Page 47 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

RIDING INTO COMPLICATIONS

~CORWIN~

R ed's squeal pierces through the afternoon air, pure joy made audible as we race faster through the wilderness.

The sound makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with the galloping beneath us and everything to do with the woman pressed against my chest.

"Faster!" she shouts into the wind, and her laughter— God, her laughter is like medicine I didn't know I needed .

It bubbles up from somewhere deep, untainted by the years of performance she'd been forced to give.

This is real, genuine delight at something as simple as riding a horse through open country.

My arms tighten around her waist as we bounce in the saddle, her smaller frame fitting perfectly against mine.

The decision to have her change clothes was the right one—the dress would have been impossible for riding.

Well, more importantly, after the deed with Shiloh all night long.

Now she's in black tights that hug her legs, sturdy boots we'd found in the mudroom that actually fit, and a cream button-up blouse decorated with tiny embroidered cherries that she'd squealed over when Talon presented it.

"Did you buy this just for me?" she'd asked, fingering the delicate cherry pattern.

"Maybe," Talon had said with that shit-eating grin of his. "Saw it in town yesterday and thought... well, couldn't resist."

The fact that Talon is buying anything for her is a good sign, though I’m sure when Rafe finds out, he’s going to be pissed — as usual.

Her hair whips wildly in the wind now, auburn strands catching the late afternoon sun like copper fire.

But it's her expression that catches me—wide eyes trying to take in everything at once, mouth open in wonder, cheeks flushed from wind and excitement.

She looks alive in a way that the intelligence photos from the casino never captured.

Jackknife Ridge spreads out before us in all its cultivated wilderness.

Mountains rise to our east, their peaks already touched with early snow.

Meadows roll to the west, dotted with wildflowers that shouldn't still be blooming this late in the season but do anyway, as if the land itself refuses to follow conventional rules.

The forest we're riding through is old growth, trees that were here before the town, before the secrets, before everything fell apart, and we rebuilt it into something new.

Many don't know the true history of this place.

How it was an abandoned wasteland after the copper mines closed in the sixties, left to rot until certain interested parties realized its potential.

Not for mining, but for disappearing. For building something outside the reach of law enforcement, government oversight, and anyone else who might object to what we do here.

I've hidden so many of its residents' darkest secrets in my medical files. Bullet wounds that don't exist. Babies born to women who were never pregnant. Death certificates for people who needed to “stop existing”.

The beautiful thing about being the only doctor in fifty miles is that my word is literally law when it comes to medical facts.

The town's wooden sign comes into view as we crest the hill— "Welcome to Jackknife Ridge, Population 847." The number hasn't changed in five years, no matter how many people come or go. Another useful fiction I help maintain.

"Oh my god, it's like a movie!" Red gasps, and I feel her trying to sit up straighter to see better.

"Easy," I murmur against her ear. "Don't want you falling off at this speed."

She settles back against me, but her excitement is palpable. "Is that Main Street? Are those actual old-timey storefronts? Is that a real saloon?"

"All real," I confirm, pulling gently on Luna's reins to slow her to a trot. My mare responds immediately, well-trained and steady. "Most of the buildings date from the 1890s. We've just... maintained them carefully."

Maintained and modified. The saloon has a basement that connects to three different tunnel systems. The general store has a hidden arsenal behind the pickle barrels.

The library has a panic room that could withstand a nuclear blast. But from the outside, it all looks like perfect small-town Americana.

I glance back to check on Shiloh and Talon.

They're about fifty yards behind us, maintaining tactical spacing without making it obvious. It's a habit more than a necessity—we don't expect trouble in town, but we never expected Sophia to die either, and that taught us to always have backup.

We should have waited for Rafe, tried harder to get him to come.

But he's been ignoring his phone all afternoon, probably brooding in his office about Red's presence, about what she represents.

The phones work fine here—we made sure of that when we installed our own cell tower disguised as a forest service fire watch station.

He's choosing isolation, the stubborn bastard.

Luna comes to a stop near the town's entrance, and Red immediately leans forward to pat the horse's neck.

"You're such a good girl!" she coos. "So strong and beautiful! Thank you for the ride!"

I chuckle, swinging down from the saddle with practiced ease.

"She seems to really like you. That's actually perfect—Luna's excellent with new riders. She knows every trail in town by heart, could probably run them blindfolded."

"Really?" Red's eyes light up. "She's that smart?"

"Smarter than most people I've treated," I say, reaching up to help her down. "Let me?—"

She puts her hands on my shoulders, trusting me to lift her from the saddle. The moment my hands span her waist, that scent hits me full force—cherries and honey and something uniquely her that makes my medical brain shut down entirely.

I lift her down slowly, but instead of setting her on her feet immediately, I hold her close, her body sliding against mine until her boots touch the ground.

"You really do smell nice," I murmur, echoing Shiloh's earlier observations. "He wasn't exaggerating."

She tilts her head, curious rather than uncomfortable with our proximity.

"What do I smell like to you? Everyone seems to experience it differently."

"Sweet," I say, trying to find words for something that transcends language. "Incredibly sweet, but not cloying. Like... summer fruit and wildflower honey and something warm, like cinnamon or nutmeg. Can’t forget the cherries."

The sound of approaching hooves signals Shiloh and Talon's arrival, but I don't step back yet.

"The thing is," I continue, needing her to understand this oddity about me, "I don't usually notice omega scents. Or most scents, really."

She frowns slightly. "What do you mean?"

"It's a genetic quirk, inherited from my father.

My olfactory processing is... selective.

I can only detect certain scent molecules, and they're not the usual ones.

" I watch her process this, her sharp mind already working.

"In medical service, it made me incredibly valuable.

I could smell infection before it presented symptoms, detect internal bleeding by the metallic tang it leaves in sweat, and identify specific diseases by their chemical signatures. "

"That's... actually amazing," she says, eyes widening. "On a battlefield, that would be?—"

"A superpower," I confirm. "I could find wounded soldiers faster than trained dogs sometimes.

The scent of someone dying is very specific—sweet rot and metal and something like ozone.

I could track it through smoke, through chemical weapons residue, through everything else that should have masked it. "

"That's a hell of a genetic gift," she says, then laughs self-consciously. "Better than what I got from my mom, for sure."

"What do you mean?"

She shifts her weight, and I catch the slight tremor in her left leg.

"My legs sometimes don't work right. Circulation issue, probably genetic since Mom had something similar. It's actually been happening more often lately, but..." She shrugs. "Couldn't exactly get it properly checked at the casino."

Concern floods through me, my medical training immediately cataloging possible conditions.

"Next week, I'll take you to the clinic. We have an omega specialist who comes once a week for checkups. Dr. Sarah Chen —she's excellent, trained at Johns Hopkins before she decided small-town medicine was more her speed."

"Won't I need an appointment? I don't want to be a hassle?—"

"Not at all," I cut her off gently. "You're vitally important, Red. Your health is our priority. We need to make sure you're okay, that whatever's happening with your legs isn't something serious."

She looks down, and I can see the vulnerability in the set of her shoulders.

"I'm scared, though. What if it's... what if it's what killed my mom?"

My heart clenches at the admission.

Without thinking, I reach out to fix a strand of her wild hair, then pull the spare cowboy hat I'd brought from my saddlebag. It's cream-colored to match her blouse, with a band decorated with small silver stars.

As I settle it on her head, I whisper, "Finding out about your health is scary. But preventing further damage is better than avoidance, don't you think?"

She nods slowly, the hat shadowing her eyes.

"Can I do something rather invasive?" I ask.

She looks up, curious.

"Sure?"

I lean down and press a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose. She goes cross-eyed trying to look at where my lips touched, and I can't help but smile.

"When I was little and scared about being sick, my mom would kiss my nose and say all the frightening diseases would run away because they couldn't stand the power of a mother's love."

She giggles, the sound lighter than before.

"Did it work?"

"Every time, until I turned twelve and got mortified when she did it in public. But the thought counts, right? Maybe it still works with pack members instead of mothers."

We're both laughing when Shiloh and Talon finally reach us, dismounting with the fluid grace of men who've spent years on horseback.

"About time you two showed up," I tease. "We were about to start the tour without you."

"Had to make sure we weren't followed," Shiloh says, but his eyes are on Red, checking her over like he needs to confirm she's still okay after being out of his sight for ten minutes.

"Where do we even park the... uh... horses?" Red asks, looking around with adorable confusion.

"Park?" Talon laughs. "Did you just ask where we park the horses?"

"Well, what else would you call it?" she shoots back. "Stable them? Lodge them? What's the proper terminology, horse expert?"

"We hitch them," I explain, trying not to laugh at their bickering. "There's a post right?—"

I stop mid-sentence because both Shiloh and Talon have gone rigid, their entire demeanor shifting from relaxed to combat-ready in a heartbeat.

The change is subtle enough that most people wouldn't notice—a slight shift in stance, hands moving to easier reach of concealed weapons, eyes tracking something behind me.

Red notices though. Of course she does. Three years of reading dangerous men for survival has made her hyperaware of these shifts.

"What's wrong?" she asks, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

I move without thinking, stepping in front of her, using my broader frame to shield her from view.

My hand goes to the small of my back where my Glock sits, a habit from too many times when medical calls turned into something else.

Then I see him, and my blood goes cold.

Walking down Main Street like he owns it—which, in a way, he thinks he does—is the last person we wanted to run into today. Or ever, really, but especially not with Red here, vulnerable and new and still finding her footing.

He hasn't seen us yet, too busy charming Mrs. Henderson outside the bakery, that practiced smile that never reaches his eyes. But he will. In a town this small, you can't avoid anyone for long.

"Fuck," Shiloh mutters under his breath.

"Is that—" Talon starts.

"Yeah," I confirm, my jaw clenching. "It's him."

Red presses closer to my back, and I can feel her trembling slightly. Not from fear exactly, but from the tension radiating off all three of us.

"Who?" she whispers.

I turn my head just enough to answer her, keeping my eyes on the threat.

"Luca Ferrero."