Chapter 22
The storm had passed, but the sky was still heavy. Low clouds pressed down over the ridge, the light dull and gray as it slipped through the cracks in the blinds.
Izzy walked into the kitchen, her body still humming from the night before. She felt found. Centered. The scent of him still lingered on her skin, a warm ghost of the master bedroom.
She wanted to reach out—to touch the small of his back as he stood by the stove.
Grant turned. The look in his eyes was a bucket of ice water.
He was already dressed. A fitted black tee stretched across his shoulders. Dark jeans. His hat sat on the counter like a border he’d drawn in the dust. His jaw was set, rigid and carved, looking like it belonged to the mountain itself.
“Coffee’s hot.”
His voice was clipped. Professional.
The warmth in her turned to lead.
“Grant?”
“Last night shouldn’t have happened.” He didn’t look at her.
He watched the coffee drip into the pot like it required his full attention.
“I let it get out of hand. It can’t happen again.
” He finally looked up, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes dropped to her mouth, his jaw tightening as if he could still taste her.
The words hit. Hard.
Izzy felt the sting burn behind her eyes—she forced it back, iced it over, replaced it with something colder.
“Shouldn’t have happened?” she repeated. Her voice trembled, but it wasn’t soft. It was sharp. “How dare you. How dare you reduce it to that.”
“I’m pulling us back,” he said. Now he looked at her. His eyes weren’t cold—that would’ve been easier. They were tight. Controlled. “Burke and Caitlin can’t know. We’re not going to make things uncomfortable every time we’re in a room together, because we crossed a line. This gets messy fast.”
He didn’t flinch. Wouldn’t.
In his head, he saw Sam Talley. A man who had stopped living the day an artist walked out of his life. Waiting. Watching the road for something that wasn’t coming back.
That wasn’t going to be him.
He’d settle down when he was ready—with a girl from Sylva. Someone who understood this place and wanted the same things.
He’d seen Izzy in the mud, helping him with the yearling. He knew she had grit. But it didn’t matter. She was leaving in five days. This was crazy.
It hit her suddenly—sharp enough to make her angry. Grant Scott would walk into a lightning storm for a panicked horse without thinking twice. He’d throw himself between danger and anybody he cared about on pure instinct.
But this?
This terrified him.
Not her.
Wanting something he couldn’t control.
“It’s the truth,” he said, voice flat. “You live in Denver. I live here. No version of this works. I’m being realistic.”
Izzy stepped forward. Her eyes burned—bright, sharp, unyielding.
“You’re right about one thing, Scott.” Her voice cut clean. “There is no version of this that works.”
A beat.
“Because no way in hell would I stay here. In this place. With a man who treats a night like that like a chore he forgot to cancel.”
“Izzy—”
“Don’t.”
She turned before the tears could catch up to her and walked out of the kitchen without looking back.
* * *
The Main Barn — One Hour Later
Izzy rolled down the driveway with purpose in the golf cart.
She’d spent thirty minutes in the mirror. The Denver armor was back on—and sharper today. Expensive sunglasses. The kind of jeans that cost more than a saddle. She looked like she was heading to a gallery opening, not a working farm.
Caitlin was already there, leaning against the gate of the outdoor arena. She looked up. Didn’t say a word, just studied Izzy’s face—then flicked her gaze across the yard to Grant.
He was by the fence with a yearling, pretending to check a hoof. Not fooling anyone.
The air between them was charged, heavy, waiting.
“Well,” Caitlin said softly. “That is a very specific kind of energy you’re carrying this morning.”
Izzy adjusted her glasses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar,” Caitlin murmured. She glanced toward the house, then back at Izzy. “You and Grant look like you’re about to start a blood feud.”
The sound of an engine cut through the quiet. Not a farm truck.
A high-end silver Escalade rolled up the drive, polished to a mirror finish. The door opened, and Cal Hollis stepped out, easy and smooth in a tailored jacket. His cologne cut through the smell of hay and manure, sharp and clean, like the city.
He took in the tension in one quick glance—and smiled anyway.
“Well now,” he said, heading toward them. “You ladies are looking lovely this morning. A man could get used to a view like this.”
Across the yard, Grant went still. Didn’t look up. His shoulders went iron-hard.
Cal stopped in front of Izzy. Didn’t even glance toward Grant.
“I was coming to see if the lovely Isabella might want to join me for brunch at the club,” he said. “Change of scenery. Better coffee than you’ll find around here.”
Izzy paused. Then she glanced at Caitlin. “You want to come?”
Cal smiled immediately, smooth as ever. “Of course, Miss Caitlin is welcome.”
Caitlin hesitated, cutting a quick look toward Grant’s stiff shoulders before offering Izzy a small, knowing shrug. “I can’t,” she said. “Got called into the museum early. Joann’s under the weather.”
She gave Izzy a small, steady look. “Rain check?”
Izzy nodded once. “Yeah.”
Then she turned back to Cal. “I’d love to.”
Her voice carried, just enough to cross the yard. “Lunch sounds like exactly what I need.”
Cal offered his arm, his grin widening. “Your carriage awaits.”
Izzy took it. He was easy in his skin in a way Grant never let himself be.
As they walked toward the Escalade, she could feel Grant’s gaze on her—burning into her back. She didn’t turn. Didn’t give him that.
She climbed in. The door shut with a thud. And just like that—the lines were drawn.
As the Escalade disappeared down the drive, the silence that settled over the Main Barn was heavy enough to choke.
Grant didn’t move. He kept his head down, his hand still resting on the yearling’s hoof, his heart hammering a rhythm of territorial rage he had no right to feel.
He’d asked for distance.
He just hadn’t expected her to bridge it with a Hollis. He let go of the horse's lead, his fist slamming into the fence rail hard enough to rattle the wood as he stared down the empty driveway, a sudden, suffocating truth hitting him right in the chest.
God, I’m a fool.
* * *
Across town, Deputy Luke Hale was staring at a piece of yellowed paper in the back of the ’99 file. It was a witness statement from a retired gate guard at the Hollis estate—one that had been signed, dated, and curiously never followed up on.
“Burke,” Luke said, leaning back in his chair as his partner walked in. “You remember that clearing the girls found in the sketch?”
Burke nodded.
Luke slid the old survey across the desk. “It wasn’t marked publicly,” he said. “But it’s here.”
Burke looked down at the faded outline. A narrow strip cut through the timber.
“Private landing strip,” Luke said quietly. “Registered to Wade Hollis’s father back in the nineties.”