Page 25 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

God, I own nothing when you truly think about it…even the money I’ve revolved my life around saving is going to go to this hundred million debt when you think about it…

The habits of captivity die hard—don't take what isn't given, don't assume welcome, don't act like you belong until someone tells you that you do.

I need air…

Thinking of my predicament makes it feel as if I’m about to suffocate within these beautiful cabin wood walls.

I need to see where I am, orient myself in space beyond these grand walls, no matter how beautiful they are.

The front door isn't locked.

That stops me for a moment, hand on the doorknob.

In Vegas, everything was locked. Doors, windows, hearts. But here, I could just...walk out.

The boots by the door are comically large— men's size 12 at least —but they're the only option unless I want to go barefoot. I shove my feet into them, having to shuffle more than walk, probably looking ridiculous in silk pajamas and cowboy boots that could fit two of me.

The air outside hits like a revelation.

Clean.

Not the artificial clean of filtered air, but real clean. The kind that comes from being nowhere near a city, far away from the exhaust fumes and particular cocktail of pollutants that makes Vegas smell like broken dreams and cigarette smoke.

This air tastes like pine and earth and something crisp I can't identify. Fall, maybe. The turning of seasons that doesn't really happen in the desert.

And the colors, wow…true various shades of colors I’ve never witnessed.

I'd glimpsed it from the window, but standing here, surrounded by it, is different.

The trees are showing off, dressed in reds and golds and oranges that look edited, too saturated to be real. Leaves drift down in lazy spirals, carpeting the ground in a patchwork quilt that crunches under the too-big boots.

Mountains rise in the distance, not the bare rock of Nevada but green-black with evergreens, their peaks already dusted with snow. The sky is a blue that hurts to look at, so clear I can see birds— eagles? —circling on thermals I can't feel.

"Where the hell am I?" I whisper to no one.

Not Nevada. Definitely not Nevada.

The trees alone tell me that, but it's more than vegetation. The quality of the light is different, softer somehow, filtered through moisture in the air that Nevada never has.

Pacific Northwest, maybe. Washington, Oregon, Northern California.

Somewhere where trees grow tall and seasons actually change and hundred-million-dollar packs can build kingdoms in the wilderness.

There's a pasture to my right, and my shuffling steps take me toward it without conscious decision.

Horses.

Three of them, grazing with the lazy contentment of animals who know they're safe, loved, well-fed. One looks up as I approach the fence— a chestnut mare with a white blaze down her face —and ambles over to investigate.

"Hey, beautiful," I murmur, holding out my hand for her to sniff. She lips at my palm, disappointed by the lack of treats, but lets me stroke her neck anyway. Her coat is like silk, warm under my hand, and she smells like hay.

"I had a horse once," I tell her, the words coming without thought. "When I was little, before Mom got sick. A pony, really. Named him Treasure because I was seven and not very creative."

The mare whickers softly, and I choose to believe she's commiserating.

"Mom sold him to pay for treatment that didn't work. Dad was already gambling then, though we didn't know how bad it was. She never told him about Treasure, never told him about the money either. It was our secret, she said. Our last fight."

Tears prick my eyes, surprising me.

I haven't cried over Treasure in years, haven't let myself think about that last good thing Mom tried to do.

"She tried so hard," I whisper to the horse. "And it all fell apart anyway."

The sound of chopping wood interrupts my equine therapy session.

It's rhythmic, steady, the sound of someone who knows what they're doing and has the stamina to keep doing it. It's coming from behind the house, deeper into the trees.

I should go back inside… where it's safe— or at least safer. Should not go wandering into the forest in stolen boots and borrowed pajamas, looking for alphas who technically own me.

But my feet are already moving.

The sound leads me down a path I hadn't noticed, worn into the forest floor by years of use. The boots make it awkward, but I manage, following the sound like a fairy tale protagonist about to stumble into either wonder or danger.

Five minutes of walking, maybe more. Long enough that the house disappears behind trees, that the chopping gets louder, that my heart starts beating faster for reasons that have nothing to do with exertion.

The clearing opens suddenly, and there he is.

Shiloh.

Shirtless.

My brain short-circuits for a moment, unable to process what I'm seeing.

He's... God, he's magnificent.

Not in the polished way of gym-built bodies, all for show and no substance.

This is a functional muscle, earned through work rather than workouts.

His shoulders are broad enough to block the sun, tapering to a waist that makes his proportions seem impossible.

His abs aren't the rigid six-pack of magazine covers but something better—strong, defined, with a trail of dark hair disappearing into low-slung jeans.

The scars tell stories I don't know how to read.

A puckered star on his left shoulder—bullet wound, my brain supplies. Claw marks across his ribs that look too uniform to be accidental. A surgical scar low on his abdomen, precise and medical. And others, so many others, creating a map of violence survived.

His tattoos are unexpected. Not the full sleeves I'd imagined, but strategic pieces.

A compass rose over his heart with coordinates I can't read from here. A date on his ribs in Roman numerals. What looks like a wolf or dog on his right bicep, highly detailed, almost photographic in its realism.

The cowboy hat sits on his head like it was made for him, casting his face in shadow even as sweat makes his skin gleam in the filtered sunlight.

He's chopping wood with an economy of motion that speaks of years of practice—lift, swing, split.

The axe goes through the logs like they're made of butter, his strength casual, controlled.

My thighs clench involuntarily, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. This is pornographic in its own way, this display of masculine competence. Every swing makes his muscles ripple, every breath shows the control he has over his own body.

He sets up another log, and when he swings this time, the impact sends droplets of sweat flying, catching the light like diamonds. He pauses, pulls off the hat to wipe his forehead with his forearm, and his hair is damp, darker than usual, curling slightly at the edges.

I could watch this all day. Heck, I’d pay money to watch this. Probably just did, in a roundabout way.

A bark breaks the spell.

A dog comes racing out of nowhere—a German Shepherd mix, maybe, all legs and enthusiasm and wagging tail. It's headed straight for me, and for a moment, my casino-trained brain screams danger—unknown animal, probably protective of its owner, could be aggressive.

But instead of freezing in fear, I gasp with delight.

"A puppy!"

I drop to my knees right there in the dirt, not caring about the expensive pajamas or the way the movement makes me dizzy. The dog skids to a stop a few feet away, head tilted, clearly not expecting this reaction.

"Hi, baby," I coo, keeping my voice soft and high the way Mom taught me when I was little. "Oh, you're beautiful, aren't you? Such a pretty puppy."

The dog's ears prick forward, but it doesn't approach.

Smart. Cautious.

I stay perfectly still, offering my hand palm-down, letting it decide.

"It's okay. I'm nice, I promise. I smell weird, I know. Like medicine and new places and probably fear-sweat, but I'm nice. I've never gotten to pet a real dog before. Just the mean ones they used for security, and they weren't for petting."

The dog takes a step closer, nose twitching. Another step. Finally, it stretches its neck out to sniff my hand, its breath warm and damp against my skin.

The dog huffs—a sound that seems to say 'you'll do'—and suddenly it's racing around me in circles, tail wagging so hard its whole back end is wiggling.

I giggle— actually a genuine sound of glee, a sound I haven't made in years —as it play-bows in front of me, then races away, then comes back.

"You want to play? Is that it? Oh, you're just a baby, aren't you?"

The dog apparently takes this as an invitation and launches itself at me.

I squeal—not in fear but in pure joy—as I'm knocked backward, the dog immediately licking my face with enthusiasm.

"Oh my God, puppy kisses!" I'm laughing now, really laughing, as I try to pet it while it tries to lick every inch of my face. "You're perfect, you know that? The most perfect puppy in the whole world."

The dog flops down next to me, rolling onto its back to present its belly, and I immediately comply with the obvious demand for belly rubs. Its fur is softer than expected, well-groomed despite living in the forest, and it makes little groaning sounds of happiness as I scratch.

"Are you a boy or a girl?" I ask, not really looking because I'm too enchanted by the way its back leg kicks when I find the right spot. "Not that it matters. You're gorgeous either way. And so friendly! Yes you are, yes you are!"

I'm using full baby-talk now, dignity abandoned in the face of canine perfection.

"I'm keeping you," I declare to the dog, who seems amenable to this plan. "You're mine now. We'll be best friends. I'll sneak you treats and let you sleep in my bed and?—"

"Kidnapping my dog is technically illegal."

The voice comes from above, amused and warm, and I look up to find Shiloh standing over me.

This close, I can smell him—sawdust and sweat and that underlying scent that makes my brain go fuzzy. He's even more devastating up close, all that skin and muscle and barely contained power.

"And Duke's picky about who he likes," he adds, one eyebrow arched in a way that should be illegal.

Duke.

The dog's name is Duke.

I pout, lower lip pushing out in an expression that feels both childish and calculating.

Then I grin, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially to the dog but loud enough for Shiloh to hear:

"Let me have him. He likes me better."

Duke wags his tail in agreement, and Shiloh laughs.

The sound transforms him. The controlled soldier, the man who'd paid a hundred million dollars without blinking, disappears. In his place is someone younger, lighter, someone who might have been if the world had been kinder.

My heart does something complicated in my chest, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm giggling too.

Real, uncontrolled giggling at the absurdity of it all—me in silk pajamas and too-big boots, covered in dirt and dog hair, trying to steal this deadly man's pet while he stands there looking like every fantasy I've never let myself have.

Then his expression shifts.

He crouches down in front of me, movements careful like I might spook. His hand comes up slowly, telegraphing his intentions, before settling against my cheek with a gentleness that makes my breath catch.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, little cherry."

His voice is soft, so soft I have to strain to hear it even though he's right there.

But it's his eyes that stop my heart.

He's looking at me like I died. Like I actually died and he had to watch it happen, and now I'm here, miraculous and impossible. The naked emotion in those forest-green depths makes my chest ache in ways I don't have words for.

No one has ever looked at me like this.

Like I matter.

As if my absence would leave a hole in the world.

I don't think, just move, leaning in until my lips brush his.

It's barely a kiss, more breath than contact, but it feels like the small touch can heal a wound that’s bleeding, hidden from my eyes.

"Don't look so sad," I whisper against his mouth. "It doesn't suit you."

We stay frozen for a moment, sharing breath, sharing space, his hand still cupping my cheek like I'm something precious. His eyes search mine, looking for something—permission maybe, or understanding, or just proof that I'm real.

Then he nods, slow and careful, and leans in until his forehead rests against mine.

"Just stay like this," he murmurs, and his voice cracks slightly on the words. "Just for a moment."

I don't understand what's gotten into him, what's made this controlled warrior suddenly vulnerable.

But I don't push or question.

I close my eyes and breathe him in— sweat, sawdust, and safety —while Duke settles against our sides like he's standing guard.

The forest whispers around us, leaves falling like snow, and for this moment—just this moment—everything else fades away.

The contracts, the money, the uncertainty of what happens now that I’ve been sold to the highest bidder.

All that exists is this: his skin against mine, his breath matching my breath, our foreheads pressing together.

This sense of touch.

I hope to embrace it just a little longer.

Until I’m forced into my new reality.