Off to the Races: A Small Town Enemies to Lovers Romance (Gold Rush Ranch Book 1)
Off to the Races: Chapter 13

It’s go time. I slam the door on the truck attached to the black trailer with the Gold Rush Farms logo splashed across the side. Inside that trailer is the ebony horse that my career is banking on.

I’m nervous. Nervous as fuck. But I also know that DD is ready and up to the challenge. We have spent the last few months preparing for his first race. He’s been on the practice track, in the fields and forest, and I’ve even let Violet breeze him a few times just to see how he’d handle a different rider. The last few weekends, I’ve trailered him down to the races just to desensitize him to how loud and busy it will be today. He’s fit and mentally prepared.

Me? Not so much.

I know I shouldn’t let myself think about it, but today’s race is a qualifier for the prestigious Denman Derby. Go big or go home, right? I haven’t vocalized my plan. That makes it too real—too ripe for disappointment. But I think we can do it. If we start off right, he only needs to win a couple races to qualify. I don’t want to run him into the ground; he’s not the type of horse to go out and make money every weekend. He needs to do just enough and then kick back and relax until the big day.

I secretly have it all plotted out.

I paid the extra fee to register him late, which means our competitors won’t see us coming. He is literally the dark horse, and I have everything planned out to a T. The only thing that’s a minor unknown is the jockey. Vaughn’s brother, Cole, has apparently made a huge deal about being half owner and having to use this guy because he knows him or some shit. It borderline enrages me he’s using this horse and me to foster family connections for the Hardings. This ‘I’ll rub your dick if you rub mine’ mentality pisses me off. It’s the garbage I left behind for a reason. But I know there’s a time and a place to smile and nod. And, well, this might just be one of those times.

Vaughn and I have been distant since he bailed on our Saturday night dinner. I have no right to be angry with him, and yet I can’t deny the intense disappointment I’d felt. Or the twinge of jealousy that had flared behind my solar plexus at the thought of him out with another woman on what was meant to be our night. It seems like he doesn’t quite know what to say either. So shit is awkward now. Snark has been the lifeblood of our friendship since day one, but neither of us seems to have the heart for it anymore. The truth of the matter is, I like Vaughn. More than I should. He might be a tad smug and broody, okay; he sometimes borders on pompous. But I know he’s a good person, trying to do his best. Maybe I didn’t see it at first, but he’s worked hard in the face of immense pressure and grief.

Aside from our first misunderstanding and a little verbal sparring here and there, he’s never treated me (or anyone else) in any way that wasn’t plain gentlemanly. So, it sucks that our friendship seems to have fizzled. After he canceled a couple of Saturday dinners in a row, I kind of got the hint. We’ve been nothing short of cordial and professional—if a little cool.

I drive along the major highway, pulling DD in the rig behind me. It’s raining now, not ideal for his first race. My stomach flip-flops non-stop. The feeling pools in my gut and crawls all the way up my throat. I couldn’t even eat this morning. I suspect I’ll be living on coffee today. Who knows, maybe I’ll even take up smoking. Seems like a good thing to do with my hands when I’m nervous. Plus, I’d look so much cooler puffing on a cigarette than wringing my hands.

The drive passes by quickly, and I focus on deep breathing and letting the constant swing of the wipers across the windshield lull me into some semblance of calm. It’s borderline meditative. And when I pull into the stabling at the track, I feel a little relaxed.

I had my freak out in private. Now it’s time to put my game face on. DD doesn’t need to pick up on my anxiety, and neither does the staff around me. I want to say there is no pressure, that this race is just for practice, but it feels like so much more. The farm’s first weekend back at the track. My debut. DD’s debut.

No big deal.

I drop out of the big truck in front of our bank of stalls here at Bell Point Park to see Violet already waiting for me. She looks stressed too. Wide blue eyes. Pursed lips. Bun so tight I wonder if her face hurts.

I wave at her and call out, “Hey, Vi! You ready to show these amateurs how it’s done?”

That garners me a small smile. “So ready.”

A firm grip lands on my shoulder, and I turn to see Hank grinning at me. My big old comfort blanket. “They’re not going to see the little black bullet coming. He’s like a secret weapon that you ladies have under wraps. I can’t wait to see the race and hear the buzz.”

All three of us grin at each other like loons. Stress does weird things to people, and I am not immune to the effects. The only thing that breaks up our creepy anxiety party is DD’s loud stomp and snort summoning me, his slave, to get him out of the trailer and provide him with some food. We unload him without incident, make sure he’s set with food and water, and then I go in search of my very special jockey, leaving DD behind with Violet to ensure he’s the shiniest version of himself for his big debut.

On my stroll through the stables, I soak up the hustle and bustle of race day. The sounds of horses snorting, their aluminum shoes ticking against concrete, the whoosh of grain being added to a bucket. It’s almost sensory overload behind the scenes in the stables, but to me it’s comforting to be back at the track.

I live for this.

Within a few minutes, I reach the main administrative building that is all offices on the main floor and boasts sky boxes and meeting rooms on the upper levels. It’s about two hours to race time, and I’m due to meet Vaughn and our fancy new jockey in the owner’s lounge upstairs. Make introductions, talk strategy, get everything set just right. I would have liked to talk to the guy earlier, paid him for a few practice rides, really hammered out the details of how specific DD could be. But apparently he’s too busy. He gets thrown on a horse just before the race and then hops off at the end to go back to hob-knobbing it with the suits.

As I climb the stairs, I hear the dull hum of dry conversation and the clink of ice against glass. I breach the doorway and take in the large room. Everyone else is crammed onto metal benches drinking Budweiser from the can, but up here it’s all luxury. Floor to ceiling glass provides a completely uninterrupted view of the track. Plush brown leather couches and armchairs with nail head details look out through the windows.

I continue scanning the room. I swear I feel Vaughn before I see him. Like a tug right at the solar plexus. We’ve spent so many of our interactions in the last month tip-toeing around each other that I feel especially attuned to his presence. When I finally turn in his exact direction, I find him already staring at me, head turned away from the conversation he’s a part of, his deep chocolate eyes lasered in on me.

I drink him in, like frozen lemonade on a hot day. Except it’s cool and pouring outside.

What a specimen. He looks so good in this setting. If he looked happier, I would say that it suits him perfectly. But he looks predictably detached. Not at all like the man who would have a beer at my kitchen counter while I cooked for him. His perfectly tailored dark blue suit and signature white shirt contrast beautifully with his inky locks. They’re gelled into place flawlessly, and all that makes me want to do is run my fingers through it and pull a few tresses free. Loosen him up a bit.

Under the scrutiny of his gaze, an unconscious shiver wracks my body. I can’t prevent it, don’t even really want to—don’t even try. I know I’m admiring him openly and he’s scowling back at me. Which is a positive in my book. I still get high from rattling his control. Watching him lose his cool is basically a drug for me, and I know this look. It’s the “pull yourself together” look, and it’s meant to intimidate me.

But the joke’s on him, all it does is set me on fire.

I flash him my best beauty queen smile and a secret wink as I head his way, which garners me an almost imperceptible agitated sort of head shake. Ha. I win. He thinks he’s subtle, but I’ve spent the last decade of my life studying body language and using it to my advantage with horses. People are no different. Same shit, different pile.

I stride up to the group of three men just in time to hear Vaughn introducing me, “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet the resident head trainer for us at Gold Rush Farms,” he says, gesturing towards me amiably, “Billie Black.”

I reach forward to take the hand of a small middle-aged man with watery eyes and sandy colored hair, who I’m assuming is our new jockey. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Billie, this is Patrick Cassel, Double Diablo’s new jockey.”

“Nice to meet you, Patrick,” I reply cordially, shooting Vaughn daggers as subtly as possible for still calling my horse Double Diablo. What a dick.

I shake Patrick’s limp hand, the lamest type of handshake, and he gives me a flat smile. “How lucky for me. Canada’s long-lost princess.”

Panic suffuses me as I focus on schooling my features. I’ve always known this day would come. Someone was bound to recognize me, eventually. After all, I’ve basically been hiding in plain sight. My plan all along has been to ignore it, and I will not deviate from that plan now. I see Vaughn’s eyebrow quirk up out of the corner of my eye, but I just stare back at Patrick with a bored smile on my face.

I pivot to the other man in the group, wanting to move the conversation along. I would say I don’t recognize him, except he looks an awful lot like Vaughn. Not as tall or refined, somehow coarser, more muscular. Cunning gray eyes rather than warm brown, but the same inky dark hair, and the same facial features. If Vaughn is a soccer player, this guy is a football player. But the resemblance is unmistakable.

Vaughn’s hand comes to rest on my lower back as he motions me towards who I’m sure is his older brother. “And this,” he almost growls, “is Cole Harding. My brother and co-owner of Gold Rush Ranch.”

His icy gray eyes hit mine and the differences between the two brothers multiply by the moment. This guy is cold as fuck. Where Vaughn is detached and smug, Cole is downright glacial. If I were a wimpier woman, it would intimidate me.

His handshake couldn’t be more different from Patrick’s. His long fingers wrap around my hand in an absolute vice-grip of a handshake. He would have pulled me off balance if I were less fit.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he says in the most obnoxious, sardonic kind of voice. Aha. Another rich prick. Condescending by nature.

I put on my debutante smile, pinch my shoulder blades together, and squeeze the living fuck out of his hand right back. “Oh, the pleasure is all mine. I’ve heard so much about you!”

His eyes narrow at that, and Vaughn’s hand slides around my waist to squeeze my hipbone. A silent demand to please not lay the smack down on his shithead brother, which is fine, but I’m not letting go first. Cole and I stare at each other, squeezing one another’s hands to dust. I handle horses for a living, and this guy goes for weekly manicures and holds gold-plated pens. I’m really not worried about winning this pissing match. So, I hold on and continue to stare with a fake-ass smile plastered on my face.

That fake-ass smile turns to my jaw swinging in the wind when Vaughn grumbles, “Jesus Christ, Cole, don’t break my trainer.”

My head swivels to him as the big brute drops my hand. Did Vaughn just come to my defense?

I turn back to the men, smiling brighter than the sun, waving my fingers at them like jazz hands even though they hurt like hell. “Bah, nothing I can’t handle.”

The Ice King continues to glare at me. What a riot. He seems like a fun guy. Said no one ever.

Vaughn clears his throat, eyes twinkling and lips pursed. I’m almost positive he’s trying not to laugh. I can’t stop winning today. That has to be a good omen?

“Okay, Billie,” Vaughn starts back in, “Cole and I are going to leave you and Patrick to it. If you need me, I’ll be in here. You’re welcome to join us here for the race.”

“No, I think I’ll be good down at track level,” I reply, as Vaughn follows my gaze. “I want to be there for DD at the end.”

He gives me the sweetest smile. Small, but genuine. And it lights me up. It’s like a balm to my nerves. A balm I’m going to need to talk to Patrick, after that comment. Does he even know how lucky he is to ride on a horse like DD? Has no one impressed this upon him? He should be kissing someone’s shoes in thanks. Instead, he’s standing here smirking at me, trying to steer the conversation to places I don’t want to go.

Tool.

“Okay, Patrick,” I start off a little too brightly, “it looks like you have an outstanding record. I’m really excited to see what you can do with DD. He’s a very special horse.”

The brothers turn to leave, and I get a light squeeze on my elbow as they walk behind me, which I interpret as Vaughn telling me to behave. Does he have so little faith in me to conduct myself professionally? What a vote of confidence.

“Mothers always think their own children are special. I’ve been in this business long enough to know that a horse is just a horse until it proves itself,” he says. “Same can be said for a trainer.”

Smiling in the sugariest way possible, because men like this are not a new phenomenon to me in this business, I say, “Well, call me Mother Hen then, Patty. Because you’ve never ridden a horse like this.”

He sniffs and rubs his straight nose at that.

“It’s Patrick, and I highly doubt that. I’ve ridden the best horses in the Pacific Northwest. I’m doing this as a favour to Cole, you know. Our families have been connected for years.”

My fingers curl into my palms, nails threatening to puncture the skin.

“Congratulations. I’ve worked with some of the best horses in the world. You might be a big fish in a small pond, but I’m almost positive I didn’t see any big-name derby wins anywhere on your record.” His eyes narrow. My aim for sore spots is exceptional. “But this horse could actually do that for you. For us. So, you’re going to drop the attitude and listen to me. I don’t really need you to believe he’s special, but I do need you to execute my plan in a very precise fashion.”

He lifts his hand, palm up, to peer down at his nails like he’s found something interesting there. Avoiding eye contact he mutters, “I’m listening.”

Relief courses through me. DD is depending on me, and I need this dick on board whether I like him or not. “Great. He’s a nervous horse. So, no whip.”

“No whip?” he sneers. “It’s just a tool. You are aware it doesn’t hurt, right?”

“No. Whip. He doesn’t need it, and it scares him.”

He twists his face like I’m an idiot.

“Deal with it,” I bite back, holding eye contact with him. “He doesn’t like the gates. He’s going to tense up in there, and I want to use that to our advantage. Off the start, hold him back, let him own the back of the pack so that he can see the other horses running away from him, okay?”

A terse nod.

“Good. On the first straight away…”

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