“Yeah, I got the picture. If anything moves between us, and I’m not saying it will, I’ll be sure she’s got a clear one of her own. Satisfied?”

“Yeah.”

“And don’t go running to Mom.”

“Jesus, why would I? I’m no tattletale.”

“You told her I broke her cut-glass vase throwing the ball in the house, and hid the pieces,” Beckett reminded him.

“I was eight!” Genuine grief and insult vibrated in Owen’s voice. “How long are you going to hold that over me?”

“Forever. She took TV privileges away from me for three days—for hiding the pieces, and another day for throwing the ball in the house. I missed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

“Grow up and buy the DVD.”

“I did. Doesn’t clear you, dude. The Silence of Brotherhood is sacred.”

“I was eight.”

Since Owen’s mind was on something besides his potential sex life, Ryder pushed to his feet. “You girls work this out now, like ladies. I’m going home, get some rack time.”

“Material’s coming at eight,” Owen told him.

“I know it. I’ll be there.”

“I’m going to work in the shop on the panels for the bar. Text me if you need me to come in.”

“I can make it through one day without seeing your pretty face. You I can use.” He pointed at Beckett. “Seven a.m.”

“It’s going to be eight, eight thirty. Clare’s mom wants the boys tomorrow. I have to get them up, dressed, fed, and over there. Clare’s at the inn, remember.”

“Just get there. Let’s go, Dumbass.” He started out. “And don’t throw the ball in the house.”

He remembered the pie plate at the last minute, backtracked to grab it. With D.A. he drove the short distance home, winding out of the woods, down the road, back into the woods where his house sat tucked away.

He liked it tucked away, and private. Liked having his own space—and a lot of it. He’d hired a landscaping crew to do the grounds. His mother had tried to make a gardener out of him, but it just hadn’t stuck. He was fine digging a hole for a tree, the occasional shrub, but when it came to planting posies? He hired it out.

He liked the look of them, the different heights, textures, shadows in the walkway and deck lights.

Since Beckett had washed it, Ryder left the pie plate in the truck so he wouldn’t forget it. He let D.A. sniff and wander and do what a dog had to do while he stood in the quiet, under a sky full of stars.

He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, or wanting to. Not because he’d grown up here, though he imagined that played a role. But because this place—this air, these quiet night sounds—had a hold on him. And always had.