Off to the Races: A Small Town Enemies to Lovers Romance (Gold Rush Ranch Book 1)
Off to the Races: Chapter 4

This is going to be fun.

I strut out of Vaughn’s office, squeezing my lips together, trying to contain my laughter. The guy is too easy to rile. And no, I probably shouldn’t be antagonizing my new boss. But I couldn’t help myself. Stuffy rich dudes like him practically beg for it.

What dawned on me in that office is that our relationship here is rather symbiotic. He needs me as much as I need him. He needs a trainer who is new to the scene, and I need a job as head trainer where I can prove myself to be as good as I know I am.

Think I am.

I suppose I could fail. But believing that will get me nowhere. Best foot forward. Clear eyes, full hearts, whatever the fuck, can’t lose—right? At any rate, I’m stoked. The facility is outstanding. Hank is possibly my favorite human. My boss is uptight eye candy. And my horse, from what I gather, is probably totally crazy.

Life is good.

I squint into the bright spring sun. It’s low in the sky this time of year, so I hold my hand up over my brow and peer out into grounds looking for Hank. I haven’t lived in Vancouver’s Lower Mainland before, but what I know of it is that I should expect a lot of rain. But on days like this… man, Ruby Creek is breathtaking. Fresh air mingles with the aroma of pine and the mineral scent of the river rushing nearby, and lush green valleys butt up against the start of British Columbia’s North Cascades mountain range. I feel like I’m standing in a picture book.

Someone nudges my shoulder and I turn to see Hank standing with me, squinting out into the sun too.

“Beautiful spot, eh?”

I tilt my head slightly and raise one shoulder in agreement. The property itself is immaculate, tree-lined, and manicured. It almost looks like a golf course. All of which doesn’t really matter if their actual racing program is in shambles. So yeah, it’s beautiful, but troubled.

“Well,” I say, gazing ahead, “why don’t you introduce me to the new man in my life?”

He turns towards me slowly with a grave look on his face. “He’s going to be a lot of work, Billie.”

“Of course, he is, Hank. Men always are.”

At that, he snorts and shakes his head.

We walk through the lines of paddocks where Hank points out many of the horses to me. Some retired, some breeding stock, some just babies still. Most of the racing horses stay in their box stalls but exercise daily, sometimes even twice daily.

“When they handed down the suspension, it forced Vaughn to pull all the horses they had stabled at the track, so it’s busier around here than usual.”

I nod. There are a lot of horses on site right now. “I read the gist of it all in the news. Is there anything else I should know?”

Hank sighs raggedly. “Dermot Harding was one of my best friends when I was younger. This was his wife, Ada’s, family ranch. Never seen two people quite so in love as those two. Dermot was a good man who got embroiled in something he shouldn’t have.” He trails off. “Vaughn is struggling. His father was a jockey, you know. A good one.”

I shake my head as we continue our stroll. “No, I didn’t.”

“He died on the track. His horse went down in the middle of the pack. Vaughn was only ten-years-old.” All the air leaves my lungs on a single exhale. This sport is not without its risks, that’s for sure. “Dermot practically raised him. He was recently widowed at that point; I would have thought the loss of his son would be more than he could bear. But when everyone abandoned Vaughn, Dermot threw himself into giving that boy the best life he could. This is more than just a ranch for Vaughn. It’s a legacy.”

I blink rapidly. Not wanting to feel bad for the man who just accosted me. “Gotcha,” I say, grateful when Hank adds nothing more.

We make it to the far end of the paddocks where there is one larger pen tucked into the rolling green fields behind it. My new project is there, head down, grazing on perfect emerald grass. He looked impeccable on paper, but in person he looks a little unkempt. Especially compared to the perfectly tended horses around him.

He’s solid black. Classic looking. Not a single speck of white on his face or legs. He looks healthy, if lacking a little fitness. He also looks like he’s been rolling in the dirt. Dust covers what could be a shiny coat.

As we approach, I click my tongue at him, a noise we often use with horses to get their attention or signal that it’s time to get going. He startles, head flicking up at me instantly, and I’m met with the most angelic little face. Dishy forehead, big innocent eyes, long lashes, and ears so pointy that the tips turn in towards each other.

All those features framed by a thick unruly forelock, with a heavy tail at the other end to match, almost make him look like an oversized pony rather than a lean, mean racing machine.

I sigh. He is adorable.

I’m not sure he feels the same about me though, because those charming little ears whip back flat on his head, his soft little nose wrinkles up, like there’s a foul smell, and that big, luscious tail whips back and forth angrily. Then he drops his head and charges at the fence like a little warhorse.

Hank takes a step back from the fence, even though we aren’t standing close enough to be in the line of fire. The horse isn’t stupid, he’s not going to bust through the fence. He’s trying to scare me off or intimidate me. Sadly, for him, it will not work.

I stand my ground.

Sure enough, he slams on the brakes as soon as he comes close to the fence and lunges his neck over, showing me the whites of his eyes and a nice set of pearly teeth as he bites at the air in front of me.

Charming. The men of Gold Rush Ranch are a lot of bluster.

I don’t shy away, but I also don’t want to threaten him by making eye contact, so I pull my phone out of my purse and start scrolling through my social media accounts, not giving him an inch.

Double Diablo stands there, staring at me, snorting so heavily I can feel the damp heat of his exhalations across my down-turned forehead. He eventually stomps his foot, which makes me chuckle. Seems to be an ongoing theme.

The young stallion eyes me warily as I say, “You remind me of someone else I met today.”

He snorts again and then turns his butt to me. Yup, a total drama queen.

“And that,” Hank says, pointing at the little black horse, “is why no one wants to deal with him. He’s built and bred to be one of the best, but no one’s put the time in to earn his trust so far. I haven’t been here long enough to assess him, but the word among the staff is that he’s just plain mean. They don’t even bring him into the barn at night.”

I snort and roll my eyes. “How much work has he had?”

“Not much. From what I gather, they started trying to get his training going early for his two-year-old year. People have tried intermittently since then. Apparently, he spends all his energy going straight up, rather than straight forward, and he’s proven to be dangerous in the starting gates. Throwing himself against the sides to the point no one wants to risk sitting on him in there.”

I hum and tap my pointer finger against my lips. “So, the poor boy is scared, and no one has taken the time to listen to him.”

“Bingo.” Hank points at me with a finger-gun. “But don’t underestimate him. He’s a smart horse who’s had a couple years of learning that he can get his way.”

I scoff at that.

“I’m serious, Billie. You have to be careful. You need to create success for yourself, not end up in the hospital.”

“Hank, the horse isn’t some sort of evil mastermind.” I sigh. “He’s terrified. I clicked my tongue, and he jumped out of his skin. I’d be willing to bet my first paycheck that he hasn’t had many positive interactions with humans. He needs a fresh approach. We both know traditional training techniques don’t always work. You can ruin a sensitive horse and eventually injure an otherwise great one.”

Just thinking about the unfairness of it all agitates me. I cross my arms and shake my head, looking back at the beautiful animal before me. “He needs patience, confidence, and a new name. I mean, really. Double Diablo? It’s like some shitty self-fulfilling prophecy.”

I meet the incredulous stare of someone who clearly thinks I’m nuts. Hank barks out a laugh.

“You think his name is the problem?”

I smile sheepishly. “I mean, it doesn’t help his case.”

Eyes twinkling with mirth, Hank shakes his head. “I don’t know about that. But the one thing I am sure of is that if anyone can bring this guy around, it’s you. This horse needs some love. He just hasn’t met anyone brave enough to give it to him yet.”

Pride swells in my chest at his affirmation. Hank has never failed to make me feel like the world was mine for the taking. Sometimes all you need is one person’s unwavering faith. Support that is absolute.

Looking back at Double Diablo, who is still sulking like a big baby, I decide that I’m going to be that person for him.

I pull a smooth white peppermint out of my purse and toss it over the fence to land beside him. Even at that one little movement, I see him flinch and flick one ear to the side where the mint lands. Other than that, he doesn’t budge. Tough customer.

I turn to Hank, who is regarding me with those signature sparkly eyes. “Okay, what next?”

“Do you have all your stuff with you?”

What little I own you mean?

“Yup. Figured I’d get a hotel out into the valley where all the farms are, anyway. I’ll have to deal with the rental car at some point, though.”

Hank nods decisively. “Let’s get you settled in at your cottage. Then if you want to get anything, I can take you into the closest city to get what you need. Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you around and see what we can do about the car.”

I earn a head shake when I loop my arm through his to lead him away and respond with, “Sounds good, old man. Let’s go check out my new digs.”

We start back up the pathway towards the stables in a companionable silence. On one hand, I have so much I want to talk to him about, so much to tell him. On the other, I’m jetlagged as fuck and just happy to be here with him.

A little way up, I sneak a look over my shoulder at the little devil horse, just in time to see him sniffle the mint on the ground. He stares at it for a moment, inhaling the minty scent, and then snaps it up quickly like he’s stealing something and doesn’t want anyone to catch him.

Then he turns his neck while chewing and looks back at me with ears pricked forward before storming off again.

The inside of my SUV is dead silent and awkward as fuck as Vaughn directs me down the back roads to a long gravel driveway that weaves through the trees. Why he insisted on showing me the place when he clearly can’t stand me is beyond my comprehension.

“Left.” He barks out directions like I’m his limo driver or something. I take the left, biting my tongue, and come around a slight bend to see a charming pine A-frame house with a red tin roof.

If I’m being honest, it’s more house than I need. It’s definitely not what I was expecting when I heard ‘cottage,’ but I suppose this facility isn’t really what you think of when you hear ‘ranch’ either. People above a certain tax bracket enjoy doing this thing where they pretend they’re just one of the commoners. Growing up, my mom loved to talk about our cabin like it was some sort of rural nature experience. Spoiler alert: it’s a mansion on a lake.

Vaughn steps out once I’ve parked, every movement graceful and athletic. He strides up to the front door, taking every other step up the short staircase, and unlocks it before heading back to the rental vehicle. I move to the back hatch of the SUV to grab my bags only to feel his hand clamp down on my forearm.

The warmth of his palm, the firmness of his grasp—it has me thinking about things I shouldn’t be.

“I’ve got these. You go ahead.”

Cute. Now he’s going to be a gentleman?

I just scoff and grab one anyway. Walking past him with a smile so big and cheesy it makes my cheeks ache. I’m more than capable of carrying a bag. Haven’t needed a man so far, not about to start falling over myself for this one. Mind-numbingly sexy as he might be. The inside of the house is beautiful and cozy. Open concept with exposed wood and vaulted ceilings, a kitchen island overlooking the dining table and living room. To the right is a staircase that I take up into a large loft bedroom and drop my bag.

From up here, the view is truly outstanding. Lush and green and so peaceful. This side of the house is almost all windows. It’s built to face out over the farm’s rolling fields. I’m fairly certain that if I headed straight out the back door and over the hill, I’d end up at the horse’s paddocks.

I pinch myself. And I don’t mean that as a manner of speaking. I literally pinch myself, thumb and finger gathering the skin on the side of my forearm. I’ve been rooming with other grooms and trainers in a male dominated sport for years now, and the thought of having my own space feels downright luxurious. No stepping over questionable single socks or doing other people’s dirty dishes. Heaven.

I let out a big breath and blow a loose piece of hair off my face. I want this so badly. This is what I’ve been craving my entire life. Roots. Family. A quiet setting. A secure job. A place to call my own.

“Billie. I’m ready to go,” Vaughn hollers from downstairs.

My eyes roll so far back in my head they’re at risk of staying there. “You can just walk yourself back to the farm, right?” I shout, as I turn to head down.

He meets me by the door, chest all puffed out in some sort of National Geographic worthy show of dominance that makes me giggle. Vaughn doesn’t look quite so amused though. Instead, he looks pained. Like he’s short on air, like he’s holding one breath in and can’t bring himself to let it out. He looks uncomfortable.

I quirk my head. “You alright?” Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Yup,” he says, brusquely, popping the p sound loudly. “Need to get back to work.”

A ghost of the past flickers across his face as he spins on his heel and leaves. Good lord, this man is a puzzle I don’t have the time or patience to figure out.

After a couple hours spent buying some basics, I pull back up to my new home. I drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes for a moment. My eyelids are heavy. I momentarily wonder if driving in this condition was really my best move. Exhausted doesn’t even cover it. But I know I have to keep pushing if I’m going to make jet lag my bitch.

I count to sixty and then force myself out of the car.

First, laundry. I’m looking forward to crawling in to a fresh, cool bed at the end of this long-ass day. Nothing better than fresh sheets, that clean laundry smell wrapping itself around you like a comforting cocoon. One of the greatest feelings in the world, if you ask me.

Next most important point of business: coffee. I start a pot, hoping it will give me the boost I need to get settled in. Then I throw on some old torn jeans and a tank top, twist my hair up in a messy knot and get to work cleaning and unpacking.

Upon closer inspection, I’m finding that the place isn’t just dusty—it is plain gross.

I really have to put some elbow grease into scrubbing the stove top and cleaning out the unidentifiable sticky pools in the fridge. After finding mysterious yellow splatters around the porcelain bowl, I close my eyes and spray bleach everywhere. Living in my filth is one thing, living in someone else’s is downright scary.

I rifle through a couple closets and cupboards until I find a vacuum and all the mopping supplies I need. I mop myself right out the front door and stand on the front mat, looking around, feeling accomplished about what I’ve gotten done around the place.

With all the windows open, a breeze wafts through the house and slowly but surely pushes the stale odor out. Instead, it now smells overwhelmingly like cleaning products. Either way, it’s a far cry better than bunking with other people, never mind the palatial dungeon I grew up in.

Amusement dances on my face as I imagine what my mother would say about this place, let alone her reaction to me scrubbing a stranger’s dried piss off the toilet. Satisfying.

I take another step outside, looking over my shoulder at the still wet floors that separate me from the coffee pot. I planned this poorly. Oh, well. Onward and upward.

I turn away reluctantly and do a quick perusal of the property. Trees line the driveway heading up to the cottage. On the other side, the property opens up and faces towards the grassy rolling hills. A large wrap around deck juts out off the back door, overlooking what appears to be a hay field, and situated just to the left is a single empty paddock.

I’m trying to be as upbeat as possible, but I admittedly get grumpy when I’m hungry and low on sleep. Super grumpy. Hangry. Slangry? Where sleepiness, anger, and hunger collide into one terrible mood.

And the more I stew, the more slangry I become. Letting myself wander down a path to extreme agitation, I find a broom in a small shed and sweep angrily at the debris-covered deck.

Would it have killed Vaughn to have one of his million staff members come out here for a couple hours and make it even a little presentable? The lawn is mowed, so it’s not like no one has been out this way. He knew he’d be hiring someone, so my arrival wasn’t a total surprise. I don’t need the red-carpet treatment, but a quick wipe down and a roll of paper towels wouldn’t have been overkill.

I try to imagine his reaction to arriving at a place this grungy. He strikes me as the type who probably expects a swan towel on the bed and a chocolate on his pillow. I envision those dark almond-shaped eyes narrowing to slits, those pronounced brows dropping low on his face, and the nostrils on that strong nose flaring in indignation.

I also imagine there would be foot stomping.

Which, to be fair, is how I feel right now. He didn’t hire me to be a maid. I didn’t work my ass off for years to become a trainer so I could do free favors for one more entitled rich prick in my life.

I got my fill of these types of guys at private school as a teenager and during obligatory owner meetings for certain horses at past farms as an adult. That’s part of the allure of working somewhere with one owner, rather than starting up my own stable full of independently owned horses. One owner to deal with, more horses to spend my time with.

The prick to horse ratio is favorable.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: people suck.

I trudge back inside and kick my checkerboard printed slip-ons off towards the mat. In my agitated state, I flick one more forcefully than intended and it bounces off the wall, landing on the clean floor and dropping bits of grass and dirt around itself. I glower, like the shoe has somehow wronged me. Standing there, staring at the offending shoe, I force myself to take a few deep breaths.

In through the nose and out through the mouth.

“Let it go, Billie,” I mutter, chastising myself for getting so worked up. I need to not let my temper get the best of me.

I know I fly off the handle too easily. I often feel like the ballerina in a music box. Every irritable thought twisting inside of me like another crank of the key. I know I do it to myself. And, in the end, I’m the one left twirling around like an idiot, with no way to turn that obnoxious twinkling music off.

On top of that incredible skill, I’m also a gold medal level grudge-holder. Forgiveness doesn’t come easily to me. And right now, I’m acutely aware that leading myself down this path, on day one of the most exciting job opportunity of my life, isn’t the best way to get started.

Luckily, I know exactly how to turn this frown upside down. I toss a bag of carrots and a wheel of brie into my backpack. I eye the loaf of French bread on the counter. It gets jammed in the backpack too. A girl’s gotta eat, right?

My phone dings right as I’m about to pack it up. A text message from an unknown number.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Billie, this is Vaughn Harding. Tomorrow morning we’ll go over your contract. 7am. Be there.

I can’t help but laugh. This man has all the charm of a toad. How the hell am I supposed to respond to that kind of demanding bullshit?

I start typing.

Yes, Master—

Nope. He’s your boss. Delete, delete, delete.

I settle on: Or be square! 😉

Because Vaughn Harding is nothing if not square.

Smirking to myself, and feeling very pleased with my level of wit, I swing a single strap of the bag over my shoulder with one hand, while reaching for the bottle of red wine sitting in the middle of the island with the other. I march straight out the back door and into the buttery evening light with my eyes set on the hill ahead of me.

I need a glass of wine and some good company.

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