Page 1 of Roughing It with the Rancher (Love Along Route 14 #11)

Chapter One

REESE

O f all the ways to lose the family ranch! Five generations of blood, sweat, and tears gone with a snap of the fingers. Or, more accurately, the roll of the dice.

“Sorry, Mr. Gunner,” the dealer at the Heirloom Rose mutters as I bury my head in my hands. He claims another pile of chips.

I stare dejectedly at the casino’s carpet, an impossible swirl of purple, orange, and yellow.

The place is devoid of windows and clocks.

Everything about the decor and layout is designed to herd hapless guests back to the slots and tables, an infinite loop of risk.

Sadly, my current losing streak is downright monumental.

A redheaded waitress walks by with what’s got to be her thousandth offer for a free drink on the house. The booze never quits flowing for dedicated players, especially those devoted to personal ruin.

“What’ll you have, cowboy?”

I frown. “Sorry, but I don’t need to amplify my problems by being drunk and broke at the same time.”

“You think too much,” she counters.

“Probably. Not that it’s helping me any tonight.”

“This morning,” she corrects, and I glance around the large, windowless casino floor, unable to ascertain the time.

Pulling out my phone, the screen reads fifteen past seven a.m. Damn, my crash and burn has taken all night.

“Sure, you don’t want that drink after all?”

“No, ma’am. I need liquid luck right now, not liquid courage.”

A woman walks past wearing a light tan leather jacket with long fringe running down the back. It’s the kind of western outfit folks in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada, tend to make fun of. City slickers who’ve escaped to the Great Basin to live out their own glorified episodes of Bonanza .

I’m pretty sure the Cartwrights never got in this much trouble, though …

“Sir,” the dealer eyes me, concern washing over his face. He’s got to be near retirement age, short-statured with gray hair, a smattering of age spots on his cheeks and neck, and almond-shaped eyes that narrow as he asks, “Are you in or not?”

“In?” The question sounds ridiculous at this point as my fingers play with the dwindling stack of chips in front of me.

But all I need is one big win. That’s all it would take to turn everything around.

“I’m at the end of my worst losing streak ever.

Don’t statistics, mathematics, trigonometry, whatever you want to call it, dictate that at some point, somehow, my luck should turn around? ”

The redheaded cocktail waitress, taking other drink orders around the table, puts her hand on her hip, shaking her head. “You talk too much, too.”

“Thank you for the rundown of my faults. But at present, I’m more worried about the worst streak of luck that’s ever hit me.”

Her eyes narrow. “You sound and look like you’re local. But I haven’t seen you here before. What’s your deal?”

“I’m the owner of Gunner Ridge Ranch,” I answer, pointing over my shoulder as if gesturing towards it. Truth be told, I’d need a compass to find my way around this place. “Well,” I add dejectedly. “At least I was.”

Her forehead creases. “Then, why haven’t I seen you in here before?”

“Because I hate casinos, and I hate gambling even more. But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

She chuckles. “This isn’t desperate. It’s stupid.”

If only she knew…

Between a drought that hasn’t broken in a decade, the worst string of cattle luck I’ve ever had, and a bank tired of putting up with my shenanigans, I’ve hit the bottom of the barrel.

Not merely for myself but every Gunner who’s gone before me or who’s yet to follow.

The following part is looking less and less likely.

After all, what woman would marry a man at the bottom of his luck, let alone become the mother to his children?

The dealer eyes me morosely, pulling me back from my sad reflections. “The only thing that math dictates, sir, is the probability that the house will win … eventually . You should have walked away from this table hours ago.”

“No, I’m feeling it. This is it. My lucky break.”

The people congregating around the table with droopy eyes and yawning mouths chuckle. Apparently, they don’t have the same faith.

“You know, it’s not about statistics, mathematics, or any of that,” a sexy-as-hell voice says next to me. The kind of voice that makes me stop everything and turn around for a look.

My jaw drops at the sight of the angel before me.

She may still be wearing that dumbass jacket like she walked off the set of the next Tombstone , but fuck does she have a face that could undo me …

and the body to match. Her silky, wavy blonde hair cascades over her shoulders in heavy waves that I want to lose myself in.

Her face is a work of art the likes of which I’ve never seen.

Symmetrical, fine-boned, and so delicate, she could make me change my ways for one heavenly touch, one sinful taste.

I’m in love, and the timing could not possibly be worse.

Her turquoise eyes sear me as she says, “What you need is a dose of good luck.”

Thirty seconds ago, that statement would’ve made me laugh until I wheezed—pathetic, sarcastic, and sad. But now, I’m all ears, knowing the best luck I’ve ever had, despite this being the worst losing streak of my life, is the woman standing in front of me.

“Luck? And are you the one handing it out?” I growl, pissed at the way my cheeks warm as she appraises me.

Her eyes linger longer than they should, her cheeks warming in equal frequency to mine.

Her nostrils flare, and she licks her bottom lip with an excruciating slowness that sends my head spinning and my heart free-falling.

She smiles lazily and sensually. “Maybe just this once.” Her eyes tick to the dice.

I shouldn’t pick them up again. That’s been the highly ineffective inner monologue for hours. But what other option do I have? Holding up my hand to show them to her, she grins seductively, leaning forward.

Better men would admire her otherworldly radiance. But my eyes dart straight to her tits. She may wear a leather jacket, but beneath it, I catch glimmers of a lacy, black blouse with a neckline that indulges my sudden thirst for a glimpse at her perky cleavage. I am not disappointed.

Yep, I’m sure she’s an angel. Come to collect my dry bones after this casino trip from hell ends while offering me my last, best glimpse of paradise.

She blows on the dice, and I etch every part of the moment into my mind.

How her juicy pink lips round on the gesture, her eyes close in one moment of surrender, and her hot breath warms my palm.

That’s how I bet she looks when she comes.

Fuck, if I don’t yearn to be the man who takes her there.

“Well?” The dealer growls.

I shake my head, working hard to disentangle myself from my current reverie. Hot damn, that woman was put on this Earth to destroy me!

No, dumbass, you’re doing that well enough on your own.

“Goodbye, cowboy,” the blonde winks, wheeling around and walking away before I can even tip my head and “ma’am” her. My eyes follow the sway of her hips, desperate to see her again. But things like this are called supernatural for a reason. They don’t happen all the time … or ever.

I sigh with relief, perhaps most touched by her last mercy—walking away before I bring my entire world crashing down. She doesn’t need to see a grown man cry.

The dice roll and scatter, bounding off the green felt of the table’s side as time stands still. My eyes settle on the dots, counting and recounting them.

The dealer’s eyebrows shoot skyward, his face animated by disbelief. “Eleven wins!”

“Dammit!” Whispers through the crowd surrounding me, my nameless compadres, jonesing for a final bloodbath. They discreetly exchange cash, betting privately on the outcome of the table. The dealer glares his warning at them.

“Yes!” I scream, jumping to my feet. My voice reverberates through the Heirloom Rose. “It’s about fucking time!” The backs of my eyes dangerously sting as I sit back down, inhaling deeply to pull myself together.

As the dealer pushes a big stack of clanking chips in my direction, I do the mental math.

This won’t save the ranch. I need another win.

My head bobs around the casino, searching for my blonde good luck charm.

But the mouthwatering beauty has regrettably vanished.

Maybe she really was an angel. Whatever the case, I can still feel the heat of her breath on my palm, and a weird tranquility floods me.

The dealer frowns, shaking his head. Somewhere throughout this hellish night, he’s gone from service provider to financial counselor.

And he’s not impressed with my current decision-making path.

But I’m locked in. There’s no other way.

I have to win and win big. I eye my palm, still wearing the angel’s breath.

I kiss it for good measure. Laughter rumbles through the gathered spectators as I grab the dice. My body tenses, and my heart hammers.

From my first pass line bet, I place the come bet as jeers and whispers sound around me.

Fuck ’em. This is my game. I can feel it in my bones.

The other players follow suit, and I do a quick calculation.

A couple more big pots like this, and I’ll have a fighting chance of preserving the Gunner family legacy.

“Sorry, Grandma, for earning this through sin,” I mutter under my breath, wondering how many Hail Marys I owe the priest. Thankfully, the ranching matriarch has been retired back East for a good while now, so she doesn’t have to see her ‘baby boy’ as she liked to call me, neck-deep in sin.

I roll again, my body taut as the world shrinks down to the size of two merciless cubes. I freeze, waiting for the “Craps” call, still semi-unbelieving things are turning around for me.

“Seven wins,” the dealer says, doing a double-take.

I jump to my feet, screaming. “Yes! God, yes! Please. Another win. That’s all it’ll take.” A hard-won win, though. One that’ll require more intestinal fortitude and fortune than I’ve ever mustered before.

“Come on, Angel. Do it for me one more time.”

More people gather now, attracted by my loud exclamations. I sit back down, running my hand through my hair. My cowboy hat rests on my knee. The weight of the world presses down on me as bets are placed again, and I do something downright reckless.

I bet Any Seven. The murmuring of the crowd turns to open mocking. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. Any Seven means high-risk and high-payout with a gargantuan house edge. But the math supports it … the same math I’ve been fucking up all night.

“God help me,” I pray, now more convinced than ever about the identity of the ethereal woman who walked by. I add in a whisper, “Sorry about finding fault with how you dress angels, Lord. But I’ve never seen one of your messengers before.”

Right with the Divine, I roll, and the damn planet stops spinning on its axis. The casino goes silent, not a slot singing or a body breathing as the dice slam against the table edge. My eyes follow their trajectory toward what can only be my demise.

The dealer shakes his head, chuckling and eyeing me with admiration. “Seven wins!”

Cheers fill the casino, former critics turning into avid admirers. It’s the kind of win that’ll have casino security swarming me for a behind-closed-doors interview and a swap of the dice to make sure no hanky-panky’s going on.

“Thank you, Angel!” I yell, fisting my lucky hand in the air.

The dealer eyes me with a huge smile, suddenly ready to be my best friend. But I’m not falling for that.

I collect my chips post-haste, frantic to cash out. I’ll be happy if I never see another casino. I might be on a lucky streak, but I’m not about to test it.