Page 1 of Playing Dirty (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #2)

Chapter One

Still in the Game

Rhett

T he fire in the corner cracked like it had something to say.

Not loud. Just steady. A kind of low murmur that settled into your bones and reminded you it was fall in Montana and fall in Montana didn’t mess around. It was the kind of cold that showed up early and hung around late, scraping across the plains, easing us into winter.

Outside, the wind pressed against the walls of Ropers, our favorite watering hole, like it was looking for a way in. Inside, cigar smoke drifted lazy circles beneath the chandelier made of antlers, curling through the air like it belonged here more than we did.

I took a slow sip of whiskey, let the burn chase the chill from my chest.

No one said much yet. Just the shuffle of cards, the clink of glass against wood, the soft groan of Sawyer’s boot as he propped it on the edge of an old milk crate someone decided counted as a chair.

This wasn’t a regular thing. Not some every-Thursday tradition. More like a weather pattern—something that rolled in when one of us got restless, or lonely, or bored enough to throw a text out and see who bit. Tonight was all three.

The back room at Ropers had seen better days, but it still held heat better than any barn. Still smelled like dust and leather and spilled beer. Still had that way of holding onto secrets and smoke without trying too hard.

We’d been doing this long before money changed hands—before Lucky Ranch became ours.

Back when Colt, Sawyer, Easton and I were just four broke cowboys, stumbling our way into manhood with not enough land and not nearly enough sense.

The Powerball had hit like a bolt from the blue—one ticket, one night, and just like that, we were flush. Bought the biggest stretch of land we could find and split it four ways. Called it Lucky Ranch like we were daring the world to come mess with us.

Now we each had our own spread, our own routines, our own things we didn’t talk about.

But here—in this room—we were still the same stubborn bastards, pretending the rest of it didn’t matter.

And for a little while, maybe it didn’t.

Sawyer tossed a few chips into the pot like they offended him.

“Hell, Rhett, you win one more hand tonight, I’m gonna demand you get strip-searched for mirrors or marked cards.”

I smirked, slow and unbothered. “Some folks are just born lucky.”

Colt scoffed. “You were born mean. The luck came later.”

That got a few chuckles, but not from me. I just leaned back, let the chair creak beneath me, and watched the flames throw shadows against the far wall.

“Speaking of luck,” Colt said, reaching for his drink, “Wyatt smiled this morning. Big ol’ gummy grin. Damned near made me late just standing there like an idiot grinning back.”

Sawyer groaned. “Here we go again.”

“You say that like he doesn’t bring it up every time we’re together,” Easton added, his voice as dry as the Wyoming border.

Colt grinned, not the least bit sorry. “Can’t help it. Kid’s got my eyes.”

“Poor bastard,” I muttered.

The table broke with low laughter. Even Colt grinned wider, not a trace of offense in it. He had that look again—that quiet, settled thing he wore like a second skin these days. A man who used to ride a wild bull, hard and fast… now content to sit still and call it heaven.

It caught me off guard sometimes. The way he used to carry a broken heart like it was strapped across his chest. Now he carried something else. Something softer. He’d done the one thing the rest of us hadn’t figured out.

He’d claimed his second chance with Tessa and was now the proud father of twins Wyatt and Charlotte, better known as “Charlie.”

“What about you, Sawyer?” Colt asked. “You still talkin’ about that shooting range?”

Sawyer grinned around his cigar. “Thinking bigger. What if we start our own bourbon label? We’ve got land, water rights, and money. Hell, call it Lucky Barrel.”

Easton snorted. “Next thing I know, you’ll want a billboard on the highway with your face on it.”

“Not a bad idea,” Sawyer said, pointing at him with the cigar. “You can be the quiet, mysterious type. Good for brand image.”

“You’re all idiots,” I said mildly, tipping my whiskey toward my mouth.

They were. Loud, ridiculous, sharp-edged idiots. And for all that, they were the best friends anyone could ask for.

I glanced around the table—Colt with his twins and wife, Sawyer dreaming up the next scheme, Easton sitting there like he saw things the rest of us didn’t say out loud.

Me?

I had my guns polished, my cars lined up in the garage, and not a damn soul who’d notice if I didn’t show up.

After we hit the Powerball, I’d spent months throwing cash at anything that looked shiny. Gun shows in Nevada. Car auctions in Houston.

I’d roll in, drop a stupid amount of money on something fast or loud or rare, charm some woman in stilettos who liked the sound of the word “millionaire,” and head home to Lovelace with a new toy in the back trailer and the night’s company already forgotten.

My garage’s got heated floors, hydraulic lifts, and a row of muscle cars I used to polish like they could make me feel something.

Same with the gun safe—custom-built, biometric lock, enough firepower to secure Fort Knox if it ever got dragged to Montana.

But now?

The chrome didn’t glint quite the same. The engines didn’t roar as loudly in my chest. Lately, I just walked past all of it on my way to the garage’s fridge to grab a beer, wondering what the hell I was doing with all that horsepower and nobody to ride shotgun.

And for the first time in a while, the whiskey in the glass I held didn’t go down smoothly.

The door to the back room blew open with a gust that howled like it had unfinished business. Joe Miller stepped inside, bundled up in his usual waxed canvas coat, cheeks red from the cold, and a grin already planted under that bristly mustache.

“Well, hell,” Colt muttered. “I thought we were keepin’ this exclusive.”

Joe gave him a pointed look. “Poker don’t count unless I’m takin’ at least one of y’all’s money.”

Sawyer rolled his eyes. “You take so long playin’ your hand, we forget what the pot even was.”

“Wisdom takes time,” Joe said, settling into the empty chair like he’d been born there. He slapped a twenty on the table. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep the conversation interestin’.”

The fire popped, the cards shuffled, and no one said anything for a beat—just five men who’d known each other too long to rush the silence.

Then Sawyer leaned forward and turned to Rhett. “You get those trail cams set up yet?”

Rhett shook his head. “Was waitin’ on some volunteers.”

“I’m in,” Sawyer said. “Just say when.”

Colt raised a brow. “You talkin’ about that spot near the old creek bend?”

“Yup. That’s one of them,” I said. “Elk’ve been moving through early. Figure we check the signs as soon as we can get everything ready.”

Joe grunted. “You want me to order cameras?”

I nodded. “Sawyer and I will stop by to take a look at what you have.”

Easton dealt him in, and Joe barely had his cards before he started in. “Heard from Darlene over at the courthouse that property taxes are goin’ up.”

Colt groaned. “Again?”

“Yup. County ain’t ready to announce it yet, but it’s happenin’. Darlene says she’s seen the spreadsheets. Called it a ‘preliminary adjustment.’”

“That’s a fancy way of sayin’ ‘bend over,’” Sawyer said.

Joe laughed. “Ain’t that the truth?”

Sawyer leaned forward, glass in hand. “Speaking of things on the decline, you boys hear about the funeral home?”

Easton raised a brow. “What about it?”

“Old man Keever’s puttin’ it up for sale. Says business ain’t what it used to be.”

“Guess people finally figured out they don’t need a gold-plated casket to die properly,” Colt said.

Joe snorted. “Or maybe folks just don’t want to sit in that godawful viewing room anymore, starin’ at velvet drapes and fake ferns. They’re gettin’ cremated and spreadin’ their ashes over Lake Lovelace.”

Sawyer nodded. “Cheaper and prettier. Can’t argue with that.”

The fire popped in the hearth like it was agreeing with us. Cards shuffled. Glasses refilled. The kind of rhythm that only happened when no one was in a rush to be anywhere else.

Then Joe leaned back and cleared his throat like he was winding up for the closer.

“Now, if y’all want somethin’ real juicy?—”

“God, here it comes,” Sawyer said.

Joe held up a hand. “I’m just sayin’… someone was in the feed store the other day—one of the Keel boys, I think—talkin’ like Matt, the grocery store manager, got more goin’ on than he lets on. Somethin’ about having a Wyoming driver’s license. Or maybe a connection to folks outside of town.”

Colt let out a snort. “Matt? Come on. Man manages melons and coupons. What’s he gonna be? Undercover banana king?”

“Probably just small-town speculation,” Easton said. “Bored minds make busy stories.”

“Still,” Joe added, lifting a brow, “he’s got a good-lookin’ woman playin’ house with him now.”

Everyone chuckled.

Everyone except me.

I just watched the swirl of smoke curl toward the rafters and let my expression stay blank.

It was stupid. Nothing real. Just talk.

But I knew where Callie Hart was living these days.

And something about the way Joe said it… didn’t sit right.

The game was winding down, cards loose in our hands and drinks sitting lower in the bottle. The fire had burned down to a bed of red-gold coals, but it still threw enough heat to keep us from noticing the draft leaking in around the old windows.

Easton yawned and pushed his chips toward the middle. “I’m out. Not broke—just bored.”

Sawyer groaned. “You’re always bored when I’m ahead.”

“You’ve never been ahead,” Easton said, stretching. “That’s just me letting you think you’re clever.”

Laughter rippled around the table.

I leaned back in my chair, sipping what was left in my glass when Colt’s voice cut through the noise, too casual to be an accident.

“You seen Callie lately?”

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Just slid one last chip into the center and gave him a dry smile. “Not since your shindig.”

He nodded like that was all he needed, and the conversation rolled on. But for me, it stopped right there.

Because that night?

It hadn’t gone the way I wanted it to.

I could still see her—backlit by the porch lights, arms crossed, hair twisted up in that messy kind of way that always made my chest feel too tight. She’d laughed with everyone else, but when her eyes found mine, they didn’t hold much humor.

Disappointed. Maybe hurt.

And yeah, I’d earned it. I opened my mouth and let something stupid fall out. A throwaway line meant to sting— living with a winner now, huh?

It was meant to be clever. Light. A jab like we used to toss back and forth when we were friends.

But it landed wrong. Hit deeper than it should’ve. Or maybe she was already bruised, and I just pressed the sore spot.

Now she was shacked up with Matt Downing, and I had to sit here pretending I didn’t give a damn.

But I did.

And not just because I’d wanted her since before she knew how to shoot whiskey. Not even because she looked better mad than most women when dressed to the nines.

It was the way she smiled lately—like she was working at it. Like she was building a life she wasn’t quite sure she wanted but had committed to anyway.

The others were packing up, shrugging on jackets, and cracking more jokes, but I just stared into the fire. Watched the last flicker curl up and vanish.

If Downing was everything he claimed to be, fine.

But if he wasn’t?

Well.

I’ve played dirty before.

And I damn sure know how to deal with someone who’s cheating on a friend.