Page 5 of Ace of Spades
My blood boils as Weston’s snicker echoes around us.
“Later, Sorrels,” he tells me, a malicious grin spread across his lips as he flicks the butt of his cigarette into a puddle of melted snow before walking past me, his dog running to his side with a simple whistle that cuts through the cool air.
He doesn’t so much as look back or offer me a hand as he leaves me sitting there, wallowing in my embarrassment. I look over at Gypsy who now sits by my side, her fluffy tail wagging as she watches them leave into the night.
I should have knocked on wood earlier when I said that this night couldn’t get any worse. Weston Langford was officially on my shit list.
Chapter 3
HAILEY
If I thought the universe had dealt me my fair share of embarrassment for the weekend, the next morning had proved me wrong. I’d been walking Vegas around the grounds, trying to get the ants out of her pants before loading up for the big drive back to Montana, and had stumbled upon none other than Weston.
He’d been working with a young grey gelding, not older than two or three I’d guess, and most likely desensitizing him from the looks of it. I had been so caught up watching the way he effortlessly worked the young horse, loping him in circles through the fresh snow, that I’d walked right into a damn branch.
I still remember thethwackthat had rang through the air, the wind knocked clean out of me as I’d hit the ground. I still remember the cocky smirk on Weston’s face as he rode right up tome, my mare’s reins in hand, with that infuriating dimple and a playful gleam in his eye.
“You do know that there are easier ways to get my attention than throwing yourself at my feet, right?” he had told me.
Arrogant prick.
I roll my shoulder, easing the tension knotting behind my neck, glancing at the side mirror to check on the trailer again as we pass the worn green sign indicating that we’d finally made it back to Cedar Creek.
The Main Street in town is fairly quiet this time in the morning, save for a few trucks parked outside of the local coffee shop and the feed store.
Cedar Creek was one of those typical small towns that you would expect to find in the middle of the mountains. One grocery store, two gas stations—one on either end of town, only about a five-minute drive from each other—a coffee shop, a diner, a feed store, and not much else. All family-owned, of course. The people here seemed tight-knit, from the little I had seen. I had avoided town for the most part, after all.
Why my parents had wanted to move here? Other than the resort project, I had no idea. I guess I could see the appeal in the stunning Mountain Views, the fresh smell of cedar and pine, and the numerous lakes to cool off in the summer. And I supposed it was merely an hour-long drive to Canyon Springs, in case I ever wanted to go visit Ava or do some shopping.
We had moved around every handful of years growing up for my dad’s business. He always wanted to make sure he could supervise whatever project he had going on at the time, but thatmeant that we were packing up and leaving any time I made any real friends. In the end, I’d stopped bothering with friends for the most part. Other than remaining friends on Facebook and the occasionalhappy birthdaytext, any contact would diminish and eventually fade. Goodbyes were easier when there weren’t any to give.
I’d made a few good friends in college, enough to contemplate staying in Oklahoma, but after a few months struggling to find a job, I’d eventually found myself back in Montana with my parents. As it turns out, it wasn’t easy balancing work with rodeos every weekend. Thankfully, my dad promised me a job at the resort that wouldn’t get in the way of my passion. Now I just had to decide whether or not I wanted to remain in Cedar Creek indefinitely.
If not here, then where? I felt like I was free-floating, with no roots to keep me grounded. I couldn’t remember a time when a home had felt like… home. If I was being honest with myself, the living quarters in my horse trailer were the closest I’d felt to having a place of my own.
My tires crunch over the gravel driveway as I turn in through the white gates. The cool mountain breeze and the faint smell of fresh-cut grass hit me as I roll down the windows, Gypsy sticking her head out excitedly, most likely ready for this grueling two-day drive to be over.
I slow the truck to a crawl, the trailer bumping behind me as I take in the estate like I’m still not used to seeing it—because I’m not. It looks like something out of a Southern Living magazine, all pristine lines and wraparound porches, and that ridiculous guesthouse that I now call home. Mom calls it a “quaintcottage”, but it’s bigger than most people’s actual houses. Nestled right beside the main house, it’s painted to match—white siding, black shutters, and a roof like weathered cedar shingles. Even the landscaping looks curated to perfection, with mom’s flowers blooming.
The main house rises in the background, grand and symmetrical with more windows than I can count, and a porch wide enough to host a wedding reception.
The house itself isn’t any larger than the one we had in Canyon Springs, but the stretch of land here provides us with space that we hadn’t had. My parents had thought of me when they had found this place, fully set up with a twenty-horse state-of-the-art stable and a covered indoor arena.
My dad had horses too, though I couldn’t remember the last time he had actually gotten on one. At this point, it felt more like he kept them for aesthetic reasons more than anything. But the arena—the arena was all mine. Well, mine and Levi’s, the stable hand and groundskeeper. The older gentleman had moved here from Canyon Springs with us and stayed with his wife—our personal cook, Gracie—in the smaller guest cabin on the far end of the property.
I didn’t spot Levi as I pulled up to the stables, unloading all of my tack and turning the horses loose in one of the pastures out back to stretch their legs. He must have been out riding or tending to the estate.
Pulling my truck up to the circular driveway of the main house after unhooking my trailer, Gypsy follows hot on my heels as I push through the double doors, ready to hunt down some coffee. I’d stopped about halfway from Texas to get some rest,sleeping for a few hours in my truck with the hood of my hoodie pulled over my eyes. The gas station coffee early this morning had been fine, but one cup was hardly enough after nonstop driving for two days.
“Hails, just in time!” my dad exclaims from his seat at the dining table as I turn the corner into the large open-concept space. “I was just about to show your mom and Gracie the new mockup for the resort. Wanna see?”
“Sure,” I tell him, walking over to kiss him on the cheek.
“I had the architects working on the project make a digital 3D rendering, I checked it out when it came in earlier and it looks absolutely amazing.”
My mom shoots me a perfectly poised grin from the farmhouse-style kitchen.
“Hi, sweetie.”
