Page 2 of Roughing It with the Rancher (Love Along Route 14 #11)

Chapter Two

ESMERALDA

“ T hank you, Angel!”

The casino roars with applause as a deep male voice screams above the din. The chaos stops me and everyone else in the Heirloom Rose dead in our tracks. After all, it’s seven in the morning on a Friday. There’s no reason for folks to be hollering.

I stand at the counter of the only Starbucks I’ve encountered in over two hundred and fifty miles—thank you, Nevada, for your stark desolation—weighing my options.

I can finally get the coveted quadruple shot Americano with two pumps of vanilla and two pumps of caramel finished with cream.

Or I can investigate the outbreak of chaos in an otherwise quiet casino.

Something tells me, despite my caffeine craving, that I need to see this. Raising a finger to the green apron-clad barista, I say, “Hold that thought for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, but if anyone else comes, you’ll have to get back in line,” he calls after me.

I wend through the crowd, weaving my way to the noise. The auditory trail leads me right back to the Craps table and the handsome cowboy whose dice I blew on. He fists the air, his face elated as the crowd around him cheers. The dealer looks hellbent on finding ways to get him to sit back down.

“No way, Cowboy. Don’t even think about it,” I mutter under my breath, keenly aware half of the pot he’s holding belongs to me. After all, his luck clearly began with my breath.

How do I know this? Because I stood behind him for a good thirty minutes, watching him slowly lose his ass. I also listened to the gossip at the table, talking about how he’d been there all night, caught in the worst losing streak in Heirloom Rose history.

Such a shame because the inauspicious Craps player is otherwise gorgeous.

From his towering frame and muscular build to his tanned skin, dark blond hair and beard, and rugged face.

He’s got the square jawline of a man who should know what he wants in life.

Not one losing it all at the tables. But I suppose it takes all kinds to keep a casino rolling.

Before I can say a thing, the man shoves his chips into racks provided by the dealer, stacking the clear plastic holders high and beelining for the cashier.

I can only estimate, but his winnings have to be significant, maybe up to half a million dollars, with a handful of chips like that.

The sudden appearance of security escort to the cage underscores this.

I follow behind, trying to work out my next move.

In reality, I understand that he owes me nothing. But where would he be without my intervention? My argument’s tenuous at best, but I learned a long time ago to let the Universe do its thing and enjoy the ride. That ride includes half this man’s jackpot.

Lord knows I could use some money. Treasure hunting is no cheap venture, and this one has already taken me across multiple states. I started in Oklahoma in a beat-up Chevy Silverado that needed work in nearly every state I chugged through.

Leaks here. Bad tires there. Issues with the odometer, the engine light, you name it. I even had a daunting experience with the brakes that had me at the mechanics in Salt Lake City. To say it’s a miracle I made it to Nevada is an understatement.

So, whatever it takes, I need to get this man to shower a little of the good luck I bestowed on him back on me.

I draw a little closer, pretending to loiter by some of the slot machines. The man’s far too busy, his voice loud and elated as he relays everything to the cashier, to pay attention to me.

“Very nice, Mr. Gunner. What fantastic wins! Are you planning on spending any of your winnings with us here at the Heirloom Rose? You know, we treat our VIP players to free rooms, comped dinners, discounted shows with extra perks, the works.”

Mr. Gunner? I lean forward, unable to believe my ears.

“Call me Reese,” he flirts with the cashier.

Reese Gunner? There’s no way.

“Alright,” the cashier giggles as she starts counting out stacks of cash. She’s a middle-aged lady with blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail.

My heart races as I scrutinize the man. I had no idea he’d be this good-looking. Or this foolhardy.

He has no social media presence, apart from owning Gunner Ridge Ranch.

No photos in newspapers, either. Although I didn’t do an exhaustive search.

Instead, I’ve spent the last four years learning everything I can about the treasure hidden on his property.

Maybe I should’ve spent more time on the sexy man.

What drove me desperately to this godforsaken place was twofold.

News that a big developer had their sights on Gunner Ridge Ranch and my grandpa’s failing health.

He’s in a nursing home, requiring twenty-four-hour care.

So, this is my last chance to fulfill my grandpa’s dream before the place gets paved over and piled high with another casino, strip mall, and movie theater complex.

“Is it normal to tip cashiers? Because I’m feeling like you deserve a little extra something for helping out a high roller.” Reese hands her a couple of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, and I gasp.

If he’s going to flagrantly give away our earnings … Well, I won’t have that. Stepping forward, I exclaim, “Before you bleed money like a broken dam, we need to have a talk.” I press my lips into a thin line for emphasis.

Reese steps back, removing his cowboy hat and running his fingers through his thick, burnished copper hair. His arresting jade-hued eyes look downright mouthwatering if I wasn’t possessed by an even greener monster.

“Angel!” he exclaims, his eyes darkening as they inch over my face as if memorizing it.

“Angel?” I scowl. “Actually, the name’s Esmeralda.” I offer a hand, and he takes it. But instead of shaking with a firm grip, he turns it over, leaning forward to kiss the back. Sparks fly at the brush of his soft lips and the way he looks up at me, ulterior motives swirling behind his gaze.

“Esmeralda,” he repeats in soft, dark tones. “Like the county.”

I nod.

Despite the consternation in my thinking brain, all thoughts of feminism and who the hell does he think he is, my heart does a funny twirl in my chest. I’m not convinced it goes back to the same spot as before. It could be a problem except I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

Arching an eyebrow, I ask, “And your name?” Of course, I already know, but I’m not ready to admit why I was eavesdropping.

“Reese Gunner.”

“Like the river?”

His eyes narrow, and he cocks his head. “That’s right. Are you from around here?”

“Oklahoma, actually.”

“So, you have a Reese River there, too?”

I shrug. “More than likely. I was referring to the Reese in Nevada, though.”

“Huh,” he says, leaning back on his heels and scrutinizing me. “And where did you come by so much Silver State geography?”

Dammit! I kick myself, realizing I may have already said too much. “I like Westerns.”

“Old Westerns?” he replies, looking unconvinced.

“Ancient ones. Used to watch them with my grandpa.” This last part’s no lie, so I speak it more confidently. His face relaxes slightly.

“I own Gunner Ridge Ranch. In no small part thanks to you.”

His words surprise me, playing right into my hand. I grin. “I’m glad we see things eye to eye. A fifty-fifty split’ll settle it. Though Lord knows that’s generous after the losing streak I pulled you out of.”

He laughs out loud, a good-natured sound coming up from the depths of his barrel chest. “You’re smoking hot and funny? Now, that’s a priceless combination.”

I put my hands on my hips. “What makes it a priceless combination is the part you left out.”

“What?”

“The luck.”

He laughs some more, his cheeks glowing by the time he’s done. Arching an eyebrow, he asks, “What are you doing in these parts, Oklahoma?”

Exploring Western history. That’s what I’ve told people all the way out here, but I bite my tongue. It’s getting far too close to the truth for Reese Gunner. Although I can’t imagine this handsome cowboy’s much into history.

“Did you hear me, Okie? I was asking what brought you out this way.”

I shrug, trying to play it nonchalant. “Westerns. I wanted to see where some of them were filmed.”

“Huh,” he says, eyeing me some more. “You do know most happened in Moab, Utah, and Lone Pine, California, right?”

I smile, feeling like the Cheshire Cat.

The cashier calls through the window, not remotely embarrassed to show she’s been eavesdropping, “Reese, honey, she must be talking about Bonanza .”

His face goes pensive for a moment before he adds, “And The Misfits . Hate to burst your bubble, but you’re still a way off. You have to head south to Virginia City and Dayton for those.”’

“Of course,” I shrug, trying to play things off.

“You’ve got a bit more driving to do, but considering you came all the way from Oklahoma, I spose this won’t seem like any great feat to you. Are you heading out today?”

“That was the plan … until I stumbled across you.” Obviously, I leave out the part about the ranch or the treasure, hoping a little flirting and a lot of conversation and charm will gain me access to his homestead. But I know I’m playing a dangerous game, especially with this mouthwatering man.

He swallows hard, pleasure written on his face. “Breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you.” I can’t deny the electrical charge in the air between us or how damn handsome this man is.

“Darling,” Reese says, raising an eyebrow towards the cashier. “I know you’ve got some figuring to do when it comes to taxes and all. Mind if we get a bite to eat, and I come back for my winnings?”

“Sure thing,” she says, ready to do anything for the man who tips well.

“You won’t regret it,” he says, laying on the charm and winking.

Anger wells inside me, nameless and irrational.

Darling? Winking. It feels an awful lot like jealousy, but I choose to shrug it off.

After all, I’m after access to Gunner Ridge Ranch, not a fool of a cowboy who stayed up all night nearly gambling away his ranch and my one shot at the fabled El Cortez treasure.

Thank goodness I didn’t realize who he was earlier while I watched him at the table. I would’ve been a freaking mess during each roll of the dice.

“Ma’am,” Reese says, offering me his arm in true gentlemanly fashion.

He wears an untucked, long-sleeve, button-down brown pearl snap shirt with tiny rose patterns running in stripes vertically.

It opens up onto a black, faded Eagles “Hotel California” T-shirt and a pair of darkish Wranglers that hit his thick thighs better than perfect.

I take his arm, exhaling and trying to get it together. But those pesky sparks flying between us double down in this close proximity, though our flesh doesn’t touch. I’m afraid if it did, smoke signals would rise.

He smells like spicy sandalwood, poor decisions, and everything I like about bad boys … until the morning after.

Side-eyeing me, his cheeks glow, and he puffs out his chest, giving the impression he’s proud to have me on his arm.

My eyes gravitate towards his, getting lost in their emerald hue.

“What’s your pleasure, Angel?” He grins from ear to ear, all big, white, straight teeth

“Esmeralda,” I correct.

“That may be what you go by in heaven. But to me, you’ll always be an angel. And one who showed up just in the nick of time. Of course, I spose I could call you my lucky charm. But I’d imagine everyone will end up thinking you’re a leprechaun or something.”

I snicker. “And we can’t have that.”

“Nah, you may be supernatural, and you may even hang out at the end of rainbows. But that’s where the differences end.”

“It was an okay cereal, though. At least as a kid. I imagine I’d think it was too sugary now.”

“Hell, yes,” Reese agrees, a deep booming laugh rising up from his chest again. As if eating children’s cereal is ridiculous.

“You still haven’t answered my question. What’s your pleasure?”

The way he says it, in his sexy, dark voice, undoes me in ways I refuse to admit. It’s as though my body has decided to perform a mutiny as we walk arm in arm. The new throb between my legs attests to it.

“Well,” I say, licking my lips. “I was over at Starbucks when I heard the clamor in the casino and had to check it out?—”

“Wait, they have a Starbucks here?”

I nod, surprised by the question. After all, this man gives gambling addict vibes. He has to know his way around the place. Unless he’s so hooked, he barely leaves the tables.

“Sorry,” he excuses. “But I avoid casinos like the plague. Gambling, too, which makes all of this so much more fortuitous.”

His words surprise me, and I stop, staring at him long and hard. “You mean to tell me you’re not a regular patron of this place?”

“Not only am I not a regular patron. Apart from the occasional grocery store slot machine, I never gamble.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Then, why’d you start with Craps? That’s far from the easiest game to master.”

He shrugs. “I watched a few rounds and figured it out. And then lost my ass most of the night until you appeared.” He says the last part adoringly, his eyes grazing over me. “Aren’t you hot in that jacket, Esmeralda?”

I look down, seeing his point. “I guess I kind of am, although it was downright chilly when I got in this morning.”

“That’s the Nevada desert for you. Incinerate you with heat stroke during the day and freeze you to death at night.”

“Sounds pleasant.”

“Sarcasm, too? Something tells me you and I are going to get along just fine.”