Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
ROSE
At five in the morning, the world belonged to the horses.
The ranch was quiet in that pre-dawn way that felt like a held breath. The sky over the foothills was still black, but the air had that thin, cold edge that promised daylight was coming whether I was ready for it or not.
I hadn't slept much.
Again.
Twenty-five years after the accident that took my parents, my body still didn't trust rest. I'd never quite shaken the feeling that sleep was a trap. That if I closed my eyes too long, something would slip in and rewrite my life while I wasn't looking.
Stress was the easy explanation. The ranch. The bookings. Payroll. The endless list of things that could go wrong if I stopped paying attention for even a second.
My therapist, Dr. Carlisle, would call it hypervigilance.
I called it a normal Tuesday.
Boots on. Hair up. Hoodie pulled over a tank top because the ranch didn't care about my feelings and the cold definitely didn't. I grabbed my flashlight even though I knew every board, hinge and squeak by heart.
The short path to the barn was all frozen dirt and my own breath puffing white in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote yipped, and one of the horses answered with a snort like, I heard that. Don't even try it.
When I pushed the door open, warmth hit my face. Hay, horse and leather, and the faint sweet tang of grain. The only place that ever made my shoulders drop without permission.
"Morning," I whispered, not because anyone needed it, but because the barn liked to be greeted as if it was a living thing.
A soft chorus answered with shifts in the stalls, the gentle creak of bodies settling. A couple of nickers. One offended squeal from a mare who thought the entire world should revolve around her breakfast schedule.
"Yeah, yeah," I murmured. "I'm here."
I went straight to Starlight's stall, a bay mare with a white blaze and a dramatic streak that could power a small city. The kind of horse people fell in love with because she was beautiful and then regretted it because she was also convinced she was smarter than everyone.
She poked her head over the stall door as soon as she saw me, ears forward, eyes bright, like she had opinions about my punctuality.
"Hi," I said, softer. "How are we feeling today?"
She blew a warm breath at my face and tried to nibble my hoodie string.
"Don't," I warned, but I was already smiling.
The abscess had been on her front hoof. The kind of thing that could turn into a nightmare if you ignored it.
I'd been soaking and wrapping and checking it repeatedly.
Horses were fragile in the most unfair ways.
They could survive storms and predators and dumb teenagers.
They could also go lame because of an infection the size of a pencil eraser.
Starlight swung her head toward my shoulder the second I unlatched the stall, demanding attention in the most affectionate, manipulative way possible.
"In a minute," I told her. "Let me see."
I crouched and ran my fingers down her leg, feeling for heat. Her skin was warm under my palm, but not hot. Good. Her hoof rested heavy on my knee as I worked the wrap loose, ignoring the fact that she was a thousand pounds of creature and could make me regret existing if she felt like it.
The wrap came off clean. The hoof looked… better. Less swelling. Less tenderness when I pressed gently along the sole.
"Okay," I whispered, relief slipping through me like a quiet victory. "You're healing."
Starlight flicked an ear, as if to say, Obviously. I'm fabulous.
Cleaning the area, repacking and rewrapping. The motions soothed me in a way I didn't want to admit.
It didn't fix everything.
But it fixed this.
When I finished, Cassiopeia was watching from her stall. My first horse. The foundation of everything.
Patrick had bought her for me when I was fifteen because he'd read somewhere that horses helped with anxiety, and he was right, though not in the way he expected.
When I got her, she was a three-year-old chestnut mare, half-wild, full of energy and a stubborn streak that matched what the family gently called my "strong will.
" Six months I'd spent earning Cassie's trust. Patient.
Repetitive. Showing up every single day until she decided I was worth believing in.
She'd been my mirror. My proof that broken things could learn to trust again.
I stood and leaned my forehead against her neck for a moment, just breathing her in. Warm horse smell. Life.
"Big day," I said, because talking to horses was easier than talking to people.
The Scottish clients were arriving at three.
A small group, according to my office manager, Denise.
Four cabins, the main guest house, two weeks of riding the trails with curated rustic charm.
Exactly the kind of booking she had been chasing since she convinced me we needed more "international clients" and fewer locals who only wanted to argue about boarding fees.
I tried not to feel dread.
Not because I hated people.
But foreigners meant variables. Variables meant unpredictability.
Which meant my brain went to where it always went, cataloging every possible disaster that could happen.
My pulse kicked up. I gave myself ten seconds. Ten seconds to feel the fear, let it burn through me, and then put it somewhere I could function.
One. Two. Three—
By ten, I was done.
The panic wasn't gone, but it was behind a door I could close.
"Okay," I whispered to Cassie. "You think we can do this?"
She nudged my shoulder, not gently.
I laughed under my breath, the sound surprising in the quiet.
"Yeah, yeah. You're right."
By seven, the ranch was waking up.
The sun was turning the frost on the pastures into a field of glitter. The property stretched out around me. Sixty acres of land I’d poured the inheritance my parents had left me into.
Boarding barns. Guest cabins. Trails through pines and aspens. A main guest house that could host retreats with couples who posted pictures of sunsets with captions like healing.
It looked peaceful from the outside.
It was.
Most days.
Clipboard in hand, I walked across the yard toward the main house, already mentally listing everything I needed to check before the group arrived at three. Beds made. Towels folded. Guest baskets stocked. Trail maps printed. First aid kits updated. Emergency numbers visible.
And, because my brain liked to be creative, five other things that probably didn’t matter but might, if the universe decided to test me.
The main guest building was beautiful in that rustic-luxe way that made city people gasp. Exposed beams. Stone fireplace. Wide windows looking out at the mountains like a postcard.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, then locked it behind me out of habit.
"Normal," I muttered.
The main building was clean, but clean wasn't enough.
I went through everything.
Dining room tables wiped down. Chairs straight. Fire laid in the stone fireplace, ready to light. Lounge cushions fluffed. No dust on the bookshelves. Coffee station stocked. Guest mugs lined up like soldiers.
I checked the kitchen twice. Then checked it again because apparently I was the CEO of Overthinking, LLC.
My phone buzzed. It was Denise.
Morning! Big day. Taylor's coming soon to check the Wi-Fi mesh in the guest house and the cabins. Scots are picky.
I stared at the text.
Taylor. Wi-Fi mesh. Cabins.
My shoulders tightened automatically.
Denise's boyfriend was six-foot-two, always wearing a clean hoodie and a smile that made older women call him "a nice young man." He'd been helping around the ranch more and more lately. At first it was simple stuff: replacing cameras, setting up the booking app, and optimizing the website.
It was very convenient.
But convenience had a way of turning into dependence before you noticed.
I typed back with my thumb.
Tell him guest areas only. Not my cabin.
A bubble appeared.
Rose, relax. He's not breaking into your diary. He'll be in and out. Also, can we please do a quick arrival reel for Instagram? Just a vibe shot. No pressure.
I felt my jaw set.
I didn't hate social media.
I just hated feeling like I was performing.
I replied.
No reel. Guests deserve privacy. I deserve privacy.
You deserve bookings.
I stared at that line longer than I should have.
Then I locked my phone and went back to checking towels like towels were the problem.
When Hank, my ranch manager, walked in through the side door, I nearly jumped.
"Jesus," I snapped, pressing a hand flat against my sternum.
Hank froze, eyes wide, then lifted both hands like I had a gun.
"Whoa," he said. "Sorry, boss. Didn't mean to—"
I exhaled hard, angry at myself more than him.
"Sorry," I said, because Hank didn't deserve my jagged edges. "I'm a little jumpy this morning."
He scratched his jaw, studying me. He'd been around long enough to know when to poke and when to back off.
"New group today," he said.
"Yes."
"Scots," he added, like that explained everything.
"Yes," I repeated, and my voice softened because this was what Hank did.
He kept things grounded. He'd been here since the beginning.
Helped build this place, never treated me like a delicate rich girl with a hobby the way the rest of the town did.
He treated me like his boss. Sometimes like a niece.
Sometimes like a woman he worried about because he'd watched me grind myself into dust to make this place work.
"You got everything ready," he said.
"I'm doing it," I said.
Hank's brows lifted. "Rose, it looks ready."
"It's not ready until I say it's ready."
"Aye," he said, and the word was so wrong in his mouth that I almost smiled.
He cleared his throat. "Got a small issue."
My gut clenched, because "small issue" was what people said right before everything fell apart.
"What," I said flatly.
He held up his keys. "Truck battery's dead."
I stared at him.
"That's… that's it?" I asked, suspicious.