A Photo Finish: A Small Town Second Chance Romance (Gold Rush Ranch Book 2)

I’M WAY TOO ATTACHED to Pretty_in_Purple. It’s beyond my comprehension. A fucking internet pen pal. And I live for her messages.

Some nights, we type back and forth until I drift off with my phone in my hands. I wake up clinging to the device like it’s a fucking lifeline. Maybe it is. Maybe she is.

Maybe that’s why I check our chat first thing every morning, hoping she’ll have written to me. Anything, even just an emoji from her, is enough to start my day off right.

I thought jerking off to girls on the internet made me pathetic. So, what does getting attached to one make me? I only have that one photo of her saved. I should be tired of jacking off to it by now.

But I’m not.

And beyond that, I imagine meeting her in real life. I imagine holding her, whispering my deepest, darkest secrets into her ear, and then feeling her arms wrap around me as I slide inside her.

It’s gone beyond wanting to fuck her to . . . whatever that would be. I’ve gone so far as wondering if she’s with someone in real life. So fucking lame. Of course she is! She’s sweet and she’s beautiful—what guy in his right mind wouldn’t want that? But it doesn’t stop me from sending a message asking her.

Golddigger85: Any lucky guys in your life these days?

She takes a long time to respond. It’s the middle of the day. I know she’s working. I’m supposed to be working too. But here I am, obsessing over a random internet girl. Agitation builds inside me, something I take out on a few low-level employees like a total dick. Like a kid who can’t control his emotions.

When my phone finally pings a few hours later, a deep sigh surges out of me. I flop down in my leather office chair and lean back as I pull my phone out of my suit pocket.

Pretty_in_Purple: Only one.

My brows squeeze together, and my forearms go tight. I knew it.

Golddigger85: Does he know about me?

Pretty_in_Purple: I don’t know. Does he?

I rear back as I do some mental gymnastics to figure out what she’s just implied. My chest puffs up a bit over a girl I’ve never met and never will.

Does she mean me?

I HAVE no idea where Violet went. All I know is that I got a text saying she had a ride back to the farm. But she’s still not here. So, I’m just sitting on the porch step, nursing another tumbler of scotch, with the brown horse staring back at me like I owe her something. Attention, food, who knows—it’s getting unnerving.

I can’t believe I’m letting a fucking horse make me feel bad.

As if I don’t already feel bad enough. I wanted to follow Violet when she took off, and I started out that way, until I saw she was heading straight for the track—not for the stables. Then I pussied out.

The track is such a dichotomy for me. The place that holds all my best and worst memories. On one hand, I grew up there. My dad was a popular and successful jockey at Bell Point Park. We spent a lot of time there together. On the other hand, I watched him die on that track.

The booth up top is the perfect compromise—Trixie’s idea. Exposure therapy. A removed view, no sound of pounding hooves, no crackling loudspeaker, none of the triggers that take me straight back to that day. Never mind the war, that day is my tipping point.

I know Violet doesn’t want anyone taking care of her, but goddammit, I wanted to. I wanted to grind Patrick to a pulp and then whisk Violet as far from him as possible. The sight of his hand on her shoulder makes me see red.

I shake my head.

I almost combusted on the spot. I almost turned into the soldier that I haven’t been in six years now.

Which is exactly why Violet is a weakness I can’t afford. I’ve worked too hard to combat my outbursts and my down days, the ones where I can’t even muster the energy to smile. Against all my best instincts, even when I know I’m nothing but a hot mess where she’s concerned, I wanted to be there for her. To chase her down and fix things for her. Which is a terrible idea. Colossally stupid.

And exactly what she doesn’t want.

I want to call Trixie, but it’s too late to be doing that. I hang my head in my hands and mutter to myself, “Good work, Harding.”

The horse nickers from across the driveway and bobs her head at me with a long blink of her thick lashes. I can’t help but chuckle. She is relentless. No quit in that one. I leave the tumbler on the deck and walk across to the fence where the horse is waiting.

She’s kind of hard not to like. Her ears prick forward at my approach, and her head rises just a little taller in excitement. I swear if she had the right kind of tail, she’d be wagging it.

“Hey, girl,” I whisper, running my hand down her neck and feeling the heat of her exhale against my stomach as she nuzzles in.

She’s the first horse I’ve touched since my dad died. I’ve barely allowed myself to admit this, but it feels good. Therapeutic maybe. The soft prickle of her coat under my fingers . . . I wonder if I’m having the same tactile experience that my dad might have had when he was still alive. If I’m feeling the same thing as he did once.

Her excited whinny every time I pull up to the house almost makes me smile, and the way she followed me around quietly while I worked out here earlier made me feel . . . I don’t know. Worthy of attention.

Like maybe I could be likable after all.

I walk down to the corner of her paddock where there is a stack of square hay bales under a blue tarp, and she follows. Lifting a corner of the tarp, I pull a flake off the top bale and inhale the dusty, grassy smell as I carry it back over to her feeder.

The hay is all over my suit, but I don’t care. Material shit hasn’t mattered to me in years. I guess that’s why I live in a small and dated condo in a four-story walk up in Vancouver’s West End neighborhood. It’s a clean place to lay my head at night while I go through the motions of my day-to-day schedule. My days of feeding into my mother’s elite lifestyle died along with my engagement to Hilary.

I’m leaning against the fence, listening to the horse’s contented munching, lost in a memory when lights turn down the driveway. I recognize Billie’s truck, but it’s too dark to see inside.

Violet jumps out and lands on one foot. Obviously not wanting help to get out anymore after I dry-humped the hell out of her last night.

I cringe internally at the memory. Thirty-six going on sixteen, apparently. Next thing I know, I’ll be asking her to play just-the-tip.

Which is a terrible plan. Because, like I told her, I like her—and I shouldn’t. I like her as more than a friend, and that’s all we can be. I haven’t touched a woman in years, never mind had one touching me. I haven’t let anyone get close enough. It feels insurmountable now. Pathetic as it sounds.

But after two weeks in the same house as Violet, it’s all I can fucking think about.

“Hi,” she says shyly as she walks over to me. “What are you doing out here?”

“Just feeding the horse.”

Her head tilts imperceptibly. “I fed her before we left.”

The brown horse’s black globes for eyes flit up momentarily like she knows I’m a sucker for giving her more. Then she gets back to grinding her teeth and shoving the hay around. She looks happy, so who cares.

I just grunt and continue to stare at the little horse, expecting Violet to leave. Instead, she comes closer to the fence, a full post-length away from me, and leans against it. I can feel her gaze on me, like hands roaming over my body—soft and searching.

I don’t want to look back at her. To see that pale blond hair shining in the moonlight, those wide, indigo eyes boring into me, so full of unasked questions. I don’t want to think about Patrick’s hands on her, the way he cornered her, the things he said to her. He deserved the extra twist I gave his arm, the threat I whispered in his ear before I headed back upstairs. He deserved a lot worse than that.

And Violet? She deserves a man better than me. More honest than me. A hell of a lot more available than me. But the more time I spend around her, the less I care and the more I want.

“You sure you don’t like horses?” Amusement infuses her tone.

I scoff and keep staring at the brown filly.

“Not even a liiiittle bit?” She holds her thumb and finger up with little distance between them.

My cheek twitches, and I sigh, feeling the tension in my shoulders drain out to nothing. “Okay. If I had to like a horse, it would be this one.”

“Ha! I knew it.”

I shake my head. She looks far too pleased with herself. I shouldn’t give her anymore ammunition to run with, so I clear my throat and change the subject. “Are you okay? I didn’t know where you went.”

The victorious smile on her face melts off, and now it’s her turn to look away from me. “Yeah. Just needed some space. I don’t know if you noticed,” she chuckles sardonically, “but I don’t really belong up in the skybox.”

What? “Why not?” I ask, genuinely confused.

Her eyes roll as she continues to focus on the horse. “You saw me in there. I’m a different breed, Cole. I’m not a Hilary, and I don’t want to be.”

“Thank fuck for that,” I mutter as I look down between my arms that rest on the top of the fence. We stand in silence. So much still left unsaid. “I was engaged to Hilary. When I was younger.”

Violet’s body goes rigid as she turns her entire frame toward me slowly. She says nothing, which I take as her giving me the opportunity to keep talking.

“We dated in high school. Our families ran in the same circles. It was . . . easy. It made sense to me. And then my dad died, and nothing made sense anymore.”

I chance a look at Violet, who is standing stock-still, like I’m a wild animal she might spook if she moves or says anything. And it must work because my lips keep moving.

“I proposed, and she said yes. Everyone was happy. And then I enlisted, and everyone was distinctly not happy. But I didn’t care. I needed to live in another world for a while. So I left. We’d write to each other and see each other when I was home, but . . . Well, let’s just say distance didn’t make the heart grow fonder. And one tour turned into one more, which turned into one more. And I kept putting off the actual wedding. I always wonder if maybe I knew subconsciously that she was a bad idea. That she loved the image of me more than anything else . . .” I trail off thoughtfully, looking down again. Another age-old wound that still causes phantom pains. I press the heel of my hand in against the indent just below my thigh, something I’ve found that helps when the burning sensation strikes.

“At any rate, when I finally came back for good, I wasn’t the shiny perfect husband she hoped to have anymore. So that was that.”

“Because you came back with PTSD?” Violet’s voice is brittle, a current of anger lacing it.

I scoff as I stare back at her. “Who doesn’t? But nah, I’m sure I was grappling with that before I even enlisted. Apparently, watching a parent die as a teenager can do that to you. Or that’s what my therapist keeps telling me. I guess I’m double fucked-up.”

She rolls her lips together, searching for the words, and settling for moving closer to me and resting her arms exactly as mine are.

Her forearm is so petite next to mine. She elbows me gently, not a shred of pity in her tone. “I think we’re all a little fucked-up in our own way.”

I just hum my agreement. She’s not wrong.

“I mean, you’re clearly a lot more fucked up than I am, but . . .”

My eyebrow quirks up at her, the small smile playing across her face right now making me join her with a grin of my own.

“Okay, Pretty in Purple.”

She groans dramatically and drops her head. “Am I ever going to live that down?”

“Probably not,” I chuckle.

“You know I’ve spent the last year terrified you’d tell someone or out me somehow? Fire me even.”

All traces of humor drain from my body. “Why would you think that?” I ask, standing up straight. “I’m the one who should be embarrassed.”

She still doesn’t look up at me. “You just seemed so angry when you approached me that day at the derby.” Her tongue darts out over her bottom lip. “You’re like . . . my boss’s boss. I just didn’t know what it all meant. I still don’t.”

Irritation courses through me—not with her—with myself. “Violet, look at me.”

She peeks up at me from beneath the dark fringe of her lashes.

“No. Stand up and look at me.”

She does it almost instantly, and the depraved part of me gets off on it. I’m transported to that night when she did everything I told her to. Even when it made her cheeks go bright pink. My cock twitches, and I berate myself internally. You’re really fucked up, bud.

She tips her head up and rolls her shoulders back with fake bravado. I can tell she feels vulnerable; it’s written all over her face.

“I’m sorry I did that. But you need to understand that I will never, never, tell anyone. That will forever be between us . . . and apparently, Billie and Vaughn.” She winces visibly at that part. “I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with myself.”

“Why?” she asks, pure confusion on her face.

“I don’t even know where to start with that question. It feels like I’ve been furious for a very long time at nothing in particular. And definitely not with you.”

Did it hurt when she disappeared from our chats? More than I ever imagined. But could I blame her? No. Wanting me would be like choosing a vial of poison to quench your thirst. A slow and painful way to get dragged down into the dark. And no one wants that. Not anyone sane. I know I’m damaged goods, which is why I like to keep my relationships at a safe distance. Fenced off. Something Violet wiggled her way under over the course of a year.

I run one hand through my hair and look away, not knowing what else to tell her. What I do know is that I’m tired of lying. Tired of obscuring the truth. Presenting myself as someone I’m not. Tired of hurting the people closest to me—or those who get as close as I let them. The ones who don’t scurry off when I growl and bark at them.

She steps in closer to me, tilting her head to catch my eye again, seeking some sort of connection. One I’d rather pretend we don’t have. It’s less intense that way.

“Why are you angry with yourself?” Her voice is gentle, and her small hand snakes out and latches itself onto mine. Her dainty fingers wrap around my wrist, like she’s feeling for my pulse point. The one that’s pounding under the pads of her fingers. The one that riots every time she comes near or touches me. The only woman that’s touched me like this in . . . a really fucking long time. The only one I’ve let get close enough to try.

And maybe it’s that. That she’s somehow poked and prodded at me enough that she’s broken holes into my shell that are big enough for her to slide in and get at all my dark, sensitive spots. Or maybe it’s just the fucking scotch. But I decide right here and now she deserves the truth. Even if it makes me feel nauseous to say it out loud.

“Because I scared away the only real friend I’ve had in—” I scoff, “Well, maybe ever.”

Her thumb rubs in reassuring circles on the back of my hand. She’s calm, like water lapping at the shore. Gentle and even, continuous, and I can’t help but want to lie down in that shallow water and let myself get lost in the rhythm.

Violet soothes me. Even if she might be the most oblivious woman in the world.

“Who is that?” Her eyes are wide and shocked, scanning my face for more information.

I chuckle. Serves me right to say it out loud. “It’s you, Violet.”

“Me?” Her thumb stops moving, and her lungs empty on a gasp.

“Listen . . . I’m sorry.” I reach out and touch a lock of pale gold hair that has slipped across her cheek.

“You’re sorry?”

I groan. “Are you trying to rub this in?”

“No!” One hand falls across her chest in shock. “I just . . . You considered me your friend?”

Her eyes twinkle in the dark of night. With the light of the moon, everything around her is more of a dark blue than black, deep and sparkling, like the river I can hear faintly running behind the farmhouse. The moon’s glow highlights her features in the most alluring way. I should tell her she’s so much more. The thing that got me out of bed most mornings. My bright spot. My sunshine.

I run my thumb along the highest point of her cheekbone, watching the way the light plays up the coarseness of my hand against the silkiness of her cheek. Such a contrast between the two of us. Dark and light. Rough and smooth. Big and small.

The things I want to do to her. I shake my head, silently scolding myself for even letting myself go there. She’s young, driven, bright—full of promise.

And I’m the opposite in that regard too.

I lean down toward her, hand cupping her lower jaw, and press a gentle kiss beside her mouth. “I still do.”

I hear a sharp intake of air from between her lips when I pause there. I want to swallow that noise and taste her mouth. Claim it. I want her to never kiss another man again. But that’s not practical. Not realistic.

I’m all about the realities of life. I know them well. And the reality with Violet is that as badly as I want her, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to open up enough to take that chance. Especially not with what she does for a living. The fact of the matter is, I’ve worked too hard on my mental health to put myself through that kind of agony. Falling in love would be bad enough. Falling in love with a jockey would be downright impossible.

I GASP and sit straight up in my bed, blankets tangled around my legs like I’ve been kicking, or maybe running. Running from my past, most likely.

I can feel the perspiration soaking the back of my shirt, can feel the strain in my lungs and the burn in my leg. I flop back down and run my hands over my face, scrubbing at the stubble there. Feeling myself so I know that it’s real, where I am, that I’m safe. It’s been so long since I had a dream like that, one that takes me back overseas. There were so many bad days, so many gruesome ones. But only that one stands out.

I remember the sun. The way it beat down on my dark uniform, the way I’d sweat under my heavy kit. The way you could gasp for air, trying to catch your breath, but all you’d get was hot, stifling oxygen and grains of sand. It would coat your tongue, scrape your throat, and stick in your nostrils.

It fucking sucked. But not so much as dragging your friend’s body away from a blast. Checking his pulse, shouting at him to wake up. No, that was the part that sucked the most. That’s the part that has my hands shaking right now.

The survivor’s guilt. Why him and not me? Why him and not me? If I had a penny for every time I’ve asked myself that exact question, I could probably end world hunger.

A light knocking on the door snaps me out of the memory.

“Cole?” Violet’s voice sounds small and uncertain. What is she doing up here? “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” My voice cracks uncharacteristically, so I clear my throat. Not wanting to sound as choked up as I am right now. “Why?”

“Can I come in?”

My heart pounds hard in my chest, trying to silence my mind. My rules. It’s too dark. Too quiet. She’s getting too damn close. And my heart wins out. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.” I pull my sheets over myself, lifting the duvet to use as an extra layer of coverage.

I see the shape of her as the door creaks open, a dim silhouette of the body that has consumed me for the past two years. “I heard you shout,” she says quietly.

I sigh. Giving in just a little bit. I hate sharing this part of myself. This broken part. It’s why I like my solitude. I don’t need to explain my shit to anyone when I’m alone. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay,” she whispers, taking a few small steps into the room. “Are you alright?”

A sad laugh escapes my lips. “Probably not.” Because it’s true. Some days are good, some aren’t. Mostly they’re good now. Lonely, but good . . . or good enough. But am I alright? I doubt it.

She doesn’t press any further. The questions and inquiries don’t come. She just says, “Do you want me to stay with you?”

And before my head even catches up to the question, my heart seizes hold of my vocal chords, forcing a raspy “Yes” from my throat.

With no hesitation, her feet pad quietly toward me, and she crawls onto the mattress, laying down on top of the covers a short distance away. I feel her proximity like a tug on a fishing line, like she’s latched herself on to me and I can’t get free. I could struggle, I could fight it, but she’s hooked in. And I’m not even sure I want to get rid of her anymore. I’m not sure I want to hide myself from her anymore.

I’m not sure of anything anymore.

Except that when she reaches out to squeeze my hand, I squeeze back. And that when I wake in the morning after one of the best stretches of sleep in my life, I’m sad that she’s already gone.