Off to the Races (Gold Rush Ranch, #1)

by Elsie Silver

“How about you go fuck yourself?”

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.

Why did they slander him AFTER he died?!

Cole is relentless, and I’m too obedient where my family is concerned to ignore two calls in a row. Something could be wrong.

LMFAO FROM WHAT IF SOMETHING IS WRONG...

“You done playing Little House on the Prairie yet?” I roll my eyes. Cole is such a dick.

To Cole is such a dick 🤣🤣🤣

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

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.

Good for you!

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

YES VAUGHN!

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

Too bad for them, I’m not sad yet.

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 everyon...

Good fucking riddance concrete jungle.

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.

If he loved the ranch and his wife so much I find it hard to believe he would risk his legacy and his family honor not to memtion his wifes honor on a false race betting scheme

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!)

lmfao

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.

ope

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.

This right here is why I am finding it difficult to believe he would ruin hus legacy

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.

Never is

I’m met with an absolute vision far better in person than any of the pictures I found online.

Tall? Check. Dark? Check. Handsome? Check. Looks like he wants to kill me? Also, check.

Good thing I’m not one to cower because, at what has to be at least six foot three, this man is imposing.

Fiery mahogany eyes bore down on me. “You need to turn your sweet ass around, get in your car, and leave. Now.”

ope

Holding one hand up to stop him, I launch in, “Okay, first of all, I am downright fascinated by your blow-up doll preference. Can we table that for now but revisit it someday?” A sneer touches his lips. Ha. Didn’t like that one. “Second, I’m a grown-ass woman, don’t call me a girl. And third, when you’re finished having this epic man-child meltdown,” I wave my hand up and down his body like he did to me, “can you please let Hank know that Billie Black is here for her job interview?”

I grew up immersed in that culture. Rich and spoiled men like him never outgrow their arrogant entitlement.

You're making ALOT of assumptions here

Trim waist. Incredible ass. Ten out of ten would grab.

“How do you feel about an extra ten percent on my base salary for my, what did you call it… sweet ass?”

Um no.

Stuffy rich dudes like him practically beg for it.

bitch you keep assuming stupid shit

“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 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.

oh gag...get over yourself

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.

ffs just stop apinting him as some spoiled priss.

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.

You've got some nerve calling him a rich prick with a pretentious attitude when you yourself had a similar upbringing.

On top of that incredible skill, I’m also a gold medal level grudge-holder.

Oh joy she's gonna be one of those insufferable types who can't be bothered to hear the teuth because she thinks she knows everything when infact she doesn't know jack shit

How the hell am I supposed to respond to that kind of demanding bullshit?

He doesn't owe you a damn thing he is your boss.

“You guys really are like the same person, DD. You can’t continue to greet people that way either. It’s unbecoming, you know? People will mistake you for being a mean boy rather than just a sensitive one.”

If nothing else, I feel like his angry face is just a reflection of mine these days. I lash out just like that, too.

Boss Man is still sex in a suit but also a typical crabby rich bitch who hides out in his office all day.

oh ffs

Comments like that are why I’ve vowed to stay away from trust fund babies.

Again making assumptions

No one has ever made me that hard and then pushed me away. She’s a challenge now, and I am completely fixated.

um

She doesn’t even give me the cold shoulder, like she’s on some sort of holier-than-thou mission to be the bigger person. Every day she waves a hand through my door as she walks past and gives me a, “Hey there, Boss Man,” as she continues past, completely unaffected by the fact she almost ate me alive the other night. I can’t even bring myself to tell her to stop calling me that ridiculous name. If only her professional facade would crack again, just a little, it would give me a good reason to get even with her.

She looks at me like I’ve grown extra heads and then launches back in, “Incredible! And now, you’ve got the gall to stand here and sulk about your stupid car while accepting zero accountability for almost killing me?” She scoffs. “Typical trust fund baby behavior.”

Ew. No bitch THIS IS HIS PROPERTY AND HIS HORSE AND YOU FAILED TO NOTIFY SOMEONE OF WHAT YOU WERE DOING WHICH COULD HAVE GOTTEN YOUR STUPID MOTHERFUCKING ASS KILLED.

“Good lord, don’t be such a bitch baby.”

You're the bitch actually

My working hypothesis is that there’s a six pack. Eight pack is also possible. Those last two abs might just pop out because he’s so uptight he’s constantly clenching.

And then I usually flash to the hundreds of pictures of him on the internet with some new and expensive looking woman draped on his arm and give my head a shake. No distractions and no rich playboys. Nope. No siree. Not for this gal. Career goals and nice normal dudes are the winning ticket.

there you go assuming shit again.

We’d been having a nice leisurely walk over until the man-child had to burn in here and ruin it.

The man child who was making sure you were fucking safe and that his horse wasn't missing

The fresh smell of laundry detergent is a new addition to his sweet almond scent. He’s intoxicating, and I breathe him in against my better judgement. “Do friends sniff each other?” he asks. Fuck. Busted.

“Do you need a hug?” The silence in the house is deafening, and I shift awkwardly on the counter, already regretting my offer. I’m mentally chastising myself so hard that I almost miss his quiet, “Yes.”

Vaughn rises and with one large side-step moves between my legs. When he almost instantly wraps his steely arms around my waist, I can’t hold back the sigh that escapes my lips. He feels so warm and solid pressed up against me—soft and vulnerable.

“You can feel disappointed, and angry, and sad, and whatever the fuck else you want to feel. You can feel whatever you want. There is no right order or right way. You’re entitled to it all. Because at the end of the day, he’s not here to explain things to you, so it all just comes down to how much you can forgive. How much you can accept. And there’s not a single other person in the world who can tell you what that threshold is.” I look up at him now. “But you need to keep searching for it, no matter how much it hurts, because otherwise it will eat you alive.”

“Jesus.” Vaughn drops his head into his hands and mumbles, “Never thought I’d be getting good advice from crazy Billie Black. How do you know all this?” “Because I’m still looking for that threshold.”

“What? You want me to admit that you were right about hiring her?” “No, son.” His cheek twitches. “Okay. So, you’re just taking pleasure knowing that my plan to get rid of her is looking like it might backfire?” He lets out a booming laugh, slapping my shoulder on his way past, rocking me back on my heels with his old-man strength. Smug prick.