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

I moan, hanging my head in my hands, defeated. “Jesus Christ.”

The emails won’t stop coming. The inquiring reporters. The never-ending questions.

I’ve been sitting at this desk for hours every day listening to the nonstop pinging of messages coming through, while I turn my grandfather’s office upside down looking for something. Scouring page after page of farm financials, digging through filing cabinets, looking for a clue. I’ve even gone so far as knocking on the inner walls of his desk drawers, like this is a movie rather than real life and a hidden compartment will pop open and show me exactly what I am looking for.

What am I missing?

I have to prove he’s innocent. I can’t let this be his legacy.

As the family business marketing whiz, I know I have a heaping pile of shit to clean up. That’s what I should do right now. Paste on a winning smile and smooth things out. Nail down a plan to move forward. Reassure the media, apologize to fellow industry members, and rub our shareholder’s backs.

I can’t let the scandal here at the ranch seep into anyone’s trust about how Gold Rush Resources operates. Sure, they’re both our businesses, but one makes all the money while the other basically just continues to break even. And deep down I know the only way to inspire confidence in the mining company is to throw my grandfather, one of the most important and influential men in my life, under the proverbial bus.

On a heavy sigh, I click the mouse to open my inbox.

Statement Request RE: Race fixing

Stubble rasps under my fingers as I scrub at my face. I don’t want to make a statement, but it’s been two weeks. I need to stop hiding out at the farm, banging my head against the wall.

Two weeks ago, our grandfather, Dermot Harding, the man who practically raised me when everyone else had tapped out, died from a massive heart attack. He keeled over right here in this office, and a day later newspapers across the country splashed our family name and his photo on the front page, accompanied by a story about how he’d been the ringleader behind one of the biggest race-fixing scandals in thoroughbred racing history.

A fucking disaster, to be sure.

Rationally, I know the man was in his eighties—not an unusual time to die. But somehow his sudden loss has shocked me to my very core. Maybe his death hasn’t hit me yet, because all I can think about is clearing his name. He’s been slandered—his entire legacy—and he isn’t even here to defend himself. There’s just no way the man who practically raised me would have done this. I can’t wrap my head around it.

My phone vibrates, drawing my attention away from the email in front of me as I watch it dance across the desk’s surface. The name Cole flashes on the screen with a picture of a G.I. Joe toy—an image that usually makes me smile. But not today. Today, I’m not in the mood to talk to my big brother.

I can’t peel my eyes away from the phone but can’t bring myself to pick it up either. I let the call ring through to voicemail and within moments of the screen going black, it lights back up with another call. Cole is relentless, and I’m too obedient where my family is concerned to ignore two calls in a row. Something could be wrong.

I swipe the answer button and lift the phone to my ear. “What?”

“You done playing Little House on the Prairie yet?”

I roll my eyes. Cole is such a dick.

Everyone has their own idea of how I should act in the wake of my grandfather’s death and the exposure of the scandal. My brother. My mom. The board of directors.

“Is there something you need that doesn’t involve mocking me?”

“You need to get your ass back here. There are expectations, Vaughn,” he grumbles. Knowing this won’t go over well.

I’m accustomed to being the face of the company, but they need me to put on a totally different show than usual this time, and I guess I’m not quite meeting their expectations for marketable grief. They want that devastation, sprinkled with a hint of shame, and they want it where everyone can see it.

And this time? I’m not buying.

“I know what the expectations are, Cole. I just don’t care.”

I can hear him groan on the other end of the line. I’m the one thing he can’t check off his ‘to-do’ list and that’s probably keeping him up at night. He’s not worried about how I’m doing, he’s worried about keeping things clean and tidy. Just the way he likes them.

“How long is this little stint going to last?”

I feel my jaw tick as I consider the best way to answer that question. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

It makes him, and everyone else involved, uneasy that I shut them down and fled Vancouver for the tranquil mountains and valleys of Ruby Creek. I’m not mourning solemnly, towing the company line about being shocked and disappointed, and “acknowledging my feelings” appropriately. Which is apparently achieved by holding press conferences, parading around with an appropriate date, like I’m some sort of glorified escort, and then penning an emotional editorial for the newspapers to print.

Too bad for them, I’m not sad yet.

I’m angry. Angry that the man I love more than almost anyone died alone in his office, after being delivered such a shocking blow that his heart gave out.

And that anger? It makes the people around me uncomfortable, and if I’ve learned anything in my twenty-eight years on this earth, it’s that most humans will do almost anything to salvage their own comfort. They’ll grasp at it with white knuckles, sweaty palms, and hold on to it with absolute frantic desperation. Destroy relationships with family members, endure shitty marriages, stab friends in the back—you name it. Comfort is king.

And for now, I care little about how I appear to the media, or how my lack of comment reflects on the company. I’ve been their darling for years. I got the right education and then let them trot me out and parade me around like a fancy show pony.

“As long as I need it to,” I bite back before hanging up. I’m done bending over backwards to accommodate everyone else. I need some time for me.

I’ve suffered the company of people I can’t stand, laughed at jokes that aren’t funny, and rubbed shoulders with some of Vancouver’s most influential people to satisfy my obligations to the family business. I’ve been the poster boy and most eligible bachelor of the elite scene in this city for years now. Without complaint. So, as far as I’m concerned, they can all just buck up and deal with me feeling edgy for a few weeks.

The world won’t stop turning if I take a break from smiling. Or if I take a step back from Gold Rush Resources to salvage the ranch.

Even just floating that idea had gone over like a lead balloon though. Cole had hit the roof. Something about flushing my career and future down the toilet, followed by some advice about how perseverating on the farm isn’t healthy or productive to the main business. According to Cole, in the wake of my grandfather’s funeral, I should focus on my job and take some time with family. Grieving.

I snort. That had been rich coming from him, the man who took off last time tragedy struck. Which I’d told him just before adding that I was in fact going to be taking a leave of absence to run the ranch. Then I’d spun on my heel and stormed out of our lavish downtown offices.

Good fucking riddance concrete jungle.

I’d packed my bags and moved into my grandfather’s farmhouse that very day, comforted by the closeness I felt here. Full of happy memories from my childhood.

Gold Rush Ranch has been in our family for generations. Once my grandmother Ada’s family cattle ranch and now one of western Canada’s premier racing facilities. This place had been my grandmother’s dream—or at least that’s what Dermot always told me. She died when I was younger, and my memories of her are less vivid. But I know that she’s why my grandfather stayed out here and focused on the ranch while letting other people run the downtown offices for the mining company. And I know their love was one to rival a fairytale.

So just because my brother and mother don’t understand my attachment to the place doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Neither of them know me that well anyways, haven’t ever really tried. Haven’t ever gone out of their way to be there for me. Sure, we talk. But unless we’re talking about running the family businesses, it’s brief and superficial. I only tolerate my mother’s meddling because it’s the only attention I get from her. Which sounds pathetic—I know (hello abandonment issues!)

Plus, if Cole can duck and run to the army in the wake of our father’s death, I can duck and run to the ranch. Fair is fair.

I don’t care what he thinks about it. Unlike everyone else, I’m not afraid of him. His holier-than-thou asshole attitude doesn’t scare me. He never stuck around to take care of me before, and I will not let him do it now.

My grandfather spent decades building his empire from scratch. I owe him this.

Between the two companies, his blood, sweat, tears, and a little luck, glues our entire family legacy together. Grandpa Dermot turned his full attention to the ranch in the depths of his mourning. And it has garnered accolades, prestige, and a hell of a lot of wins under his management. This whole place is a living, breathing ode to his late wife and son.

Reminiscing about my family history… I shake my head and stretch my arms out in front of me. That is not a productive rabbit hole to fall down.

Pity parties are for chumps.

Giving each sleeve a tug and adjusting my cuff links, I lean back and sigh deeply. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Big, heavy, hopeless sighs. The sound annoys me.

Looking out the office window, I feel… overwhelmed. I admire the perfectly arranged white fences, in precise squares, each square a home to one horse. I appreciate the organization of the layout. One object arranged into one tidy box. So uncomplicated. So logical. The simplicity soothes me, and I repeat my grandfather’s words to myself like a mantra. “You can only control what’s right in front of you, Vaughn.”

God. I sound like I’ve been reading lame self-help books. Something that my mother, bless her, has recommended. Right before she offered to set me up on another date. Like getting married off and pumping out grandbabies will make me as happy as it would her. She’s a rich city girl through and through, one who fell in love with a farm boy, and I think Cole and I have never quite known where we belong. She loves me, but she doesn’t understand me at all—doesn’t even try.

“Well-meaning. But so goddamn misguided.”

“What was that, son?” Hank barks breathlessly, making me spin quickly in my chair. He’s grasping the door frame to pop his head back in, like he almost made it past without hearing me.

I really need to stop talking to myself.

“Nothing,” I respond, more dismissively than intended. Kind of the norm for me these days, to be honest.

“You sure you’re doing alright?” It’s hard to sneak anything past old eagle eyes.

“Yup. See you at eleven.” I try to make up for my tone by offering him a wave and a forced smile, but I’m not sure it works. It probably just makes me look feral. It doesn’t feel natural. I’m just… numb.

Hank grins, winks, and continues on his way, completely undeterred by my shitty attitude. How the man is always in such a good mood is beyond me. He’s so unflappable that it’s borderline unnatural.

I need a few of whatever he’s on.

The first thing I did when I got to the farm was clean house. Some people might say I burned the whole house down, but I couldn’t rebuild this place’s reputation surrounded by untrustworthy people, or even people who were happy to look the other way.

Gold Rush Ranch is under new management, and that comes with a new moral code too.

I made it my mission to track down and hire Hank Brandt. The man who’d been Dermot’s best friend when he moved to Ruby Creek all those years ago. A man who knew and loved this valley, but who also knew racehorses. He’d managed one of the East Coast’s most successful racing and breeding programs before taking an early retirement and moving back out this way.

When I reached out to him about stepping out of that retirement, he’d been keen to return to the place where it all began and, to his credit, he wasn’t even put off by the farm’s declining success at the track and now tainted reputation.

He’d said he was “looking forward to the challenge” and flashed me his signature megawatt grin, like he knew something I didn’t.

Hank and I agreed to a partnership where he would take the reins, so to speak, on all the horse-related tasks while I manage the business side of things. We agreed to hire everyone together. I wanted to ensure we were creating a work environment that we could both live with. I wasn’t ready to relinquish control of my grandfather’s legacy.

At least not before properly restoring it.

Which is why we’re interviewing a new trainer this morning. Some guy named Billy Black who Hank met and worked with out East, who he raved about being young and cutting-edge. Trained in the United Kingdom under the tutelage of someone renowned over there, who I didn’t know at all, and “brimming with new ideas and strategies,” he’d said.

The guy didn’t sound like the safe and reliable choice I’d like in place for this shit-show, but I’ll humour the old man. An interview can’t hurt, and a person completely unknown to the industry in this area may just be the fresh start we need.

That I need.

Out the front window of my office, I can see the perfectly paved circle driveway. Just beyond the driveway, a fountain shoots arching streams of water in front of a bronze statue of my father in his jockey silks, poised over a galloping horse.

There are so many memories here. So many places for my mind to wander, to trip and fall into a daydream. So much to reminisce about.

The sound of rubber quietly rolling over sticky asphalt jolts me from my reverie, which is good because I don’t have time to let myself turn into a sentimental sap right now. We are interviewing the new trainer in twenty minutes and I really don’t need any interruptions.

I watch the black SUV pull into the parking lot and feel frustration burn in my chest. I don’t feel like dealing with people right now.

The driver’s side door opens and one polished black loafer steps out. Those with interlocking horse bits across the top, accompanied by a long slender leg in slim fit burgundy dress pants. My gaze travels up that leg, taking in the woman in as she exits the vehicle. Bright spring sunlight glints almost blindingly off the thick chestnut braid that hangs down her back.

Standing to both feet, she gently smooths the collar on her black blouse before propping a hand over her brow and rotating slowly to take in the scenery. I can’t help but let my eyes linger on the spot where her waist nips in between her curves.

A wistful smile touches her shapely lips as she stands there, all doe-eyed and serene looking.

She looks like a doll; she also looks altogether too smug. Like she knows she’s here for her chance at bagging Vaughn Harding. I’ve seen that look a thousand times before, social climbers in their element. Gold diggers ready for their kick at the can. Women are constantly looking at me like that, and it has lost its appeal.

She’s beautiful. Of course she is, they always are. But this woman is attractive in a classic and wholesome kind of way—a change in strategy, apparently.

I shake my head, feeling frustration bubble up in my chest, fast and hot. These games and charades are the last thing I need right now. Why is nobody listening to me? My fuse is short, and I’m ready to blow.

This time I will not smile and nod. This time I’m going to send a message. Loud and clear.

This time, my mother has gone too far.

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