Chapter 2
Bridlepath Farm — Sylva, North Carolina
By the time Izzy Moreno turned the silver convertible out of the Asheville rental lot, she’d been awake for nearly twenty hours.
The last seat out of Denver had gotten her to Atlanta after dawn. A delayed connection into Asheville had eaten another two hours, and she’d spent the entire drive west gripping terrible airport coffee while trying not to picture Marcus Halpern touching her gallery walls.
But if Burke’s timing was right, Caitlin was still at work.
Which meant Izzy could still pull this off before anyone in Sylva started talking.
Or before dark.
The Blue Ridge Mountains rose ahead in layered blues and soft spring haze. Unlike Denver, where winter still clung stubbornly to the city streets, the valleys here were already waking up. Fresh green shimmered along the hillsides, dogwoods blooming beneath trees leafing out.
By the time she turned onto Scott Valley Road, she was ready to admit the car had been a spectacular mistake.
It was the kind of decision made by a woman in mild emotional collapse—wearing excellent sunglasses and needing at least one thing in her life to look like she had it together.
She slowed as the road curved—and then she saw it.
A massive timber entrance arched over the drive, thick beams weathered to a deep, rich brown.
brIDLEPATH FARM was burned clean into the wood.
Izzy blinked.
“Oh.”
This wasn’t a farm.
This was money.
Real money.
She rolled forward, gravel crunching under the tires as the property opened around her.
Blackboard fencing stretched in perfect lines across manicured paddocks.
To her right, a wide, glassy pond caught the afternoon light, horses moving along its edge in quiet, lazy arcs.
To her left, a cluster of sleek mares grazed with their foals—long legs, delicate heads, the babies flicking their tails as they stayed close.
She clocked the way the foals moved, the straightness of a colt’s legs and the easy swing of a mare’s walk—old habits of assessment kicking in before she could remind herself she’d sworn off this world.
Further in, the main barn came into view.
And that—that was not okay.
It was enormous. Immaculate. A long, high structure with multiple cupolas lining the roofline, each topped with a weather vane that caught the breeze.
The siding was spotless, the white trim sharp, the entire place looking less like a working barn and more like something out of an equestrian magazine spread.
Round pens. Turnouts. Equipment that looked expensive even from a distance.
Everything was precise. Intentional. Controlled.
Of course, Caitlin hadn’t mentioned that Burke’s brother ran something that felt like a private facility for Olympic-level riders.
Izzy let out a quiet breath.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Noted.”
Then she saw the rest of it.
Up on a gentle rise beyond the pastures sat the main house—a large white farmhouse with a porch that stretched the full length of it, a row of weathered rockers angled toward the view, as if whoever lived there expected to sit still long enough to take it in.
Off to one side, set apart from the gleaming operation, stood an older red barn. Weathered, a little faded, trimmed in white with a tin gambrel roof and a broad cross-buck door. It seemed like it had been there long before everything else was built.
Near the treeline, past the mare and foal pasture, sat a small cottage.
Stone. Moss. A narrow porch. A lantern hanging beside the door.
It could have been something out of a storybook.
Izzy slowed the car even more, her gaze lingering.
Please let that be where I’m staying.
Because she could already tell—she didn’t want to walk into that house.
And she definitely didn’t want to be anywhere she wasn’t wanted.
She eased the convertible to a stop beside Burke Scott’s truck, cutting the engine.
She sat there, taking it in.
This wasn’t some tucked-away mountain farm.
And somehow, that only made her more aware of exactly how out of place she was.
The car door opened with a soft click.
Her heel hit gravel—and immediately sank enough to annoy her.
“Fantastic,” she muttered.
The air was different here. Softer than Denver. Warmer. Alive with damp earth, hay, leather, and the fresh green scent of early mountain spring.
A barn door slid open somewhere behind her.
“Iz.”
She turned.
Burke Scott stepped out of the shadow of the main barn, hat low, sleeves rolled, the afternoon light catching the edge of his jaw. And then he smiled—really smiled—and the entire controlled, steady sheriff facade broke enough to let something real through.
Relief.
“Well, there you are,” Izzy said, her mouth curving despite everything.
He crossed the gravel in a few long strides and pulled her into a hug that was solid and grounding and entirely without pretense.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly.
She hugged him back just as tightly. “You say that like you don’t hear Caitlin and me on the phone every day.”
He laughed against her hair.
She leaned back, studying him. “You look good.”
“So do you,” he said, giving her a quick once-over. “Even if your choice of vehicle is questionable.”
She glanced back at the convertible. “We’re not discussing it.”
“Fair enough.”
There was an ease between them that hadn’t faded with time or distance. It settled into place like it had been waiting.
“How’s Caitlin?” she asked.
His expression shifted—softened in a way that caught her off guard every time. “Good,” he said. “Better than she was. She’s going to lose her mind when she sees you.”
Izzy smiled, “That’s the plan.”
A movement at the far side of the barn caught her eye.
Someone stepping into the light.
Okay.
That was not what she’d been expecting.
Caitlin had said he was Burke with a different hat. What she’d failed—completely—to mention was that he was basically a Lucchese boot ad come to life.
He moved toward them with the kind of unhurried confidence that didn’t ask permission. Tall. Lean. Built from actual work, not a gym membership. His shirt clung in all the wrong-right places, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked by sun and labor.
And there was nothing polished about him.
Izzy felt it anyway—a quick, sharp awareness that landed low and unwelcome.
Grant Scott stopped a few feet away.
Too close to ignore. Not close enough to touch.
His stride slowed almost imperceptibly.
Dark hair spilling loose around her shoulders. Long legs beneath fitted denim. Silk against gravel. City confidence standing in the middle of his farm like she’d somehow wandered onto the wrong movie set.
She looked wildly out of place there.
And beautiful enough to immediately irritate him.
Something flickered across Grant’s face before his expression flattened back into controlled indifference.
Burke saw every second of it.
Oh, this was going to be entertaining.
Grant’s gaze shifted briefly toward his brother.
Burke lifted his coffee slowly, a grin already threatening.
Grant shot him a subtle death glare that clearly promised violence later.
Then he looked back at Izzy like none of it had happened.
“Izzy Moreno,” Burke said.
Grant touched two fingers to the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”
Izzy lifted a brow. The “Ma’am” felt less like a courtesy and more like a fence line he was drawing between them.
Okay, fine, her brain conceded, a tiny, treasonous pulse thrumming in her throat. Fine. He’s a masterpiece. In a rugged, I-haven’t-seen-a-skyscraper-in-a-decade kind of way.
Izzy Moreno didn’t do rugged.
She did intellectually stimulating.
Preferably with men who had soft hands and better manners.
She stepped forward—deliberately violating his personal space to shift the balance. Up close, he smelled like sun, leather, and something clean—not the chemical oud of Denver lounges, but something real.
“A cowboy?” she asked. She kept it cool, the tone she used when an artist tried to overcharge for a mediocre installation.
Grant didn’t move. He didn’t give an inch of ground. “A rancher,” he corrected, his voice a low, gravelly rasp she felt in her toes.
Izzy gestured at the immaculate white cupolas and pristine black fencing. “This place is ridiculous. Do you all live in an expensive boot ad, or does it always look this perfect?”
A flicker—barely there—touched the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a smile; it was a challenge. He folded his arms, the movement making his work shirt strain across his shoulders. His gaze slid briefly to the silver convertible, then back to her.
“Boots are cheaper,” he said.
The wit was dry. Sharp.
Izzy almost smiled, but she caught herself. She wasn’t here to be charmed by a man who could’ve been carved out of the mountain and finished with sandpaper.
She turned her attention back to the stone cottage near the treeline, a small sanctuary of moss and storybook charm that may as well have been a hundred miles from the high-stakes precision of the main barn.
“Is that where I’m staying?” she asked, looking at Burke.
Before Burke could draw a breath to answer, a voice cut in—low, gruff, and as welcoming as a barbed-wire fence.
“Nope. It’s not.”
Izzy turned back to Grant. He was still standing with his arms folded, looking at her like she was a line of credit he hadn’t approved.
She lifted a brow, her “Isabella” armor clicking into place. “Well, then. Where am I staying? With you at the house?”
The word house felt heavy, too intimate for a man she’d known for all of three minutes.
Something shifted in Grant’s expression.
He didn’t answer right away, his eyes doing another slow, efficient sweep of her silk blouse and the heels currently losing their battle with his gravel.
“I’d rather stay in that little storybook cottage,” she added, gesturing toward the stone walls.
Grant’s eyes flicked to the cottage and, for half a second, something unreadable crossed his face—gone so fast she almost wondered if she’d imagined it.
“That little cottage isn’t ready,” he rasped. He took a step toward her, his presence a heavy, sun-warmed warning. “Needs a roof. Among other things.”
“Well, I’m only here for a couple of days,” she countered, meeting his gaze with a cool, savvy smile. “I can make it work. And that way, I won’t be in your way.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. He leaned in a fraction, his voice dropping to a deadpan murmur.
“I’m worried about the ghost.”
Izzy didn’t blink. She’d spent the last year staring down millionaire board members.
“The what?” she asked, dry.
“Mabel’s sister,” he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a heartbeat before lifting again toward the cottage. “Doesn’t like strangers. Especially the kind that show up in heels.”
Izzy narrowed her eyes. “Who the hell is Mabel?”
Grant’s mouth twitched, a smile appearing and vanishing. “Never mind. Just a local legend.”
He was good, but she was better. “I’m Italian,” she said evenly. “Ghost stories aren’t exactly our biggest problem. I’ll take my chances.”
Grant straightened, turning back toward Burke. “If she stays there, it’s on your head when she starts screaming.”
Izzy shifted, her heel crunching deeper into the gravel. Off balance already.
She smiled, slow and dangerous. “If I scream, Scott, it won’t be because of a ghost.”
Burke looked between the two of them—the silk and the sandpaper—and visibly reconsidered his life choices. He cleared his throat.