Chapter 23 Louise
LOUISE
“What’s this horse’s name?” I asked, turning my face. He was so close his nose brushed against my skin before he leaned back.
“Liberty,” he said.
Freedom. An interesting name.
“How many do you have?”
“Four. More to come.”
“What are their names?”
“Majesty, Prudence, Bullet.”
“So distinguished. Excluding Bullet, of course. The black sheep?”
“The horse can get out of any fence I build. He’s stubborn, headstrong. Contumacious.”
“Contumacious, huh?” I smirked.
“It means—”
“Willfully disobedient. I know.”
“Should have known you knew that.”
I cocked a brow. “May I recommend a name for your next horse?”
“I’m too intrigued to say no.”
“Pharisaic.”
“Ah. So you think I’m self-righteous, judgmental, and hypocritical?”
“All signs point to yes.”
“Good to know.”
He leaned into me, nonverbally reminding me who was boss, and I was hot in seconds. Not warm—hot.
A few minutes later, we reached his house, dark in the gloomy late afternoon. It could be beautiful, but it wasn’t. Everything about Ryder’s home—and him—was cold and unwelcoming. I wondered if that was on purpose. I wondered why. I wondered if he was single—for the hundredth time.
Above all, I wondered what this man’s story was.
Ryder unhooked my bags and the cooler as I dismounted—all by myself. I followed him inside. The house was even colder than when I’d woken up next to the front door.
“Ryder, did you just move in?”
He breezed past me. “No.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Sixteen months, two days, eight hours.”
I watched him walk to the kitchen and drop the cooler on the counter, no words, not a single glance in my direction. I was unsure where to set my bags, where to sit myself, what to do, what to say. I realized then that I was going to have to be forward with this man.
“To be clear,” I said, “you picked me up from the resort, invited me onto your boat and to your house, to offer me a place to stay for the night, correct?”
His brow furrowed as he looked up. This question confused him.
“So, yes, then?”
“Yes.” He refocused on the cooler.
“Well, thank you. So then, should I resume my place by the front door? Or what?”
A moment passed as he seemed to be considering something. Finally he tore his attention away from the cooler and crossed the room. “This way.”
I followed him past the front door and down the hall.
The house was beautiful. Soaring ceilings, arched entryways, sweeping windows that made you feel like you were outside. An open, airy floor plan. Exposed beams lined the ceilings, and earthy colors reflected the nature outside.
I glanced over my shoulder. Behind me was another long hallway.
The house was endless—and also strangely vacant.
Each room we passed was bare. Not a stick of furniture, no pictures or paintings.
The kitchen appeared to be the only room used in the entire house. Room after room, beautiful and vacant.
Cold.
It was spotless too. Not a speck of dirt anywhere, not even in the corners or windowsills. I wondered if he had a maid, or if he actually cleaned it all himself.
Finally, we reached the end of the house, marked by two large wooden doors, arched at the top. My eyes rounded as he pushed them open and we stepped into the master bedroom.
The first thing I noticed was the light. Walls of windows allowed for daylight to seep into every corner of the room. It was warmer too, I noticed.
Log beams supported a tall ceiling with an iron chandelier hanging over a four-poster bed.
Like the living room, a rock fireplace split the windows that looked out to the fields.
A brown leather chair and footstool were tucked in the corner, next to a floor lamp and a stack of books two feet tall.
Bindings out, perfect ninety-degree angles.
Double doors led into a masculine slate and copper bathroom with a soaking tub to die for.
Still, no pictures, plants, or furniture other than the chair, the bed, and the books.
“Closet’s over there,” he gestured, “if you want to hang your stuff.”
He was offering me the master bedroom?
“No,” I shook my head. “No, I won’t take your room. I’ll—”
“It’s the only one with a bed.”
“Really? In the entire house? You have one bed?”
No response.
“Well, thank you, seriously, but no. I won’t take your bed. I’m more than happy to sleep—”
“Take it.”
“But what about you? Where will you sleep?”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“Why?”
Ryder didn’t say a word. He simply took the bags from my hands and placed them on the bed, their weight sinking into a dark green plaid duvet that looked like it belonged in a winter catalog. I imagined it filled with down feathers and secrets.
“Bathroom’s in there,” he muttered, not meeting my gaze.
He passed me with that same quiet command he always seemed to carry, crossed to the fireplace, and knelt beside it. I watched from the doorway as he loaded logs from the crate into the hearth.
A fire sparked to life within a minute, casting a warm flicker across his profile. The sharp angle of his jaw caught the light.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
He mumbled something under his breath—something about the comforter, I thought—but he didn’t look at me. Didn’t say goodbye. Just turned, walked out, and shut the door behind him with a quiet finality.
Click.
I stood frozen, listening. When I was sure he was gone, I darted across the room and turned both locks. A breath shuddered out of me, and I leaned my forehead against the door.
Locked door? Check.
Fire in the fireplace? Check.
Bed? Check.
I could drink tap water. Gnaw on the bedposts if I had to. I was safe. For now.
I turned in a slow circle, drinking it all in—the rich wood floors, the scent of pine and smoke, the glow of the fire casting shadows across the beams overhead. There was no television. Not even a radio. The silence was so complete it felt sacred.
Who is this man?
And with that question firmly planted in my mind, I did what any self-respecting, dangerously curious woman would do.
I went snooping.
First, I peeled off my coat and slipped out of my boots because the floors were spotless, and I wasn’t about to be that guest.
I padded into the bathroom and opened the drawers.
Toothpaste. A razor. Shaving cream. Bar soap—plural, stacked like bricks. Foot powder.
Foot powder? Well. Maybe Ryder wasn’t perfect after all.
Next stop: the closet. And sweet mother of God…
My entire apartment could’ve fit inside.
It was masculine and bare, but clean—almost obsessively so.
Five plaid button-ups, all hung the same direction.
A row of T-shirts, perfectly folded. A stack of jeans that looked military-grade precise.
Two pairs of cowboy boots. One pair of hiking boots.
Three cowboy hats on a shelf like they were on display.
And that. Was. It.
I stood there, absorbing the lack of clutter, the neatness, the restraint. The man had less clothing than I packed for a weekend trip. Somehow, that made him sexier. More mysterious. Like he didn’t need anything—or anyone.
Before I could stop myself, I picked up one of the T-shirts, brought it to my nose and inhaled like it was my last breath.
God help me.
I pressed the fabric against my cheek for half a second longer than I should have, then folded it exactly the way I’d found it and set it back in place.
I placed my bags neatly in the corner of the closet, like a guest trying not to overstay her welcome. Then I dug out my camera and laptop and did what I always did—downloaded the day’s images. It grounded me. Brought a small, familiar rhythm to an otherwise unrecognizable day.
When I finished, I turned toward the bathroom with a wicked little smile tugging at my lips.
Time to thaw in a bathroom that could rival any five-star resort.
I stripped bare, tossing each layer to the floor like I was shedding the day’s disaster. I turned the faucet and watched hot water pour into the magnificent clawfoot tub.
I couldn’t wait for it to fill. I stepped in, sank down, and let the water claim me.
For the first time in what felt like days, I let myself feel the warmth. Let it melt the ache from my bones. Let it wash away the weight of being stranded, scared, hunted, and half-frozen.
Outside that door, the winter storm still raged. But inside, for now… I had peace.
I wish I could say the same for my host. Whatever haunted Ryder… it ran deep. And I wasn’t sure I’d walk away without getting pulled under.