The entrance to the ranch resembled a lime-and-emerald tunnel, an effect created by the arching canopies of the trees that flanked the driveway. Amy followed the shaded path on foot, passing by fenced-off fields until she came to a small bend that rose over a small ridge. As she came down the other side, the tree cover disappeared and she was presented with a striking view, a scene resembling something out of a storybook.

The ranch, tucked away between majestic hills, was exquisitely beautiful. In front of Amy was a circular forecourt, headed by a pristine Colonial-style farmhouse. Single level, with a steeply pitched roof, the house had a white coat of paint, creamy-blue windows, and a generously proportioned wraparound porch, the banisters of which were being strangled by the twisting branches of a nearby creeping tree. To the right, set farther back from the forecourt perimeter, were two sheds, a round pen, a greenhouse, a dusty arena, and a large red barn, all connected in a sea of grass and flowers and woven together by pea-gravel paths. Green pastures completed the view, fields the color of shamrock, leading off to a towering wall of trees beyond which lay a world of dense woodland.

But it was the barn where Amy headed first, for she had heard the enticing neighs and whinnies of horses coming from inside and couldn’t resist taking a peek. She strolled over and was about to stick her head in when she heard the smack of a screen door. She stopped and looked back at the house.

It was Ryan.

She recognized him at once. Like in the photo, he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, the same stone-washed denim jeans, and a nearly identical plaid shirt; even the sleeves were rolled up in the exact same way, just past his elbows. He did, however, look taller than she remembered, probably owing to the fact that he was standing up on the porch, a position from which he had not yet budged. She gave a small wave, took a deep breath, and began walking in his direction.

•••

Ryan stood flat-footed, unable to believe his eyes. It’s her, he thought with a quiver, the girl from the hotel! His mind instantly curdled with visions of last night. Surely after all the distress and embarrassment he had caused, wouldn’t he be the last person she’d want to see? Unless she had come to scream at him some more? Or worse, maybe she’d come to perform some kind of citizen’s arrest! Why else would she come all this way to find him?

“Ryan?”

Ryan felt his throat constrict as she approached. He made his way down the steps, swallowing uneasily.

“It’s me,” she added. “My name’s Amy. From last night?”

When the ice finally melted from around his vocal cords, he managed to mutter, “Yes, I remember.”

“Have you got a moment to talk?”

“You want to . . . talk?”