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CHAPTER 1

ROSE

Colorado, October 2023

At five in the morning, the world belonged to the horses.

The ranch was quiet in that pre-dawn way that felt like a held breath. The sky over the foothills was still black, but the air had that thin, cold edge that promised daylight was coming whether I was ready for it or not.

I hadn't slept much.

Again.

Twenty-five years after the accident that took my parents, my body still didn't trust rest. I'd never quite shaken the feeling that sleep was a trap. That if I closed my eyes too long, something would slip in and rewrite my life while I wasn't looking.

Stress was the easy explanation. The ranch. The bookings. Payroll. The endless list of things that could go wrong if I stopped paying attention for even a second.

My therapist, Dr. Carlisle, would call it hypervigilance.

I called it a normal Tuesday.

Boots on. Hair up. Hoodie pulled over a tank top because the ranch didn't care about my feelings and the cold definitely didn't. I grabbed my flashlight even though I knew every board, hinge and squeak by heart.

The short path to the barn was all frozen dirt and my own breath puffing white in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote yipped, and one of the horses answered with a snort like, I heard that. Don't even try it.

When I pushed the door open, warmth hit my face. Hay, horse and leather, and the faint sweet tang of grain. The only place that ever made my shoulders drop without permission.

"Morning," I whispered, not because anyone needed it, but because the barn liked to be greeted as if it was a living thing.

A soft chorus answered with shifts in the stalls, the gentle creak of bodies settling. A couple of nickers. One offended squeal from a mare who thought the entire world should revolve around her breakfast schedule.

"Yeah, yeah," I murmured. "I'm here."

I went straight to Starlight's stall, a bay mare with a white blaze and a dramatic streak that could power a small city. The kind of horse people fell in love with because she was beautiful and then regretted it because she was also convinced she was smarter than everyone.

She poked her head over the stall door as soon as she saw me, ears forward, eyes bright, like she had opinions about my punctuality.

"Hi," I said, softer. "How are we feeling today?"

She blew a warm breath at my face and tried to nibble my hoodie string.

"Don't," I warned, but I was already smiling.

The abscess had been on her front hoof. The kind of thing that could turn into a nightmare if you ignored it. I'd been soaking and wrapping and checking it repeatedly. Horses were fragile in the most unfair ways. They could survive storms and predators and dumb teenagers. They could also go lame because of an infection the size of a pencil eraser.

Starlight swung her head toward my shoulder the second I unlatched the stall, demanding attention in the most affectionate, manipulative way possible.

"In a minute," I told her. "Let me see."

I crouched and ran my fingers down her leg, feeling for heat. Her skin was warm under my palm, but not hot. Good. Her hoof rested heavy on my knee as I worked the wrap loose, ignoring the fact that she was a thousand pounds of creature and could make me regret existing if she felt like it.

The wrap came off clean. The hoof looked… better. Less swelling. Less tenderness when I pressed gently along the sole.

"Okay," I whispered, relief slipping through me like a quiet victory. "You're healing."

Starlight flicked an ear, as if to say, Obviously. I'm fabulous.

Cleaning the area, repacking and rewrapping. The motions soothed me in a way I didn't want to admit.

It didn't fix everything.

But it fixed this.

When I finished, Cassiopeia was watching from her stall. My first horse. The foundation of everything.

Patrick had bought her for me when I was fifteen because he'd read somewhere that horses helped with anxiety, and he was right, though not in the way he expected. When I got her, she was a three-year-old chestnut mare, half-wild, full of energy and a stubborn streak that matched what the family gently called my "strong will." Six months I'd spent earning Cassie's trust. Patient. Repetitive. Showing up every single day until she decided I was worth believing in.

She'd been my mirror. My proof that broken things could learn to trust again.

I stood and leaned my forehead against her neck for a moment, just breathing her in. Warm horse smell. Life.

"Big day," I said, because talking to horses was easier than talking to people.

The Scottish clients were arriving at three. A small group, according to my office manager, Denise. Four cabins, the main guest house, two weeks of riding the trails with curated rustic charm. Exactly the kind of booking she had been chasing since she convinced me we needed more "international clients" and fewer locals who only wanted to argue about boarding fees.

I tried not to feel dread.

Not because I hated people.

But foreigners meant variables. Variables meant unpredictability.

Which meant my brain went to where it always went, cataloging every possible disaster that could happen.

My pulse kicked up. I gave myself ten seconds. Ten seconds to feel the fear, let it burn through me, and then put it somewhere I could function.

One. Two. Three—

By ten, I was done.

The panic wasn't gone, but it was behind a door I could close.

"Okay," I whispered to Cassie. "You think we can do this?"

She nudged my shoulder, not gently.

I laughed under my breath, the sound surprising in the quiet.

"Yeah, yeah. You're right."

***

By seven, the ranch was waking up.

The sun was turning the frost on the pastures into a field of glitter. The property stretched out around me. Sixty acres of land I’d poured the inheritance my parents had left me into.

Boarding barns. Guest cabins. Trails through pines and aspens. A main guest house that could host retreats with couples who posted pictures of sunsets with captions like healing.

It looked peaceful from the outside.

It was.

Most days.

Clipboard in hand, I walked across the yard toward the main house, already mentally listing everything I needed to check before the group arrived at three. Beds made. Towels folded. Guest baskets stocked. Trail maps printed. First aid kits updated. Emergency numbers visible.

And, because my brain liked to be creative, five other things that probably didn’t matter but might, if the universe decided to test me.

The main guest building was beautiful in that rustic-luxe way that made city people gasp. Exposed beams. Stone fireplace. Wide windows looking out at the mountains like a postcard.

I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, then locked it behind me out of habit.

"Normal," I muttered.

The main building was clean, but clean wasn't enough.

I went through everything.

Dining room tables wiped down. Chairs straight. Fire laid in the stone fireplace, ready to light. Lounge cushions fluffed. No dust on the bookshelves. Coffee station stocked. Guest mugs lined up like soldiers.

I checked the kitchen twice. Then checked it again because apparently I was the CEO of Overthinking, LLC.

My phone buzzed. It was Denise.

Morning! Big day. Taylor's coming soon to check the Wi-Fi mesh in the guest house and the cabins. Scots are picky.

I stared at the text.

Taylor. Wi-Fi mesh. Cabins.

My shoulders tightened automatically.

Denise's boyfriend was six-foot-two, always wearing a clean hoodie and a smile that made older women call him "a nice young man." He'd been helping around the ranch more and more lately. At first it was simple stuff: replacing cameras, setting up the booking app, and optimizing the website.

It was very convenient.

But convenience had a way of turning into dependence before you noticed.

I typed back with my thumb.

Tell him guest areas only. Not my cabin.

A bubble appeared.

DENISE: Rose, relax. He's not breaking into your diary. 😂 He'll be in and out. Also, can we please do a quick arrival reel for Instagram? Just a vibe shot. No pressure.

I felt my jaw set.

I didn't hate social media.

I just hated feeling like I was performing.

ME: No reel. Guests deserve privacy. I deserve privacy.

DENISE: You deserve bookings.

I stared at that line longer than I should have.

Then I locked my phone and went back to checking towels like towels were the problem.

When Hank, my ranch manager, walked in through the side door, I nearly jumped.

"Jesus," I snapped, pressing a hand flat against my sternum.

Hank froze, eyes wide, then lifted both hands like I had a gun.

"Whoa," he said. "Sorry, boss. Didn't mean to—"

I exhaled hard, angry at myself more than him.

"Sorry," I said, because Hank didn't deserve my jagged edges. "I'm a little jumpy this morning."

He scratched his jaw, studying me. He'd been around long enough to know when to poke and when to back off.

"New group today," he said.

"Yes."

"Scots," he added, like that explained everything.

"Yes," I repeated, and my voice softened because this was what Hank did. He kept things grounded. He'd been here since the beginning. Helped build this place, never treated me like a delicate rich girl with a hobby the way the rest of the town did. He treated me like his boss. Sometimes like a niece. Sometimes like a woman he worried about because he'd watched me grind myself into dust to make this place work.

"You got everything ready," he said.

"I'm doing it," I said.

Hank's brows lifted. "Rose, it looks ready."

"It's not ready until I say it's ready."

"Aye," he said, and the word was so wrong in his mouth that I almost smiled.

He cleared his throat. "Got a small issue."

My gut clenched, because "small issue" was what people said right before everything fell apart.

"What," I said flatly.

He held up his keys. "Truck battery's dead."

I stared at him.

"That's… that's it?" I asked, suspicious.

"That's it," he said. "I tried jumping it. No go. I need to run into town for a new one before the guests arrive."

I looked out the window toward the yard, where the ranch truck sat like a stubborn brick.

Of course. Fine. We could handle a dead battery. That was a problem with a solution.

"Take my car," I said, reaching into my pocket for my keys.

Hank's eyes narrowed. "Rose—"

"Take it," I repeated. "Get the battery. Bring the receipt. I'll deal."

He hesitated like he wanted to argue, then took the keys.

"Trails are checked," he said, giving me one less thing to worry about. "We cleared the fallen branches after the last wind. Everything's good."

I nodded, swallowing my own tension.

"Thanks," I said quietly.

Hank's expression softened. "You'll be fine today."

I didn't answer, because if I said what I actually felt, it would come out like: I'm always fine until I'm not.

Instead I turned back to my checklist and pretended the inside of my head was as organized as the guest mugs.

***

By noon, I'd done everything twice.

I was halfway through rechecking the linen closet when Kaya appeared in the doorway.

Kaya was not just another employee. She was also one of the few people who could call me out without getting stabbed with a clipboard. Twenty-four and fearless, she had a talent for saying the truth like it was a casual observation about the weather.

"You're spiraling," she said without preamble.

I froze with a stack of towels in my arms. "I'm preparing."

Kaya's mouth twitched. "You're preparing like the guests are the FBI."

"They're clients."

"They're hikers with money," she corrected, walking in and leaning against the doorframe. "They're here for horseback riding and fresh air and whatever Scottish people do for fun."

"Drink," I muttered.

Kaya nodded solemnly. "True."

I shoved the towels into the closet with more force than necessary. "I need everything to be perfect."

Kaya's expression softened. "Because if it's perfect, nothing can get in."

The words hit too close.

"Don't psychoanalyze me," I snapped.

Kaya lifted both hands. "I'm not. I'm just saying… you can't out-check life, Rose."

I stared at her. "I'm fine."

Kaya sighed like she'd heard that sentence too many times. "Okay. Then be fine and eat a sandwich."

"I don't have time."

"You have time," she said, stepping closer. "Your brain just likes the illusion of urgency because it keeps you from thinking."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it, because she wasn't wrong and I hated that.

"Fine," I muttered. "I'll eat."

Kaya nodded like she'd just won a war. "Good. Also, Denise texted. She's bringing over a binder of the guest itinerary and waivers."

Of course she was.

Denise loved binders. Denise loved systems. Denise loved anything that made it look like the ranch ran like a business and not like a one-woman anxiety project.

Kaya paused. "And Taylor's out by the cabins. Checking the routers or whatever."

A flicker of irritation sparked in my chest.

"I told her not my cabin," I said.

Kaya raised a brow. "Then maybe you should tell Taylor."

I stared at her.

She was right.

Kaya pushed off the doorframe. "Eat something," she said again, like it was a spell.

She left before I could say something too honest.

I grabbed a granola bar out of a welcome basket, because I was apparently the kind of woman who ate guest snacks.

The front door opened before I could take a bite.

Denise came in carrying two things: the binder she'd promised Kaya, and a brown paper bag from Milly's Diner in town.

"Don't tell me you're eating guest snacks again," she said, spotting the granola bar in my hand.

I shoved it behind my back like a child.

"I brought you real food." She set the bag on the counter. Green chile and pork and that specific grease from Milly's griddle that no amount of rebranding could make healthy. "And before you say you're not hungry, I refuse to let you meet international clients on a granola bar."

"You drove into town for this?"

"I was already there." She waved a hand. "Had to grab Taylor's dry cleaning."

That was a lie. The dry cleaner was on the east side of town. Milly's was on the west, past the feed store and the stoplight that never worked. She didn't pass Milly's on the way to anything except Milly's.

But I didn't call her on it, because the burrito was warm in my hands and Denise was already pulling out a chair and sitting down across from me like she had all the time in the world. Which she didn't. She had the same list I had, plus the website updates and the waiver signatures and a dozen other things she'd been handling since five a.m. because Denise didn't sleep before big bookings either.

She just didn't admit it.

"Eat," she said.

I unwrapped the burrito. Took a bite. The green chile burned the roof of my mouth in the best way, and the knot between my shoulders loosened a fraction.

Denise watched me eat with the particular satisfaction of a woman who believed food solved problems. She wasn't wrong. At least not about this one.

"You're spiraling," she said after a minute.

"Kaya already told me that."

"Kaya tells you with love. I'm telling you with authority." She opened the binder and spread it on the table between us, but she didn't look at it. She looked at me. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about. Guests arrive at three. Everything needs to be perfect."

"Everything is perfect. The cabins are spotless, the welcome baskets could be in a magazine, and Hank has the trails so clean you could eat off them." She tilted her head. "So what's the real issue?"

I set the burrito down. Wiped my hands on a napkin. Fixed my attention on the table because looking at Denise when she was being perceptive made me feel like an open wound.

"What if they hate it?"

"They won't."

"What if something goes wrong and I can't fix it fast enough and they leave a bad review and the whole season tanks because one group of Scottish tourists thought my ranch wasn't worth the flight?"

Denise didn't laugh. She didn't roll her eyes. She just sat there, letting the fear exist in the room without trying to sweep it into a corner.

"Do you remember the Caldwells?" she asked.

I groaned. "Don't."

"The Caldwells," she repeated, ignoring me. "Our very first paying guests. Summer, five years ago. The ranch had been open for three weeks. We had four horses, one functional cabin, and a website built in an afternoon that looked like a Craigslist ad."

"It was a fine website."

"It was a crime against design, Rose. The font was Comic Sans."

"It was not Comic Sans."

"It was a cousin of Comic Sans. A font that had Comic Sans energy." She stretched her arms overhead, crossed them behind her neck, smiling. "And the Caldwells showed up, this sweet retired couple from Phoenix, and within the first hour Mr. Caldwell's horse spooked at a plastic bag and threw him into a creek."

I covered my face with both hands. "He was fine."

"He was soaking wet and his wife was filming it for their grandchildren. And you, Rose Gracen, stood in that creek in your boots and helped a seventy-two-year-old man out of the water and apologized seventeen times and then personally led his horse back to the barn like you'd committed a felony."

"I thought they were going to sue me."

"They left a five-star review. They called it 'the most authentic ranch experience in Colorado.' Mrs. Caldwell sent you a Christmas card."

"She still sends me Christmas cards."

"Because you're good at this." Denise's voice dropped, losing the playful edge. "Rose, listen to me. You built this place out of nothing. I watched you dig postholes and paint fences and sleep in your truck because the cabin wasn't finished yet. I watched you learn to run a business with no training and no safety net and nothing but pure stubbornness."

My eyes burned. I stared at the burrito wrapper because looking at her was too much.

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Her grip was warm and firm and real. "And if something does go wrong, I'll be here. Same as always. That's the deal."

The words settled into me like a hand on a wound. Not fixing it. Just holding pressure until the bleeding slowed.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay." She released my hand and tapped the binder. "Guest itinerary. Take a look at it later. I’ll go check on Taylor."

Then she was gone. Door swinging shut behind her, keys jingling as she took the porch steps two at a time.

***

At one-thirty I returned to my cabin.

My private cabin was small and simple. Two rooms, a porch, a view of the pasture I could see from my bed. It was the only part of the ranch that was entirely mine. No guests. No staff. No curated rustic vibes.

Just me and the faint, constant hum of my brain trying to anticipate disaster.

I walked up the steps and paused, fingers brushing the keypad lock Taylor had installed last month.

Denise's idea.

"Guests like keypads," she'd said brightly. "It's more modern. More… seamless."

Taylor had assured me it was secure. He'd shown me the app. He'd told me I could check the lock status any time.

I punched in my code. The lock beeped. The deadbolt clicked.

I stepped inside, turned and locked it.

I showered fast, scrubbing the morning off my skin like it was something I could wash away. The hot water helped remind my body it wasn't in danger right this second.

When I turned the shower off, steam filled the bathroom and fogged the mirror.

My face stared back at me through the blur.

Tired eyes. A line between my brows that hadn't been there two years ago. Hair still damp and curling at the ends.

I wrapped myself in a towel and stepped out into the main room, my mind already on the guest arrival in ninety minutes.

I needed to change into something professional. Something that said competent ranch owner, not woman who sleeps four hours a night and has to talk herself into calm.

I walked toward my dresser.

And then I saw him.

A man.

Inside my cabin.

Standing near my kitchen counter like he belonged there. Not Denise's boyfriend. A stranger.

For half a second, my brain couldn't make sense of the picture. Like I'd walked into the wrong room, the wrong life.

Then my body reacted.

I screamed.

It was not a cute scream. It was not a polite startled noise. It was a full-body, animal panic sound that tore out of me like my lungs had decided we were dying.

The man flinched hard, hands lifting instantly, palms out.

"Sorry, sorry," he blurted, his accent thick and unmistakably Scottish. "I'm—Christ, I'm sorry, miss—"

"Get out!" I shouted, clutching the towel tighter against my body like it was armor. "Get the hell out of my cabin!"

He looked horrified. "Aye, yes, I will. I thought..."

"You thought what?" My voice shook, but it didn't sound weak. It sounded furious, which was better, that meant I could move. It meant I wasn't frozen.

"I thought this was—" He glanced around like the cabin itself had betrayed him. "Guest quarters. I… I'm sorry. The door was… it was unlocked."

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.

Unlocked?

It wasn't unlocked.

It couldn't be.

I'd watched it lock.

My brain spun.

"You're lying," I snapped.

"I'm not," he said quickly. "I swear I'm not. I came early and Hank said… someone said..."

"How do you know Hank?" I demanded, stepping forward like I was going to fight him with my towel, which was objectively insane.

His eyes flicked over me and then away so fast it was almost respectful. Like he was trying not to make it worse.

"I don't know Hank," he said. "Not… properly. I met him at the entrance. He told me to wait in the main house down this way. I thought this cabin was… I was trying to find where to wait."

"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice sharp.

He hesitated, like he was trying to choose the safest truth.

"Graham," he said. "My name is Graham. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

I moved toward the front door, keeping my eyes on him.

"Get out," I said again, slower. "Now."

He nodded rapidly. "Yes. Aye. I'm going."

He took a careful step toward the door, like he was afraid a sudden movement would set me off again.

As he passed, I caught a glimpse of him up close. Tall, broad, the kind of build that came from actual labor and not a gym membership. Dark hair falling over eyes that were an unsettling shade of green.

And the rest of his face was just—goddamn it. Strong bone structure, stubble that said he hadn't bothered with a razor in days, and a faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow that my brain had no business noticing.

Don't. Do not.

He paused at the threshold, face twisted with regret.

"I'm truly sorry," he said, voice low, sincere. "I didn't mean to—"

"Out," I snapped.

He stepped onto the porch.

I slammed the door in his face.

Then I locked it.

Then I checked the lock.

Then I leaned my forehead against the door and tried to breathe.

My hands were shaking.

My towel suddenly felt like nothing.

My cabin, my space, the only place on this property that was supposed to be off-limits, and a stranger had been standing in it.

It didn't matter that he'd apologized.

It didn't matter that he looked genuinely horrified.

He had been inside my space.

I was supposed to be safe here.

I grabbed sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt, yanked them on with angry hands, and pulled my hair into a tighter knot like it could hold me together.

Then I threw the door open and stepped outside.

Graham was still there, standing on the porch with both hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking like a man waiting to be executed.

Hank was in the yard, walking up fast, his expression already apologetic.

"Rose," Hank started.

I held up a hand. "No."

Hank stopped short.

I locked my eyes on Graham. "You do not step foot in my cabin again. Ever."

Graham nodded, eyes serious. "Understood."

Hank cleared his throat. "He's… he's one of the clients. Arrived early with an Uber. I told him to wait by the main house but he—"

"I thought this was—" Graham began.

"Stop," I cut in, voice flat. "I don't care what you thought."

His jaw tightened like that hit, but he didn't argue.

Hank looked miserable. "Rose, I'm sorry. I swear your door must've—"

"My door was locked," I said, sharp, because that was the thing my brain couldn't let go of. "I watched it lock."

Hank's brows pulled together. "You sure?"

I glared at him. "Yes, I'm sure."

Hank lifted both hands again, backing off. "Okay. Okay."

Graham swallowed. "I didn't force the door," he said quietly. "I turned the handle and it opened. I thought it was guest quarters. I truly did."

The rational part of me knew he was probably telling the truth.

The part of me built out of control and habit didn't care.

“I’m really sorry—”

"Stop apologizing to me," I said, because the sincerity in his face made my chest feel weird, and I didn't like weird.

His brows lifted slightly.

"You heard me," I snapped. "Go wait at the main house."

He hesitated, then nodded again. "Yes."

He stepped off the porch and walked away across the yard with a careful, restrained stride, like he was trying not to look back. Like he knew looking back might make it worse.

He turned left toward the equipment barn.

"Other direction," I called out.

Graham stopped. Turned. His face flushed slightly as he pivoted and headed the correct way without a word.

Hank watched him go, then looked at me.

"You okay?" he asked gently.

No. But I was standing upright, fully clothed, and not screaming anymore, so that counted as okay in my world.

"I'm fine," I said. "I'll handle it."

Hank nodded slowly. "All right. The rest of the group will arrive at three as planned, but he got in early."

"I don't care."

My voice was sharp enough that Hank didn't push. He just nodded and walked away.

I stood on my porch in the cold sunshine, watching the mountains and the green pastures and the horses grazing like nothing had happened.

My skin still felt wrong. My chest still felt tight.

And the lock on my door had apparently failed on the one day it mattered most.

"Behind Locked Doors" is releasing Friday on Amazon.