a reader studies a page, eyes moving in order—ears, eyes, the line of her neck, the set of her legs. Rose and Isobel exchange a glance, both of them feeling something they can’t name.

A breeze stirs the apple trees, carrying the sweet scent of fruit and warm hay. Horses murmur in the barn.

Delilah’s hooves strike once, then twice. The rhythm falters.

She’s looking at him.

Ryder takes a step closer, slow and unhurried, and the space between them shifts. Not smaller, but quieter, like a radio tuning to a new frequency just below hearing.

He turns to Rose, his voice low and certain, Tennessee in every word, but with a hint of Manhattan smoothness. “What’s going on with Delilah?”

Rose’s mouth curves, eyes bright with surprise and something like respect. She gestures to the trailer door.

“Help yourself,” she says, her voice light but full of meaning, as if waiting to see what happens next.