My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

My lifelong love. My oldest private language. The passion I had never quite outgrown and never fully indulged. Joshua had supported it, yes, with kindness and humor and birthday gifts that always seemed to circle the edges of it. He had never mocked it, never dismissed it as childish, but he had not shared it either. Horses were my world, not his.

And yet here I stood inside a house he had built in secret, surrounded by a museum of everything I loved most.

By the window sat a silver laptop with a single red rose laid carefully across the closed lid.

I had taken only a few steps toward it when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside.

I froze.

Through the front window I saw a black SUV pulling up behind my rental car. Three men got out. Even at a distance, I could see the resemblance. Tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered in the same severe way Joshua had been broad-shouldered, though age and temperament had sharpened them differently. One moved with the confidence of a man long accustomed to entering rooms as if he owned them. Another carried himself like an attorney or banker or someone else whose war was usually fought on paper. The third hung back half a pace, watchful.