Off to the Races: A Small Town Enemies to Lovers Romance (Gold Rush Ranch Book 1)
Off to the Races: Chapter 32

I’m being petulant, and I know it. Hank has been on my ass all week about going to the derby and I keep brushing him off, refusing to go.

I haven’t heard from Violet since yesterday. I imagine she’s focused on prepping for the race of her life. And I haven’t heard from Vaughn either, not since he showed up at my house almost two weeks ago.

I imagine he’s rolling around in a twenty-million-dollar pile of cash.

A sneer touches my lips at the thought. I’ve officially moved out of the crying phase of our breakup into the bitter phase. I’m almost glad no one has been around me lately, because I’m not good company right now.

Mira called me once to check in. I was snarky on the phone and she told me she wasn’t cut out for motherhood and to please call her back when I was done acting like a child. Then she hung up. It was a comment that actually made me laugh and also send her a text message to apologize.

I was giving myself until the derby was over. Once DD won the race, I’d be able to put that dream away. The one where I was the trainer of a horse that won a leg of the Northern Crown, North America’s most historic thoroughbred race series. I wanted to watch, to feel it slip away, to let the emotions course through me and then lay them to rest.

Then I could start fresh.

Again.

And I will. I’m not a quitter. I’m strong. I’ve made it this far, and I’m not about to let a pretty man in an expensive suit set me back. I’ll land on my feet. I always do.

Except for right now. Right now, I’m sitting on the floor staring at DD’s empty paddock, drinking coffee after coffee like an absolute sad sack. Pathetic.

Which is why when I hear knocking at the door, I don’t even bother to get up. It’s Derby Day. Everyone should be busy doing something else.

“Billie! Quit your cryin’ and get that scrawny ass out here.”

Except Hank. Fucking Hank is like an old Bloodhound with a scent that he can’t give up on. The man has no off switch, he doesn’t know how to give it up.

Deep down, I appreciate him not giving up on me. But I’m still annoyed. I want to wallow by myself. Not deal with his pushy ass.

When I open the door, I’m greeted with a smile, but that smile slips away as he looks me over. I’m in a sweatsuit. Hardly derby ready, unlike Hank, who looks awfully dapper in his navy suit.

“Billie Black.” His tone is scolding. “This is not the young woman I raised. And you know I pretty much raised you, so don’t even start in on me. Your horse is about to run the biggest race of his life, of your life, and you’re still moping around here like Eeyore personified.”

I snort at the mental image and look down at myself. I’m even wearing gray! The thought makes me giggle, but Hank just looks at me like I’m a crazy person. Which doesn’t matter, I’ve grown accustomed to people looking at me that way. I like to think it’s part of my charm.

“Get. Dressed. Driving into the city on Saturday is a nightmare.” Obviously, Hank isn’t in agreement about my charms.

I begrudgingly trudge upstairs. Hank is a gentleman through and through, but I also know he’s old school enough to pick me up and carry me out of here wearing my Eeyore gray sweatsuit.

Twenty minutes later, I’m ready to go. I slide my feet into saddle-brown leather wedges at the front door, trying to tone down the dressiness of my outfit. I may not be the fancy girl my parents raised me to be, but this is a sport I love—a tradition I love.

You don’t show up to derby day dressed like a slob.

In honor of that tradition, I paired wide-leg cream colored dress pants with a lace blouse. Classy and sexy. You can see little peeks of my skin through the bare spots in the patterned lace. It isn’t a dress, but this is as close as I’ll get.

My hair is fresh, which feels like a feat this week. I only had time to dry it in loose natural waves, falling down past my shoulder blades, but it will have to do. My makeup is simple. I mostly used it to cover up the dark circles underneath my eyes, and whatever I didn’t achieve with concealer, I’ll fix with a nice big pair of aviators. It’s a pristine, bluebird sunny day in Vancouver, so I can easily hide behind dark lenses.

It’s the perfect day for a derby.

Hank parks near the Gold Rush Ranch bank of stalls, and I bolt away from there as fast as possible.

Childish? Probably. Necessary? Definitely.

I’ve been working at the track every day for the last week. I’ve kept my head down, shown up at the ass crack of dawn to breeze all the farm’s horses that are stabled here, worked with our exercise riders, grooms, junior trainers, and shown up for every single race that one of ours has run in the in-between. I don’t hang around to listen to track gossip and drama. I just do my job and then leave to mope around my house.

And that’s another thing I’ll have to address at some point. Hank informed me I’m welcome to stay there as long as I need. Presumably, Vaughn relayed that message to him. But I can’t stay there much longer. The charming little log house is brimming with memories. Too many memories. When I look out the window, I see DD munching on a big bag of green hay in his private little oasis. Inside the house, I see Vaughn sitting at the kitchen island, barefoot and happy, peeling the label off a bottle of beer. Upstairs…

My eyes sting.

Upstairs, I see Vaughn’s dark mop of hair between my legs. I still smell him on my pillows. I feel him sliding inside of me.

No, there are too many memories in that little log house.

I’ve done my job to perfection throughout the last two weeks. No one could ever fault my professionalism on that front, even if most people think I’m a total basket-case who quit over the sale of a horse.

Being here at Bell Point Park on the exact day I’ve spent the last several months working towards just feels… heavy. Like I’m being suffocated. I keep telling myself that heavy feeling is all to do with my dashed professional dreams. But deep down, I know it’s more.

Deep down, I know it’s Vaughn.

I feel his absence like a missing limb. Despite my best efforts at keeping him distant, he wriggled past my best-laid defenses. Looking back, I’m not even sure I realized I was falling in love with him. Did it happen when he purposely brought me coffee the wrong way? When we faced off in one of our verbal sparring matches? I mean, what kind of woman gets off on that kind of snarky bullshit?

Maybe it was one of those cozy nights that we cooked together and talked for hours? When he opened up to me about his father’s death? His grandfather’s death? Or was it the night he walked DD in circles for hours so I could rest?

I can’t put my finger on when I fell in love with him anymore. It just feels like I’ve loved him forever. Like our hearts have been intertwined for so long that cutting his from mine is causing me to bleed out. So, I hustle out of the barns, past the staging area, hoping I won’t run into him, and then melt into the crowd gathering by the finish line. I want to be amongst the fans while I watch DD win, because I have no doubt he will. I want to dive right into that tension. That excitement. Lean into every turn with everyone around me. I want to enjoy this race like any fan would, not like someone who has a stake in it.

I want to feel something other than sad.

My mind wanders to Vaughn, who’s probably schmoozing up in the VIP lounge. And Violet, who is probably looking like a nervous little fawn as she gets ready right now. My text to her yesterday had been full of pointers and tips. I couldn’t help myself. She responded with: Thanks B. See u in the winner’s circle.

I rolled my eyes when that text came through. I’m staying as far away from the winner’s circle as possible. I’ll celebrate with Vi on another day, in another place.

I push to the front of the crowd, standing my ground by holding on to the white bannister before me. I wrap my fingers around the post and close my eyes. Buttery summer sunlight beats down on me. The ever-comforting scent of horses floats on the gentle breeze, mingling with the smell of fast-food stands and spilled beer. People talk animatedly around me, and old-fashioned horn music bellows from the speakers in the infield.

A smile touches my lips. Yup. This is race day.

The announcer’s voice crackles over the sound system, droning on about the odds on each horse as the board in the infield reflects the changing numbers. I see Double Diablo up there. He’s drawn number eight, which puts him in perfect position for a closer, the type of horse that likes to run at the back of the pack. The higher numbers would box him in along the rail, he’d get stuck exactly where he hates to be.

It’s almost all too good to be true. Perfect weather. Perfect position. I can’t help but shake my head. The universe is working in our favor today.

Their favour, I remind myself, right as the announcer’s voice starts up again.

His odds are worse than they should be. Nine to two, which means for every two dollars someone bets they’re going to be paid out eleven dollars.

I shake my head. Not terrible, but not great either. They’re still underestimating DD. An inexperienced jockey and a relatively unproven horse who likes to come from behind at the last moment—who could blame them, really?

But the punters are wrong. Someone ballsy is going to win a good chunk of change today.

The loudspeaker crackles to life above at the top of a pole. “Five minutes to race time!”

The horses file out onto the track. I press one hand to my stomach to calm the flapping butterflies and lean out over the fence, straining to try and see a small black horse trotting out onto the track. I catch sight of Stefan Dalca’s colors, black and lime green. Perfect for a venomous snake-in-the-grass like him.

But the horse is a flashy bay. Brown body, white legs. Does he seriously have over one horse running today? Shady motherfucker.

Finally, I see DD being led out by a nice calm pony horse. Some horses like to go for a quick gallop before the race, but the name of the game with DD is keeping him calm and steady. He’s got nerves enough for the lot of us and needs to preserve that energy for his final burst. He’s so shiny that he looks like an oil slick, almost purple and blue in the sunlight.

And he’s wearing black and yellow.