Chapter 40
Bridlepath Farm — Saturday Evening
The house was too quiet for the secret it was holding.
Grant stood in front of the small mirror by the door, staring at a man he barely recognized.
The tux was charcoal—tailored close enough to show the heavy muscle of his shoulders and the lean taper of his waist. He’d left the top two buttons of his shirt open, his five-o’clock shadow a dark contrast against the crisp white cotton.
He picked up his hat—a creamy, silver-belly Stetson—and settled it low. The brim shadowed his face, turning his blue eyes to flint. He looked contained. Dangerous. Like a man walking into enemy territory. He dragged a hand down his jaw, wishing he was in a barn instead of a tuxedo.
From down the hall, he heard the rustle of silk. He exhaled slowly, bracing his hands on the doorframe. Don’t look at her like that, he told himself. Don’t let her see what she’s doing to you. Not tonight. Not where they could use it.
Boots thudded across the back porch. The screen door creaked open.
“Tell me you’re ready,” Burke called out.
Grant stepped into the main room. Burke stood by the kitchen table in full dress blues, his hat tucked under his arm.
The uniform was immaculate, the silver star catching the light.
Burke was the “Handsome Sheriff” of every local legend—broad-chested, clean-shaven, and carrying the kind of authority that didn’t need a loud voice.
“You’re going to scare half the county just walking in,” Grant said.
“Good,” Burke replied. He checked his phone. “Scout’s on the ridge. Luke’s in position. No one moves on that property without us knowing it.”
Grant nodded. “And inside?”
Burke glanced toward the window. “Inside, we’re just guests.”
Naomi came in from the mudroom. Grant blinked. She wore a deep wine-colored dress that skimmed her athletic frame, simple and elegant. Her dark hair was pulled back into a polished knot, showing the long, graceful line of her neck.
“Well, I’ll be damned, Naomi,” Grant said. “Didn’t know you owned anything that didn’t come with a horse.”
Naomi didn’t miss a step. She hitched the side of her dress up just enough to show her scuffed cowboy boots. “Don’t get excited, Scott. I’m still the one who has to shovel the stalls tomorrow.”
Burke huffed a laugh. “You look great, Naomi. You’re going to have every bachelor at that gala tripping over their own feet.”
“Let ’em trip,” she shot back. “Gives me something to laugh at.”
Footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs. All three of them looked up.
Caitlin came down first, her hunter green silk moving like water. She looked composed, but there was a spark in her eyes that told Burke exactly what she was thinking. Burke didn’t move. He didn’t seem to be breathing.
“Close your mouth, Sheriff,” Caitlin said with a small, satisfied smile.
Burke cleared his throat. “You look… like a problem I don’t want to solve.”
“That’s the idea.”
Then Izzy appeared.
The midnight blue silk clung to her like a second skin. The dress was a masterpiece of clean lines and understated wealth, the open back drawing the eye to the smooth curve of her spine. She looked taller. Sharper. And every instinct he had said the spotlight tonight was a kill zone.
Grant felt his shoulders lock. Every rule he’d just given himself—the distance, the coldness—simply vanished.
And just as fast, something colder slid in behind it—because she was about to walk into Hollis Ridge looking like that. He’d spent weeks trying to see her as an inconvenience, but standing there in that light, she was a revelation.
Izzy reached the bottom of the stairs and paused. Her gaze flicked across the room, landing on Grant. She looked him up and down—the suit, the Stetson, the way he was staring at her—and for a heartbeat, her curator-mask slipped.
“Too much?” she asked, her voice a little breathless.
“No,” Naomi said, standing beside Grant. “Not even close.”
Burke dragged a hand down his face, the only sign of his nerves. “If Hollis had any sense, he’d lock the gates and cancel the whole damn thing right now.”
Izzy smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, he doesn’t.”
Headlights swept across the front windows. A luxury engine rolled up the drive. Cal.
Grant’s knuckles went white against the doorframe. Burke picked up his hat. “That’ll be him.”
Izzy reached for her wrap, smoothing it over her shoulders with practiced ease. Grant stepped back, creating space. He’d made his decision. He didn’t get to want her. He just had to make sure she walked out of this night alive.
Outside, the silver Escalade idled. Cal stepped out—all effortless charm. His eyes lifted to the porch and stopped. For a split second, his practiced smile actually faltered.
“Isabella,” he said, stepping forward. “You just made every other woman at that gala irrelevant.”
Izzy gave him a controlled smile. “That wasn’t the goal.”
“Shame,” Cal said softly. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Grant didn’t look at them. He couldn’t. He adjusted the brim of his Stetson, the shadow hiding the raw, jagged hunger in his eyes.
Burke moved past him, his voice low. “We stay close. No unnecessary moves. If something feels off, we pull her.”
Grant nodded. “Something already feels off.”
Engines turned over. Burke’s truck. Cal’s Escalade. The quiet hum of deputies moving into position. From the ridge, Scout watched through the glass. From the road below, Luke’s cruiser eased into the shadows.
Izzy slid into the passenger seat of Cal’s vehicle. The door closed with a soft, final click.
Grant watched the taillights disappear. The night felt heavier now. Like the mountain itself was holding its breath.
“Let’s go,” Burke said.
Grant grabbed his jacket and followed him into the dark. Saturday had come. And whatever was waiting up on that ridge… wasn’t waiting quietly anymore.
* * *
Hollis Estate
The gates at the guard shack stood wide, the typical scowl of the security detail replaced by professional nods as they waved the line of luxury vehicles through.
Lanterns in hammered copper housing lined the winding drive, their flickering light dancing off the hood of Cal’s Escalade as he pulled up to the main entrance.
A team of valet attendants in matching vests moved with practiced efficiency, whisking cars away toward a nearby pasture that had been cleared and lit for the night.
When the massive oak front doors swung open, the atmosphere hit like a wave of silk and champagne. It wasn’t the tense, high-alert environment the Scott brothers had braced for. It was easy. It was lavish. It was the kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout.
The Great Room was cavernous, dominated by a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, but the real draw was the back wall.
Four sets of towering terrace doors stood open, blurring the line between the mahogany-clad interior and the sprawling stone veranda outside.
Beyond the railing, the Blue Ridge Mountains were a jagged silhouette of deep indigo against a violet sky.
Izzy stepped into the room, her hand light on Cal’s arm, and stopped.
Peonies were everywhere. Massive, lush blooms in shades of cream and pale coral spilled out of crystal vases on every available surface. They were her favorite—a detail Cal had clearly noted—and their soft, heady scent fought back the smell of bourbon and expensive tobacco.
In the corner, a four-piece jazz ensemble played something low and melodic, the notes drifting out through the open doors toward the mountains.
Uniformed servers glided through the crowd with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, while specialized stations offered everything from local trout tartare to imported caviar.
“It’s incredible, Cal,” Izzy said, her voice sounding steadier than she felt.
“I wanted it to be right,” Cal murmured, leaning in close. “The mountains are beautiful, but they can be cold. I thought we should bring a little warmth to the ridge tonight.”
Grant and Burke entered ten minutes later.
If the Scott brothers felt out of place, they didn’t show it.
Grant’s charcoal suit and silver-belly Stetson made him look like a man who owned the mountain, while Burke’s dress blues commanded an immediate, silent respect from the room.
They didn’t head for the bar. They moved to the edge of the crowd, their eyes scanning the terrace doors and the dark line of the woods beyond the veranda.
Wade Hollis stood near the center of the room, a glass of amber liquid in one hand, looking every bit the king of the castle. He saw the Scotts enter and offered a slow, mocking toast with his glass, but he didn’t move toward them.
For now, the masks were on. The music was playing, the candles were flickering in the mountain breeze, and the wine was flowing. To any outsider, it was the social event of the season.
But as Izzy looked past the peonies toward the dark, open terrace, she knew the “easy” atmosphere was a thin veneer. The mountain was out there, watching, and the lanterns only reached so far.